A Week to Be Wicked (4 page)

Colin made a fist and checked the urge to use it.

He lowered his voice as Finn emerged from the tavern. “The boy has his things all packed, Bram. You can’t disappoint him.”

“Oh,
I
won’t disappoint him. I’ll leave that to you.”

Ouch.

Finn crutched his way over to join them. “Well, my lords?”

Colin could tell the youth was struggling not to look too hopeful. That was Finn. Whether he’d lost a game of darts or his whole left foot, he always put a brave face on disappointment. He was stronger than he let on, had more ambition than anyone guessed. This boy would truly be someone, someday. And he deserved better than bloody Flintridge School for Boys.

“Finn, there’s been a change of plans. We won’t be going to London this week.”

“W-we won’t?”

“No,” Colin said. “You’ll be going to Town with Lord Rycliff instead.”

Bram turned to him, stunned. “What?”

“As we agreed would be best.” Colin shot his cousin a pointed look.

In return, Bram threw him a gaze that would pulverize walnuts in their shells.

“But . . . I thought I’d be staying with you, Lord Payne.” Finn looked to Colin, confused. “We were going to set up bachelors’ lodgings in Covent Garden.”

“Yes, well. My cousin and I agree you need a wholesome family environment. For a while, at least. Isn’t that right, Bram?”

Come on, man. You can’t refuse. Don’t be an ass.

His cousin finally relented. “We’ve just moved into the new town house, Finn. Susanna will be glad to have her first houseguest.”

Colin drew Finn aside. “I’ll be along this summer, don’t worry. Just in time for boating on the Thames.” He leaned in to murmur, “And the boxing, never you fear. There are tickets to a prize match in your future, if I hear good reports from your tutors.”

The youth smiled. “All right then.”

Bram said, “Get your things, Finn. Meet me at the mews, and we’ll see them stowed in the carriage. We leave at dawn.” The two of them walked off together, making plans that didn’t include Colin.

He tried to tell himself it had all worked out for the best. If he’d taken Finn to London himself, Colin would have found some way to cock it up. Bram was right. Every time he tried to do something good, it had a way of going bad.

Strolling away from the tavern and onto the green, Colin brought out the flask from his breast pocket. He uncapped it and tossed back a quick draught. It burned going down—as did the knowledge that it would be the first drink of many. Already, night was drawing her purple spangled veil over the cove. How he’d survive the next few months without pickling his brain, he didn’t know.

A group of ladies approached, walking across the green on the path that led from the Queen’s Ruby to the tavern. No surprise that the rooming-house residents would be enticed by the strains of dancing music. Colin faded into the shadows of the chestnut tree, feeling unequal to polite conversation at the moment.

As the ladies drew closer, he recognized them.

The Highwoods. The widowed matron took the fore, and her three daughters followed. First Charlotte, then Diana . . . finally, the lagging Minerva, her face predictably buried in a book. The evening breeze flirted with their skirts and shawls.

If he wanted to leave Spindle Cove, he did have options. Here came two of them now.

He could marry Diana.

Or he could run away to Scotland with Minerva.

Fine options, those. Would he prefer to destroy one sister’s reputation, or ruin the other’s future happiness? To be sure, he wanted to leave this place. But he’d rather do so with some shred of decency intact.

Colin tossed back another swallow of liquor.

Diana Highwood
would
make some man a lovely bride. She was beautiful, elegant, refined, good-hearted. She could hold her own in the
ton
, no question, and she’d tolerate Colin’s excesses better than most. Which meant her sharp-tongued, bespectacled sister was absolutely right.

Diana deserved better.

As for the bespectacled sister in question . . . As he stared at the group crossing the green, Colin scarcely recognized her as the girl who’d visited him last night. The bold, witty young woman who’d let down her hair by his hearth and spoken with such captivating self-assurance. Where had that girl been, all these months?

More to the point, where was that girl now? The sprigged muslin gown she wore was neither flattering nor hideous. It could best be described as wholly unremarkable. As she walked, her shoulders were hunched, as though she could curl into herself. Taken together with the book shielding her face, she’d done her level best to disappear.

Mrs. Highwood barked, “Minerva! Posture.”

Colin shook his head. Considering the constant abuse she took from her mother, was it any wonder she wanted to hide?

Last night, she’d ventured out of that shell. She’d slogged all the way to the castle in the rain, pounded on his door until he let her in, and then offered to ruin herself to protect her sister. And what reward did she get for her pains? Humiliation. Derision. And more scolding from her mother.

He’d never dreamed he’d say this about the bluestocking who’d spent the past several months skewering him with sharp glances and cutting remarks. But it was true.

Minerva deserved better.

Colin capped his flask and jammed it in his pocket. He might have to wait a few months to make his amends to Finn Bright. And even then, he’d never be able to replace the youth’s foot.

But he was going to settle this business with the Highwoods.

Tonight.

Chapter Three

W
hen Minerva lost herself in a book, her late father had once remarked, a man needed hounds and a search party to pull her back out.

Alternatively, a low-hanging tree branch could do the trick.

Thwack.

“Ouch.” Pulling up short, Minerva rubbed her smarting temple and adjusted her spectacles with one hand. With the other, she kept her page marked.

Charlotte gave her a pitying tilt of the head. “Oh, Min. Really.”

“Are you injured?” Diana asked, concerned.

Ahead of them, their mother wheeled and gave a despairing sigh. “Minerva Rose Highwood. For all your unnatural love of education, you can be remarkably stupid.” She walked over and grasped Minerva by the elbow, tugging her across the village green. “I will never understand how you came into being.”

No, Mama
, Minerva thought, trudging her way along the path.
I doubt you ever will.

Most people didn’t understand her. Even before last night’s humiliation, she’d long reconciled herself to the fact. Lately, it seemed the one who best understood Minerva wasn’t a person at all, but a place. Spindle Cove, this seaside resort for young ladies of gentle breeding and, well,
interesting
character. Whether sickly, scholarly, or scandalous—the young women here were all misfits of one kind or another. The villagers didn’t care if Minerva dug in the dirt, or wandered down the country paths with the breeze whipping through her hair and an open book before her face.

She’d felt so at home here, so comfortable. Until tonight.

The closer they drew to the tavern and the revelry within, the more her sense of dread increased. “Mama, can’t we go back to the rooming house? The weather’s so dire.”

“It’s mild, compared to last week’s rain.”

“Think of Diana’s health. She’s just recovered from a cold.”

“Pish. That was weeks ago now.”

“But, Mama . . .” Desperate, Minerva cast about for some other excuse. “What of propriety?”

“Propriety?” Mama held up Minerva’s ungloved hand, displaying the earth embedded under her fingernails. “
You
would speak to me of propriety?”

“Yes, well. It’s one thing to frequent the Bull and Blossom in the afternoon, when it’s a ladies tea shop. But after dark, it’s a tavern.” Minerva wouldn’t mention where
she’d
been last night.

“I don’t care if it’s an opium den. It’s the only hope of dancing in ten miles,” her mother replied. “And Payne is certain to be there. We’ll have a proposal tonight. I feel it in my bones.”

Perhaps Mama felt it in her bones, but Minerva’s reaction was more visceral. Her heart and stomach switched places, jostling inside her.

As they approached the tavern door, Minerva buried her face in her book. Be they novels or histories or scientific treatises, books were frequently her refuge. Tonight, the book was her literal shield, her only barrier against the world. She didn’t dare leave Diana alone tonight, but she didn’t know how she could bear to face Lord Payne again. Not to mention the hidden lover who’d laughed at Minerva’s foolish hopes. His “friend” could have been any woman in this crowded room. And whoever she was, she might have already related the story to everyone else.

As they entered the establishment and made their way through the throng, Minerva was certain she heard someone laughing.

Laughing at
her
.

This was the worst result of that disastrous midnight visit. For months now, Spindle Cove had been Minerva’s safe haven. Now she’d never feel comfortable here again. The echo of that cruel laughter would follow her down every country path and cobbled lane. He’d ruined this place for her.

Now he threatened to ruin the rest of their lives.

You could be calling me “brother” by Sunday.

No. She couldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t. She’d stop it
somehow
, even if she had to hurl her book at the man’s head.

“Oh, he’s not here.”

Charlotte’s plaintive comment gave her hope. Minerva lowered her book and scanned the crowd. The militia volunteers filled the establishment, splashing bright red and gold against the lime-washed walls. She dipped her chin and peered over the lenses, focusing on the distant side of the room, where men and women crowded at the bar.

No Lord Payne.

Her breath came easier. She pushed the spectacles back up her nose, and she felt the corners of her mouth relax into some semblance of a smile. Perhaps he’d experienced an attack of conscience. More likely, he’d stayed behind in his turret to entertain his easily amused lady friend. It hardly mattered where he was, so long as he wasn’t here.

“Oh, there,” Mama said, swiveling. “There he is. He’s just come in the back way.”

Drat.

Minerva’s heart sank when she caught her first glimpse of him. He did not look like a man who’d experienced an attack of conscience. He looked dark and more dangerous than ever. Though he’d only just come through the door, he’d instantly changed the room’s atmosphere. A palpable, restless energy radiated from his quarter, and everyone could feel it. The whole tavern went on alert. An unspoken message relayed from body to body.

Something is about to happen.

The musicians struck up the prelude to a country dance. Around the room, couples began pairing off.

Lord Payne, however, was in no hurry. He raised a flask to his mouth and tipped it. Minerva swallowed instinctively, as though she could feel the liquor burning down her own throat.

He lowered the flask. Capped it. Replaced it in his pocket. And then his gaze settled, hot and unwavering, on the Highwoods.

The little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

“He’s looking at you, Diana,” their mother murmured with excitement. “He’s sure to ask you to dance.”

“Diana shouldn’t dance,” Minerva said, unable to take her eyes off him. “Not a reel like this. Her asthma.”

“Pish. The sea air has worked its benefit. She hasn’t had an attack in months now.”

“No. But the last one was brought on by dancing.” She shook her head. “Why must I always be the one to look out for Diana’s well-being?”

“Because I’m looking out for yours. Ungrateful thing.”

Mama’s gaze pierced her. As a girl, Minerva had envied her mother’s blue eyes. They’d seemed the color of tropical oceans and cloudless skies. But their color had faded over the years since Papa’s death. Now their blue was the hue of dyed cambric worn three seasons. Or brittle middle-class china.

The color of patience nearly worn through.

“There are four of us, Minerva. All women. No husband, father, or brother in the portrait. We may not be destitute, but we lack true security. Diana has the chance to catch a wealthy, handsome viscount, and I won’t allow you to stand in her way. Who else is going to save this family?
You
?” She laughed bitterly.

Minerva couldn’t even summon a response.

“Oh, he’s coming,” Charlotte squeaked. “He’s coming this way.”

Panic fluttered in Minerva’s breast. Did Payne truly mean to propose tonight? Any man with sense would. Diana was always beautiful, but tonight she looked radiant, dressed in an emerald silk gown with ivory lace trim. Her flaxen hair glowed incandescent in the candlelight, and her ethereal composure gave her the air of a lady.

She looked like a viscountess.

And Lord Payne looked every inch the powerful lord. The man strode across the room toward them, cutting his way through the crowd in a straight, unswerving path. People leaped out of his way, like startled crickets. His gaze was intent, determined, focused on . . .

On
her
. On Minerva.

Don’t be a ninny.

It couldn’t be. Surely it was just a trick of her spectacles. He was coming for Diana, naturally. Obviously. And she hated him for it. He was a horrid, horrid man.

But her heart would not stop pounding. Heat gathered between her breasts. She’d always wondered what it would feel like to stand on one end of a ballroom and watch a handsome, powerful man make his way to her. This was as close as she’d ever come to it, she supposed. Standing at Diana’s side. Imagining.

Suddenly anxious, she looked to the floor. Then the ceiling. Then she chided herself for her cowardice and forced herself to look at him.

He drew to a halt and bowed, then offered a hand. “May I have this dance?”

Minerva’s heart stalled. The book slipped from her hand and fell to the floor.

“Diana, pass me your reticule,” Mama whispered. “Quickly now. I’ll hold it while you dance.”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary,” Diana answered.

“Of course it’s necessary. You can’t dance with that bulky reticule dangling from your wrist.”

“I’m not going to dance at all. Lord Payne has invited Minerva.”

“Invited Minerva. Of all the ideas.” Mama made a disbelieving, indelicate snort. Which became a strangled gasp, when the woman looked up and finally noticed that Lord Payne’s hand was indeed outstretched to Minerva. “But . . . why?”

He said simply, “Because I choose her.”

“Truly?”

Oh God. Truly? As in, had Minerva
truly
just said that aloud?

At least she’d stopped herself from voicing the rest of the thoughts running through her addled brain, which went something like,
Truly? That whole determined, dangerous saunter across the room was for
me
? In that case, would you mind going back and doing it all over again? Slowly this time, and with feeling.

“Miss Minerva,” he said, in a voice smooth and dark as obsidian, “may I have this dance?”

She watched, mute and entranced, as his ungloved hand clasped hers. His grip was warm and strong.

She held her breath, feeling the eyes of the whole village on them.

Please. Please, don’t let anyone laugh.

“Thank you,” she forced herself to say. “I would be most . . . relieved.”

He led her to the floor, where they queued up for the country dance.

“Relieved?” he murmured with amusement. “Ladies usually find themselves ‘delighted’ or ‘honored’ to dance with me. Even ‘thrilled.’ ”

She shrugged helplessly. “It was the first word that came to mind.”

And it had been honest, at the time. Though as she took her place across from him and the first bars of the music began, her relief evaporated. Fear took its place.

“I can’t dance,” she confessed, stepping forward.

He took her hands and twirled her round. “But you’re already dancing.”

“Not very well.”

His eyebrow quirked. “This is true.”

Minerva curtseyed to the wrong corner, colliding with the lady her to her left. Offering the woman a breathless apology, she overcorrected—and stomped on Lord Payne’s foot.

“Good God,” he said through gritted teeth, holding her close to his side as they moved forward and back. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

“I never exaggerate. I’m hopeless.”

“You’re not hopeless. Stop trying so hard. If we’re going to manage this, you must let me lead.”

The dance parted them, and Minerva was left reeling. She tried to convince herself this meant he’d agreed to her plan. He would take her to Scotland, because he chose her. He chose
her
over Diana. Why else would he offer to dance with her, but to create the impression of some attraction between them? But her thoughts were quickly plowed under by thunderous footfalls and wild fiddling.

She bumbled her way through another series of steps. Then came a lovely few measures where she didn’t need to do anything but stand still and clap.

Then it was forward again. To him.

He pulled her close. Indecently close.

“Say ouch,” he murmured.

She blinked up at him.
What?

He pinched the tender underside of her arm, hard.

“Ouch!” she exclaimed. “Why would you—”

He slid an arm around her waist. Then flexed it, causing her to stumble. Her spectacles went askew.

“What’s that, Miss Highwood?” he said loudly, theatrically. “You’ve turned your ankle? What a pity.”

A few moments later, he had her stumbling through the Bull and Blossom’s red-painted front door. They made it a few steps away from the entrance. He rushed her so, her slipper caught on a rock and she tripped in earnest.

He caught her just before her knee hit the turf.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Nothing bruised but my pride.”

He helped her steady herself. But he didn’t release her. “That didn’t go as I planned. I didn’t realize your . . . difficulty with dancing. Had I known, I would have—”