When She Was Wicked (15 page)

The physician raised his wiry, white brows. “You’re a generous employer, Huntford.”

“Actually, I’m a demanding bastard.” To prove his point, he bit off the knot of his bandage and unraveled it like an irate mummy. “It’s a bandage, not a tourniquet. Try again.”

Later that evening, as Anabelle threaded a needle, her mind was still reeling from the coach ride with the duke. Owen. After kissing him in his carriage today—their
third kiss—she’d begun to think of him by his Christian name, even if she couldn’t quite bring herself to utter it.

Kissing had certainly made him seem less intimidating. He’d talked with her like she was more than a lowly seamstress—like a trusted friend.

Things between them had grown complicated, indeed, but she harbored no illusions about the true nature of their relationship. She was a paid servant… with whom he wanted to dally. The friendship aspect, which had developed of late, blurred the line, but once her debt was paid, she’d never see him again—unless he happened to return to Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop one day in the future, with his mistress in tow.

Still, she was indebted to Owen on many counts. He’d offered to help Mama, bought her new spectacles, and rescued her from vicious dogs. Although her List of Nevers forbade her from becoming involved with him, she felt obliged to help him and his sisters. She’d do what she could to make Rose less shy and to bring the siblings closer to one another.

Mama’s condition was distressing, and Anabelle was eager for news from Dr. Loxton. Since she could do nothing but wait, however, she dedicated herself to making a gorgeous walking dress for Rose. She was preparing to sew some velvet trim onto a pelisse when both Olivia and Rose entered the workroom. “Good evening,” Anabelle said with surprise.

Olivia smiled warmly. “I hope you don’t mind some company. Rose and I thought we’d visit—unless you find it too bothersome while you work.”

“Not at all.” Anabelle cleared snippets of fabric and lace from the window seat and invited the women to sit.
“I’m delighted you’re here. Would you like to see how your newest dresses are coming along?”

Rose shook her head, and gently nudged her sister with an elbow.

“No,” said Olivia. “That’s not why we came.” She worried the ends of the pink ribbons that served as the sash of her dress. “We heard that Owen took you to visit your mother this morning. We didn’t know she was ill. If there’s anything we can do, you must let us know. We feel awful that you’re here slaving over fancy gowns for us when you’d most certainly rather be at your mother’s side.”

Anabelle’s nose stung and her eyes welled; she set the pelisse in her lap. “You’re both very kind. Thank you. Your brother has generously offered to send his physician, but to be honest, I’m not sure anything can help her.”

Rose reached out and clasped her hand.

“You mustn’t say that,” Olivia scolded. “Don’t give up hope. Dr. Loxton is a learned man. He cares for all of our great-aunts.”

Anabelle sniffled. So, Owen
did
have great-aunts. “How many aunts do you have?”

“Fourteen,” said Olivia proudly, “ranging in age from fifty-nine to—”

“Eighty-two.”

Rose clapped her hands in delight.

“How did you know?” asked Olivia.

“Your brother mentioned them once.” Of course, immediately afterward he’d denied their existence.

“Did he?” Olivia asked with some surprise. “He dotes on them shamelessly.”

How interesting. Anabelle turned up the lantern on the table and adjusted her spectacles before picking up her
sewing. “Your brother also seems very devoted to the two of you.”

“Oh, yes,” said Olivia. “He means well, in any event. It is sometimes hard for him to fathom that we’re no longer wearing pigtails and dresses with bloomers. He keeps us on a very short leash, and he never tells us anything.”

Anabelle tilted her head. “Why do you think that is?”

Olivia sighed. “Ever since Father died, Owen’s been quite protective. He’d like to shield us from all of life’s unpleasantries, which, as you know, is quite impossible. Nor is it any way to live. Suffering is a part of life.” She looked wistfully at Rose and then continued. “In any event, we believe that if he just found the right sort of woman to marry, she could help him be less…”

“Rigid?”

“Precisely! Of course, our brother is extremely particular when it comes to women. Everyone seems to think Miss Starling will be the miss to capture his affection.”

Rose puckered as though she’d sucked on a lemon wedge.

Olivia turned to her sister. “You cannot deny that Miss Starling is beautiful. And her manners are so refined. She’d make an excellent duchess.”

Anabelle considered the matter objectively, which was difficult because her stomach was twisted in knots. She chalked it up to the fish she’d eaten at dinner. But it was obvious that Miss Starling had been raised to be a duchess—or a countess at the very least.
She
certainly seemed to think so. “Does your brother seem fond of her?” It was an absurd question. Any warm-blooded male would be fond of Miss Starling.

“It is hard to say,” admitted Olivia. “Owen doesn’t
keep us apprised of such matters. I expect he’ll call us into the drawing room one evening and announce that he’s betrothed in much the same way he’d announce he’s bought a gelding.”

Interesting. Owen wanted his sisters to be more forthcoming, and they wished the same of him.

Rose, in particular, looked highly agitated by the conversation. Anabelle couldn’t tell if she objected to Miss Starling or to the idea of her brother suddenly announcing his engagement. Either way, a change of subject was in order. She forced a bright smile. “Well then. What kind of husbands would the duke choose for the two of you?”

The sisters exchanged a glance that Anabelle couldn’t read. “Someone from a respectable family,” said Olivia.

“You mean, a gentleman?” Anabelle recalled the rumor she’d transcribed in her extortion note and felt like she was treading close to the edge of a rocky crag.

“A rich and titled gentleman,” Olivia clarified.

Anabelle smiled sympathetically. “Does that seem unreasonable to you? You are, after all, the sisters of a duke.”

Rose tapped Olivia’s shoulder and pressed her palm to her heart.

Olivia interpreted. “Rose thinks a kind and gentle nature is more important than wealth and lineage. She believes in love.”

It didn’t surprise Anabelle that Rose was a romantic sort. Under different circumstances, Anabelle might have been one herself. As it was, she’d given up on fairy tales. To Rose, she said, “Perhaps you’ll be fortunate enough to find a man who meets your brother’s high standards as well as your own.”

Although Anabelle had meant to cheer Rose, the redhead’s shoulders drooped as though she were… broken-hearted.

“Forgive me if I’ve offended you,” Anabelle said.

Rose stood, gave a wan smile, and touched Anabelle’s shoulder before tilting her head to the door regretfully.

“Sleep well,” Olivia said to her sister. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Rose glided silently from the room, leaving Anabelle feeling wretched.

“I’m sorry I upset her. What was it that I said?”

Olivia waved away her apology. “We’ve both been a bit sensitive lately. You couldn’t have known about—”

About what? Or whom? Anabelle waited impatiently for Olivia to complete her thought.

“I shouldn’t say more on the subject.”

Anabelle stifled her disappointment. “I understand.”

“Although, it would be lovely to have someone to confide in. You seem so sure of yourself—and wise for someone so young.”

Although Anabelle longed to know the sisters’ secret, she didn’t feel worthy after threatening to publish horrid gossip about Olivia. And the more she thought of it, she didn’t want to be in the awkward position of keeping secrets from Owen. “You could always confide in your brother,” she said.

“No, no. We most certainly cannot.” Olivia began pacing, nibbling on an index finger as she wore a path in the Aubusson rug. “But I know we can trust you.”

Anabelle tamped down a wave of guilt. If Olivia chose to confide in her, she wouldn’t let her down again. “Yes, of course you can.”

Olivia walked to the door, closed it quietly, and continued her pacing. “Rose fancies herself in love.”

“Why, that’s wonderful. Isn’t it?”

“Yes. And no. The man she loves is not someone my brother would approve of.”

“Because he’s not titled?”

“Or rich,” added Olivia.

“Perhaps, if your brother got to know him, he’d change his mind. Does this man treat Rose well? Does he make her happy?”

“Charles—that’s his name—admires Rose greatly. And when she’s with him, she’s a different person. Confident, secure… and yes, happy. I don’t know if my sister will ever talk freely again, but I think if anyone could help her, Charles could.”

“Maybe if your brother could see for himself how happy Rose is with Charles, he’d be more willing to entertain the idea of a match.” For some reason, Anabelle desperately wanted to believe he would.

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Did I mention that Charles is the stable master at our country estate? Owen has very strict rules regarding friendships with servants.” As though the thought had just occurred to her, she asked, “Is this uncomfortable for you to discuss? That is, I don’t think of you as a servant, but I suppose you are in the strictest sense of the word. And yet, we’ve become friends, have we not?”

Anabelle swallowed the knot in her throat. “I would say that we have.” And then, although she suspected that the answer would be painful, she was obliged to ask the question. “What
are
your brother’s rules regarding friendships with servants?”

“They are strictly forbidden. The worst part is that he’s threatened to fire any member of the staff he suspects could be involved. Of course, he’s convinced
I’m
the one who’s been having clandestine meetings, when, in truth, it’s been Rose all along.”

Anabelle digested this news. She was tickled to learn that Rose had a slightly rebellious nature. At least she wasn’t afraid of defying her brother. How had someone of her mettle remained almost completely silent for close to three years? A thought occurred to her. “You said Rose disappeared at that house party the night before your mother left.”

Olivia nodded. “We were terrified that some harm had befallen her. But when we found her the next day, she seemed fine, by all appearances. Only… she wasn’t.”

“Perhaps if we could find out what happened that night, we might be able to help her find her voice again.”

Olivia gave a weary smile and shrugged. “I have asked her. Whatever happened, Rose does not want to talk about it.”

“Maybe someone else at the house party knows. Do you recall who was there?”

“My mother and father, Owen, Rose, and I…” Olivia counted the guests on her fingers. “… Lady Fallon, Sir Howard, Lord and Lady Winthrope—”

At the mention of that last name, Anabelle’s heart seized. “Did you say Winthrope? As in the earl?”

“I did. Are you acquainted with him?”

Anabelle was not. But she knew more about him than did most of the
ton.
And she wished she didn’t. “No, I don’t know the earl. I know a little
of
him.”

“Oh, well, there’s not much to know. He’s a dreadfully
boring sort. He’s mostly bald, but he tries to hide it by brushing a few strands ’round the top of his head. He doesn’t say much, and he wears a perpetual scowl.”

“Really?” The earl’s mistress had painted an altogether different picture of him in Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop. She’d alluded to his sexual prowess and his fondness for tupping two women at the same time. Anabelle repressed a shiver.

On that momentous, gray morning in Hyde Park when Owen had caught her, he’d asked about previous extortion schemes—demanded truth. Even at the time, she’d known the lie that crossed her lips would haunt her. But she’d never fathomed that she’d feel so wretched about her deception.

It seemed her first extortion scheme had improbably collided with what would have been the fourth.

L
ong before the sun rose, Anabelle squirmed on her feather mattress, her legs tangled in the silky sheets. She told herself there was no harm in dreaming of Owen’s heavy-lidded gaze or his warm, large hands skimming over her hips and bottom. Wanton fantasies—the sort she’d never before imagined—played out in her mind.

He crawled into bed behind her, pressed the hard wall of his chest to her back, and murmured her name into her ear. His breath, hot and moist on her nape, shot longing through her limbs. He slid a hand beneath her nightgown, caressed the length of her side, and cupped her breast. Pleasure radiated throughout her body before settling into a hypnotic pulsing rhythm between her legs.

She never wanted to wake.

As dawn began to break, however, she could no longer feel Owen’s warmth or hear his gravelly voice. The lovely dream receded like the tide, leaving her cold and alone on the shore. She squeezed her eyes closed, desperate to
return to that place where she could give in to her deepest desires, where the threats of scandal and ruin did not suffocate her.

Instead, distressing memories of the Earl of Winthrope knocked on the door of her consciousness. Reluctantly, she threw back the covers, padded to the washstand, and splashed chilly water onto her cheeks. She had the strong feeling that the earl was somehow connected to Rose’s sudden loss of speech. Anabelle could clearly remember the things that the earl’s mistress, Miss Peckham, had said about him. And if they were true, it was no wonder Rose had sentenced herself to a life of silence.

After patting her face dry, Anabelle looked at her blurry reflection in the mirror and let her mind wander back to the day she’d first heard of the Earl of Winthrope. It was also the day she’d first stooped to extortion.

Miss Peckham and her friend had walked through the door of the shop that December morning, bringing with them a gust of frigid air.

And opportunity.

The memory of that day, almost three years ago, would forever be intertwined with physical discomfort. Hunger so sharp she would have sold her soul for an apple; cold so penetrating her fingers could scarcely hold a needle; despair over Mama’s illness so deep Anabelle could hardly breathe.