Jacqueline Navin - The Sleeping Beauty

“Can’t I?”

He gritted his teeth. “You are very clever.”

“Didn’t they tell you that when they were extolling my beauty and wit?”

“Charm. It was beauty and charm. However, they clearly neglected to inform me of a few things.”

Her lips twitched for a moment, then pressed together, extinguishing any hint of amusement. “You must be very angry at whoever sent you up here.”

“Right now, I am concerned with you.”

“Yes, of course. You can hardly kidnap me and force me to marry you.”

“Your father thinks my suit to be a sound one. Should you not consider that?”

Tossing her head, she retorted, “My father is a drunkard whose affection for me has been lost in an intoxicated brain fever.”

“He seemed quite clear thinking. He made me promise to treat you well, not to abandon you, and…to see to your needs.”

“How wonderful.” Her eyes blazed with a renewed flare of anger, blue-green fire coming straight for him. “It seems we’re all set, then.”

“That sort of sarcasm is unflattering.” It wasn’t true. Her features were alive and mobile with the play of emotions. His gaze once again dipped to those meager mounds of flesh, that miniature waist. What was coming over him, to wonder what that slender body would look like naked? Undressed, would it be hard angles and ungiving bone or would her breasts still rise to pinkened peaks and her hips flare with just the right sort of roundness to tempt a man’s hand to slide along the contour?

She smirked. “Oh, heavens! And I do so wish to impress you.”

He blinked, giving himself a mental shake. The direction of his thoughts surprised him. She was not the sort of woman he usually favored. She was haughty and brittle and far too thin. “You are making quite an impression.”

With a brazen flourish, she squared off across from him. “Why should I care the impression you form of me? The days of my living for others’ opinions are long since gone.”

“That is obvious,” he drawled.

“Nothing is obvious, Mr. Mannion. Nothing is what it seems here. If you knew what was best for you, you would leave this house, leave this place and count yourself fortunate to be gone.”

He gritted his teeth. “I’m not leaving, Helena.”

“And I didn’t give you leave to address me by my name.”

“It is only fitting, don’t you agree, as you shall be my wife?”

“I have not agreed to marry you!” She exploded then, breaking away to pace. “You cannot possibly know what you are doing. You don’t know things…. There may come a day when you consider your brilliant bargain not so attractive upon reflection.”

“What don’t I know? The reason why you and your father have chosen to molder here in this rotting mansion? I suppose I shall find the answer to that soon enough.”

Startled, she whirled on him, eyes wide.

Strangely, he wanted to soothe her. Instead, his words came out sharp. “Do you truly want me to leave you to this dreary life? Do you love it so much?”

Her hand came to her throat. He could see it convulse under those long, thin fingers. He didn’t relent. “Perhaps this is why your father accepted my suit, to get you out of this….” He waved his hands around, at a loss for words to describe the stagnant air around him. “So it remains, Helena, whether you will obey him in his wishes. Will you consent to marry me as your father commands? You are a dutiful daughter, aren’t you?”

She looked up at him all of a sudden, startled. A doe cornered. Everything inside her was laid bare, raw and vulnerable. In a stinging moment of clarity, he understood something, something he couldn’t even name, a feeling. That she needed him.

It was an intoxicating realization, filling him with a sense of power. Shoving aside the prickles of conscience, he pressed his advantage. “Will you consent to marry me?” His body tensed, awaiting her response.

Her shoulders weren’t as squared. Her fear had edged out the burst of defiance and there was an air of resignation about her that curled his nostrils like a hound hot after the scent of a tired hare.

“Go away.” It wasn’t a command; it was a plea. “Leave me alone.”

“I want an answer.”

Her jaw worked rebelliously, but she lowered her eyes. Softly, she replied, “I do not believe I have a choice.”

The surge of relief and triumph swept down from shoulders to heels, leaving him trembling with reaction. He’d done it. He’d gotten the money.

Slanting a glance up at him, her tone laced with contempt, she added, “If you are inclined to gloat, I would be grateful if you would do it somewhere else. And while you are congratulating yourself, Mr. Mannion, consider that you may find the fruit you have stolen may prove sour before too long.”

He ignored her, grinning as he snatched her hand. It was so cool. He touched his lips quickly to the slender back. “You taste sweet enough to me.”

Snatching her hand back, she glared at him with prim affront. He laughed, buoyed by his great fortune today. “Now, I am off to have my things brought up from the inn.”

“You are staying here?”

“At your father’s invitation.” He hiked his brows wickedly. “Are you not happy to have me close? All the better to learn all those things a husband should know about a wife, wouldn’t you say?”

She looked like she could claw his eyes out without a moment’s hesitation. Without a word, she stormed off, her too-large dress gaping in the back. It should have made her look silly, like a twelve-year-old in her mother’s gown, and yet she held herself with a dignity that would not allow anything so frivolous to be associated with her magnificent exit.

Narrowing his eyes as he stared after her, he wondered if she were going to prove difficult. He hadn’t bargained on having to actually contend with his new wife.

Shrugging, he turned to other, more pleasant thoughts. Thoughts of money—six thousand a year! He laughed out loud as he jammed his hat on his head and exited the house.

George Rathford was not nearly as drunk as he wanted to be. Maybe there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to take him to the oblivion he sought. Damnation, he was tired. Tired of the pain, tired of the hopelessness.

He blamed Althea, though it did him no good. It was useless to fault someone who was dead for one’s problems. A cat chasing his tail was what he was—hating his deceased wife and helpless to do anything about the daughter whom he loved more than anything on this earth.

Had he done the right thing today? It was so hard to know. One rarely acted wisely when one was desperate.

There was little time left.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Kent, came in. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

“Instruct the servants that this man, this Mr. Mannion, is to be treated with all honor and courtesy. I want his room cleaned impeccably, his meals hot. I know there are precious little staff left, Mrs. Kent, but I must urge you to make the best impression possible.”

“Will Kimberly also be expected to work, my lord?”

Rathford paused. The old Irishwoman was a blight on the house. Everyone was terrified of her, of her superstitions and her “powers.” He considered it all foolishness, but he couldn’t quite work up the courage to get rid of her. She was just a part of life in this old place—not a pleasant part, but a part just the same.

Perhaps Kimberly’s presence was Althea’s revenge on him for being happy she was gone.

“Kimberly has her own duties,” he said, and swallowed a large gulp of whiskey to chase away his self-disgust.

Mrs. Kent’s voice was stiff with disapproval. “Very well, my lord.”

“One more thing. There is to be no…talk. That is, the reason for my daughter’s seclusion may be of interest to Mr. Mannion. This might cause him to ask questions of the staff. No one is to speak of the accident. I cannot be more firm about this, Mrs. Kent. Any gossip on this topic will result in an immediate dismissal and no reference.”