Authors: Susanna Ives
Wicked, My Love (30 page)
The auditorium stared in shocked silence, exchanging glances that, if transposed to English would be,
Did
he
just
say
what
I
think
he
said?
At the back of the room, a familiar woman with a faux beauty spot on her left breast stood on a chair with the aid of several admiring gentlemen. She wagged her finger over her head. “Miss St. Vincent, you had better marry that nice young viscount!”
The ladies broke out into a chant again, their words amplified to a deafening volume in the high ceiling. “Marry him! Marry him! Marry him!”
Randall shot Isabella a self-satisfied smile.
“Oh, you bothersome man, you've bested me again.” She gave him a gentle swat. But she didn't complain when he drew her into his arms and then lifted her into the air.
“I am honored to accept Lord Randall,” she cried to the crowd and then raised the gold bust. “And the Mary Wollstonecraft award.”
1848
“Be nice,” Randall told his mama, and gently inched her forward.
“Good evening, Lady Randall,” she told his wife through a tight smile. “You look lovely this evening.”
Randall agreed. For the annual house party ball, Mrs. Perdita, Isabella's closest advisor, had styled Isabella's hair in intricate loops and attached tiny, gleaming gemstones that matched her champagne silk gown. The effect was stunning, of course. But there was something different about Isabella tonight, something he couldn't put his finger onâa shining in her eyes, a radiant flushing of her skin.
“Aye, a regular vista of 'eavenly splendor she is.” Mr. Randy winked.
“Why do you insist on speaking in that ridiculous, cant-like voice?” his mother demanded. “Ah, I see Lord Hazelwood beckoning. Pardon me.”
Randall thought it best not to point out that Mama had never answered to her husband's summons before and the earl wasn't beckoning, but sipping wine and casually chatting with the prime minister, one of those unfortunate Whigs.
“Well, my sweet Izzy May,” Mr. Randy said, and then switched back to his normal voice. “That conversation went better than I had imagined. Next year we are going to work up to a âhow are you doing?' and perhaps in another decade's time, you and Mama will have an entire civil conversation.”
“She believes I've ruined her family.”
He scanned the assorted house party guests. “I'll say, you would think it's the Vandals and Visigoths versus the Romans tonight. We've invited both the right and wrong kind of Tories, as well as some of those barbaric Whigs and chartists. Cousin Judith is running about with a raucous gaggle of Wollstonecraft members. And various merchants are eyeing the crowd nervously from the corners.” All the people who had helped Randall narrowly win back his seat. No longer was he the golden boy who followed the party lines, but the influential Tory maverick who was married to that famous rights-for-women campaigner.
“Next year will be easier,” he promised, and kissed the back of her hand. “We will spend less time in court and more time in the privacy of our fa
vorite chamber.”
They had spent their honeymoon in the lovely British judicial system. Powers's trial was brief, but Harding's dragged on as more evidence against the man was amassed. Harding was penniless by the end, and significant amounts of his investors' monies were confiscated to pay his debts. Both Harding and Powers had been sent to Newgate. Meanwhile, the Bank of Lord Hazelwood continued to expand and Merckler Metalworks, under Isabella's guidance, became a significant supplier of machinery to Britain and Europe.
“No, it won't,” she said. “You'll be busy with your other wifeâParliament. And⦔ She didn't finish but flashed him an enigmatic smile. Again he pondered what was different about her tonight. She was a beautiful mystery. And he was pretty sure that to figure it out, he would have to remove all her clothes.
The violins began to strum a lively song. “The quadrille,” the leader called out.
His wife's entrancing smile vanished. “The quadrille! I thought you told your mother to have a waltz for the first dance.”
“Calm down.” He wrapped her fingers around his elbow. “It will be just the way we practiced.”
“Just as we practiced? I think the guests might be a little taken aback if we did a few turns and then made mad, passionate love on the floorâ¦and sofaâ¦and the table now holding the beef and mustard.” She covered her nose with her hand. “Oh, that mustard is quite strong. I can smell it from here.”
The dancers assumed their starting positions. Isabella wore the same expression as she had when they had danced the quadrille a year agoâas if something large was hurtling from the skies and about to hit her between the eyes. She tugged at his arm. “I suddenly feel sick. I don't think I should dance.”
“You can do it.” He patted her hand. “Don't be nervous. I'm here.”
“No, I'm really going to be illsy.”
“âIllsy'?”
“It's that mustard!” She pressed her palm to her mouth, muffling a heaving sound, and fled the dance floor. The male dancers glanced about, alarmed, but the women shared knowing smiles.
Randall chased his wife, finding her on the lawn, where she had located a convenient potted plant in which to remove the contents of her stomach. Milton was perched on the roof overhead, wailing amorous intentions to a wandering calico cat.
Randall knelt beside his wife and placed a hand between her shoulder blades. “I'll call a physician. You don't have to dance.”
“No,” she wailed into the plant. “I'm not sick.” Taking three gulping breaths, she sat back on the grass. The perspiration on her face glistened in the light falling from the swollen full moon. She wiped her mouth with her wrist. “Randall, my love, I think we've made a baby.”
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I would like to acknowledge the wonderful Nancy Mayer, who suggested I purchase a book on
nineteenth
-century female bankers. To the ladies of the Mojito Literary Society: Laura Valeri, Tina Whittle, and Katrina Murphy, for laughter, writing advice, and listening to me as I struggled to weave the story threads together.
To my fabulous agent, Paige Wheeler, for her advice and guidance. To my excellent editor, Deb Werksman, for her vision and sense of humor. I truly appreciate my friend Abigail Carlton for her patience and willingness to join me in over-the-phone theatrical improvisation as I try to hash through dialogue. And finally, I want to thank my family for their love, support, and unending supply of comic material.
Susanna Ives started writing when she left her job as a multimedia training developer to stay home with her family. Now she keeps busy driving her children to various classes, writing books, and maintaining websites. She often follows her husband on business trips around Europe and blogs about the misadventures of touring with children. She lives in Atlanta.
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