The Wildest Heart - Softcover

Born in Ceylon, now living in Connecticut, Rosemary Rogers , is one of the most widely known and widely read authors of romantic fiction. There are over 55 million copies of her novels in print worldwide.

I sit at my window looking out at the hot sunlight reflecting off the sunbaked, pink brick of my patio, and try to imagine myself back in London, and eighteen years old again. Somehow I find that calling up the distant past is less painful than recalling events that happened only a few months ago.
Suddenly I have a compulsion to write-to chronicle everything that happened to me since I arrived, so unwill­ingly, on the doorstep of my stepfather's house in London. Perhaps I am only seeking excuses to escape into the past as a barrier against the present. Or perhaps I will understand better the whole train of events that led me here, once I set them down and can see them in perspective.
Only a few years have passed since that time, and I am still a young woman. But so much has happened since then, and I have lost a great deal of the arrogance and self-assurance that they used to complain of. "They" were my mother and stepfather, and their large, anonymous household staff.
The opinions of the servants didn't concern me, for I was too occupied with my own thoughts and plans. I took care to stay out of the way of my mother and stepfather, and in all honesty, they were rather kind to me in those early days.
With surprisingly mature logic I came to realize that I had, in effect, been forced upon my mother. I was unwanted. I was not a child of love, but the child of a man she had been compelled to marry. Mellyn, whom my mother still called
Nanny, spoke bluntly to me on the subject. "Barely out of the schoolroom, my precious lamb was at the time," she grumbled. "But they decided that she was ready to be married. He was much older than she was, had money, and the pros­pect of being an earl some day. I remember how she cried, her eyes turning all red and swollen. 'I'm not ready to be married yet, Nanny, and he's so old,' she said to me. 'I want to have fun first, to come out in style and go to parties and balls...' but her feelings were never even taken into account! Guy Dangerfield met her at a house party, and as pretty as she was, he was taken by her, I suppose. He was looking for a wife, to please his father, and she was the one he chose."
According to Nanny, my father had had nothing to recommend him beyond the money he had made in the gold fields of America. He was a dark, gloomy man, she said, who preferred the country to the city, and would have made a recluse of his wife if he could.
"I suppose he didn't want me to be born either?" I questioned.
"Don't you talk like that, miss! You don't know the whole of it, and that's for sure! Your grandfather turned you against her, I'll be bound, and for all that he'd have nothing to do with Mr. Guy after it all happened. He had a great notion that the Dangerfields were better than anyone else. My poor baby was no more than a child herself when you were born. I ask you, why couldn't he have waited awhile? Why couldn't he have taken her to live in London for a while? But no-he liked the country, he said, and he wanted a child. And he had his way. When you were born, it was just as if my poor Miss Fanny didn't exist for him any longer. He fair doted on you, he did-had your nursery moved into the room next to his, and it was he got up at nights when you began to cry. 'You take care of your baby, Mellyn,' he'd tell me, 'and I'll look after mine.' Unnatural, I called it. It was no wonder my lady pined and pined, and finally went off to London by herself. Who can blame her?"
A few new clothes were purchased for me-all in somber colors, in deference to the fact that I was still in mourning. I refused to have my hair done up in tortured coils and ringlets and preferred more severe styles, and on the few occasions when I was dragged out to teas and small evening gatherings I always managed to find myself sitting with the older ladies present, who complimented me on my "old-fashioned looks." I had none of the accomplishments that young ladies of my status in life were supposed to have. I could not play the pianoforte and I refused to sing; I could not paint a passable watercolor, and I could not dance.
I always scared away the bolder and more persistent young men by showing myself to be intellectual, and better educated than they were. I know that I gained the reputation, in a short while, of being a dowdy bluestocking-a born spinster. My mother despaired of me. Her friends commiserated with her, sometimes in tones loud enough for me to hear.
I do not know how long matters might have gone on the way they were if Sir Edgar hadn't suddenly decided that I must be married off. I had hardly spoken to him since that first day, but I'm sure my mother must have complained to him how recalcitrant I was, and how embarrassed I had made her feel on several occasions. Edgar Cardon had never liked my father, and I'm sure that my presence in his house was a living reminder to him of Guy Dangerfield.
Several months had passed since I had arrived in England, and the dull routine of my days had almost become a habit, when Tom Wilkinson came calling on me one afternoon.
We were already into autumn, and the servants had begun lighting fires every afternoon. I was in the library, desultorily searching through the shelves for a book I had not yet read, as he was announced.
"Mr. Wilkinson, to see Lady Rowena."
I turned around in some annoyance when Briggs announced him, and then quickly withdrew. I did not like Tom Wilkinson, especially since he was the most persistent of my so-called suitors. "A stout Yorkshire lad," Sir Edgar had stated bluffly when he introduced us, and indeed Tom was not only stout but short and squat as well-a dark-featured, bumptious young man who was always boasting of his fortune, his father's mills, and the grand house he had built for his future family.