Wicked by Cheryl Holt Page A

myself.”
    “Yes,” James caustically concurred. “She could fail to conceive, and you’ll ship her off to parts unknown, ruined and with coach fare and a few pennies in her purse. You won’t think twice about her after that.”
    “No, I won’t.” Stanley scowled. “And why would you? Don’t tell me you’re becoming a romantic at the ripe old age of twenty-five.”
    James shrugged. “I like her.”
    “Bully for you. Like her. Don’t like her. As far as my bargain with you, it changes nothing. Now if you’ll excuse me”—he nodded to where Veronica was still chatting with Miss Ralston—“I can’t have that little tart getting too cozy with my fiancée. I’d better run her off.”
    “Yes, heaven forbid that Miss Ralston have any friends at Summerfield.”
    It was an old complaint that harkened back to James’s own childhood. There had been scarcely any children on the estate, which was the reason Stanley had sent James to boarding school against Edwina’s vehement wish that he not.
    James never thought Stanley proceeded with James’s interest in mind, but every blasted choice had bestowed boons on James that he’d never deserved.
    “Well,” Stanley said, “heaven forbid that it be Veronica anyway. She is not—and never will be—a suitable companion for Miss Ralston. You should watch out for her too. I hear she has the morals of an alley cat.”
    “This is not news to me,” James replied.
    “I didn’t suppose it was. Be careful she doesn’t lure you into a jam.”
    “She couldn’t.”
    “I’m never surprised by the mischief a pretty girl can instigate. Don’t let yourself be snared in her net.”
    “She’s not smart enough to trap me.”
    “If that’s what you believe, then you’re a fool.”
    * * * *
    “What are you doing out here by yourself?”
    “Moping. What does it look like?”
    James was on the verandah, leaned on the balustrade and peering out into the dark garden. He stared over his shoulder at Lucas.
    “You, moping?” Lucas said. “You never mope.”
    “I’m trying new things.”
    “The vicar finally left. We’re going to dance again. Come inside and help me move the furniture.”
    “I don’t want to move furniture or dance.”
    “So? Come inside anyway. We have too many women and not enough men.”
    “Have you become Stanley’s social secretary?”
    “Yes. It appears I’ve found my calling.” Facetiously, Lucas added, “My father will be so proud.”
    James chuckled and spun around as Lucas joined him, and they studied the house. The rooms were bright and gay, the light from dozens of candles wafting out, giving the mansion a festive glow. Guests were mingling, laughing, and drinking Stanley’s liquor, which James liked to see.
    “You’re actually sulking,” Lucas said after a protracted silence.
    “I told you I was.”
    “What’s wrong? Is it being back at Summerfield?”
    “You know I always hated it here.”
    “No, you didn’t. You hated Stanley. You didn’t hate the estate.”
    James considered, then nodded. “I suppose not.”
    “If he’s harassing you, we don’t have to stay. It’s not as if we’re children who must blindly obey. Let’s head to London. I can’t figure out why we’ve tarried as long as we have.”
    “You were opposed to going right away,” James reminded him. “You’re broke, and there will be creditors chasing you who still haven’t been paid from the last time you were on furlough.”
    “There is that.”
    “Why don’t you write to your father? You could ask him to square your debts.”
    “I’m not ready.”
    Lucas had no shame. He overspent and overindulged in every conceivable way. Yet when push came to shove, he’d slink home to Lord Sidwell and beg for rescue. Lord Sidwell would huff and bellow and scold, then he’d relent and bail Lucas out—literally on occasion—but Lucas had to be in very dire straits before he’d seek the man’s assistance. With their dawdling at Summerfield, his