When She Was Wicked (25 page)

“I’m sorry.”

“When Mama became sick, I couldn’t let the same fate befall her.”

“Didn’t you have any other family you could turn to?” Why the hell hadn’t her grandfather—a viscount, according to Anabelle’s landlady—helped them?

She stiffened. “No. Believe me. Extortion was my last resort.”

“Would you have done it?”

“Done what?”

“Printed the gossip about Olivia in
The Tattler
. If I hadn’t caught you, or paid the forty pounds, would you have destroyed her?”

She swallowed. “That was all before I really knew her—or you.”

“So, you would have.” His head began to throb again.

“I can’t honestly say what I would have done. There would have been nothing for me to gain at that point, so maybe not. I only know I was desperate.” She placed her palm on his cheek and turned his head until they looked into each other’s eyes. “And I’m truly sorry. I pray they never learn of my wickedness.”

“As do I.” Deciding the mood was too somber, he changed the subject. “Are you trained in the use of other weapons? Besides a pitcher, I mean?”

She pressed a finger to her chin. “I’m quite skilled with a parasol, but my weapon of choice would have to be… a candlestick.”

He winced. “I should count myself lucky.”

“Perhaps you should,” she agreed. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before she stifled a yawn and gazed longingly at the pillow.

Although he hated to leave, she needed her sleep. He
sat up and swung his legs to the floor, pleased to find that the room had stopped spinning. “What were you doing up so late?”

She blushed. “Working on a dress.”

“The yellow one that was on the bed?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be working this late, no matter how eager you are to fulfill your end of our bargain.”

“This one isn’t for Rose or Olivia,” she admitted shyly. “It’s for me.”

He blinked. “That’s wonderful,” he said, meaning it. He was so used to seeing Anabelle in dark colors it was hard to imagine her wearing sunny yellow. “May I see it?”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she slowly walked to the foot of the bed and held the garment beneath her chin.

It was familiar. Pretty. And yet something about it felt oddly… sinister. He must be drunk
and
dazed. “Did you make it?”

“No. Olivia and Rose gave it to me.” She cast him a wary look, as though he were a lion about to pounce.

“My sisters haven’t been that small since they were twelve. Where did they get it?”

“Actually,” she said, her voice tremulous, “this gown used to be… your mother’s.”

He remembered. His mother had breezed into the nursery during his lessons like a bright butterfly and inquired about his progress. His Latin tutor had looked more than a little lovestruck as he gave a glowing report. Mother announced that learning a dead language seemed a terrible waste of time, slammed shut the book of Ovid’s poems, and left.

He remembered the dress well.

And he didn’t want Anabelle wearing it.

The edge of the mattress bowed under Owen’s weight; he rested his hands on his knees as he grappled with the fact that Anabelle had pilfered his mother’s dress. His dark brows slashed across his unusually pale face. Though injured, he still exuded power and vitality, and the room seemed infinitely smaller with him in it. With a scowl he said, “Why would my sisters think it appropriate to give you our mother’s dress?”

Before now, she’d been too concerned he might keel over and die to give much thought to her state of undress. But his brooding stare made her drop the dress and cross her arms in front of her chest. She’d been afraid he’d react this way. She never should have accepted his sisters’ gift.

“Don’t blame Olivia and Rose. I mentioned that I’d like to become more fashionable.” It was lowering to admit.

He lifted an eyebrow and then winced as though the tiny movement had caused him pain. “I see. You want to make a good impression at the house party.”

She shrugged. “I suppose I do.”

“In order to catch the eyes of the eligible men there?”

Nothing could have been further from her mind. “Perhaps.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he sat up straighter. “You’ll have many admirers.”

With a sigh, she said, “Actually, my primary motivation was to avoid embarrassing your sisters. As their companion, my appearance reflects on them.” Of course, she’d also hoped Owen would notice her, but she’d cut her tongue out before telling him.

He seemed to ponder what she’d said. “Whatever your reasons, I think it’s high time you stopped hiding your beauty. But you should
not
be wearing my mother’s dress.”

Anabelle sank to the corner of the bed farthest from him. “Fine. I’ll tell your sisters I can’t accept them.”

“There are more?”

“They brought a bag full of gowns. Most of them were entirely too elegant for me, but I thought I might make use of a few.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Yes, you made that clear.” She felt hollow inside, like all the hope in her chest had rushed out. She didn’t know why, when Owen only confirmed what she already knew in her heart. She didn’t belong in his world.

He slowly turned to her, reached out, and laid his hand over hers. “I don’t think you understand.”

She yanked her hand away. “Oh, but I do.” Anger and despair battled for the top spot in her whirling, tangled emotions. “I’m good enough to amuse you. Not good enough to wear your mother’s cast-offs.”

“No,” he said adamantly. “That’s not it at all. You’re too good to wear her cast-offs, Belle. You’re everything she wasn’t. Loyal, warm, sincere.”

Oh. Her eyes grew moist. “They’re just dresses, Owen. Fabric held together with thread. Wearing them wouldn’t change who I am.”

“Promise?”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Promise.”

After taking a deep breath, he said, “Then I won’t forbid you to wear them. I still don’t like the idea, though.”

“How about if I just wear them during the house party? Nothing else I have is appropriate.”

“That seems reasonable.” He paused and then tilted his head. “I don’t suppose you’d let me buy you new dresses?”

“I would not.”

“Damn.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Could I convince you to forego dresses altogether? You look very fetching in your chemise.”

His smooth words rolled over her, soothing the hurt. She looked into his eyes and saw not the arrogant duke, but
him
. Heat flared between them, and like a fool, she walked into the fire.

“I’ve missed you,” she said.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Leaning across the bed, he carefully removed her spectacles and placed them on the bedside crate. In one swift motion, he captured her cheek in his palm, drew her face toward his, and gently kissed her lips. Desire coursed through her body, tingling her scalp, tightening her nipples, curling her toes. She kissed him back, reveling in the perfect melding of his lips to hers. Whatever their differences—and there were many—their connection felt right and true.

She pulled back slightly. “Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“Improving by the second.” He grinned and leaned in for another searing kiss. With each thrust of his tongue, each touch of his hand, he brought her further under his spell. She wanted to stay like this, cocooned in their private, simple world forever.

This time, however, she was determined to give pleasure as well as take it.

Brushing a few stray locks away from his face, she said, “Remove your jacket.”

The corner of his mouth curled in a heart-stopping smile as he shrugged off the jacket and handed it to her.

“Thank you.” With relish, she tossed it over her shoulder. Then she loosened his cravat, tugged it off, and sent it sailing across the room as well. “Lie back.”

Green eyes full of anticipation, he did as she asked. When he placed his hands behind his head, the muscles in his arms flexed, making her mouth go dry.

“What next?” he challenged.

“I shall attempt to remove your boots.” Although difficult, she managed the task with a minimal amount of grunting.

“I have to confess I found that oddly arousing,” he said.

“That’s good,” she said, feeling quite the seductress. “We’re just getting started.” She turned the lantern down low and stretched out beside him on the soft mattress. The hunger that shone in his eyes was so fierce she could see it even without her spectacles. She could feel it. Taste it.

She needed to tell him how she felt about him, needed to know if he felt the same. “Owen, when I first met you, I thought you were arrogant and stubborn. But now I see a different side of you, and I… I care for you. Deeply. I love the way I feel when I’m with you.”

There. She’d said it. And now she held her breath.

He cursed softly—not the reaction she’d hoped for.

Picking up a tendril of her hair and winding it around his fingers, he said, “You are amazing. But despite our connection, I don’t know what the future holds for us. You deserve marriage, which I can’t promise.”

Anabelle already knew this, but hearing him say the words aloud was rather crushing. She leaned over him, placing a palm on his chest. “I’m not seeking marriage. I just want to feel that there’s something real between us.”

“There is, Belle.” He dragged her head down and kissed her until she was dazed with longing. “Don’t doubt it. I care a great deal for you.”

As declarations went, it wasn’t the grandest. But for him, she suspected it was extraordinary. With her index finger, she traced small circles on the hard planes of his chest. “When I’m not with you, I start to wonder if this is all a figment of my imagination. If it only exists in the dark, when we’re alone.”

“It’s always there. I’ll show you that what we have is very real… and erase the doubts from your mind.”

He flipped her over so she was beneath him and kissed her hard, proving his point with every thrust of his tongue. And it
was
convincing.

As though removing the bow from a long-awaited present, he slipped the straps of her chemise off one shoulder, then the other. He lowered his head to suckle her breasts and kiss her belly, dragging her chemise lower and lower, until she wore nothing. He gazed at her with unabashed appreciation, and her body tingled in response.

Eager to see more of him, Anabelle lifted his shirt over his head. His chest and abdomen were so sculpted and hard they could have been made from marble. But unlike stone, his skin was warm and smelled faintly of brandy, cheroot smoke, the starch of his shirt, and
him
. She explored the cords of his neck, the expanse of his shoulders, and the ridges of muscle beneath his skin. When she touched his flat nipples, he kissed her even more deeply. She moaned from sheer pleasure.

Curious to know how his naked body would feel against hers, she pulled him closer. How different they were, and yet, they fit perfectly together. His arms felt
strong and secure around her; the light sprinkling of hair on his chest tickled the sensitive skin of her breasts, teasing the tips to rigid peaks.

“Do you believe yet?” he asked.

“Hmmm?” Her head spun with desire.

“Do you believe in us?” He sucked lightly on her neck. “Do you believe in this?”

“I believe that you make me feel very good.”

He went still for a moment. “You may be even more of a cynic than I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Just close your eyes and enjoy. We have a few hours before dawn—I don’t intend to waste a minute of it.”

True to his word, Owen made excellent use of his time. He didn’t make love to her but taught her new things about her body—what felt good, what felt amazing, and what felt utterly divine. He talked to her about his sisters and his vast assortment of great aunts and asked about her family and her childhood. She almost told him about her grandfather, the viscount, but couldn’t choke out the words. Instead, she tried to explain that dressmaking was more than a profession to her; it was also her passion. They shared their silliest secret fears—hers was spiders and his was Latin translations.

Sated, she snuggled into the crook of his arm. Almost instantly, sleep began to descend upon her. Valiantly, she fought it, knowing it would end her time with Owen. But she was too content and comfortable to resist closing her eyes for a few moments. She drifted off in his arms.

Some time later, the sun’s golden rays, refracted by the porthole window, warmed her cheek in a celestial kiss, and she awoke. Alone.

W
ith every jarring step his gelding took, Owen’s head throbbed. The coach carrying the women rumbled along beside him, creating a ruckus that set his teeth on edge. His headache was on par with the worst hangover he’d ever had. Times two.

And yet, the night he’d spent with Anabelle—everything
after
the conk on the head—made him smile like a sotted fool. Which, he supposed, he was.

He’d left Belle’s room as soon as he heard the birds chirping outside her window. After covering her with the blanket she seemed determined to kick off, he picked up his clothes and boots from the floor where she’d flung them—God, he’d loved that—shoved his arms into his shirt, and snuck down the hall to his own room.

At breakfast, she sat quietly, but her skin was rosy and she looked… happy. Best of all, she’d traded her usual
cap for a simple bonnet that tied beneath her chin. A few wisps of hair grazed the lovely column of her neck. Though the shapeless gray dress she wore hid most of her charms, he’d committed her sweet curves and long limbs to memory. All the dismal gray fabric in London wasn’t going to make him forget.

Owen insisted that his sisters and Anabelle get an early start, in spite of the girls’ grumbling. After spending five hours on the road, they were almost to Lord Harsby’s estate and would arrive in plenty of time for dinner.

The shade inside the coach had been drawn most of the day, leading him to wonder what the women—and Belle in particular—were doing. Sleeping, probably.