Practically Wicked (15 page)

“It has been…” She tilted her head, searching for the right word. “Enlightening.”

It was the perfect word.

Four years he’d spent believing a lie. For four years, he’d thought the worst of her.

But Anna hadn’t refused to see him. She’d not ignored his letters.

There was the possibility of her lying, of course, but he didn’t believe it. There was too little to be gained by the subterfuge. She already had Engsly. She didn’t need his good opinion.

She had it nonetheless.

You’ve been uncommonly loutish in our encounters.

He’d been a lout and more. Their first meeting at Anover House didn’t trouble him overmuch. While he’d not count it amongst his finest hours, he was by no means ashamed of his behavior. It had been a good night and, if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Wrayburn, would have made for one happy memory in the midst of misery. But most importantly, Anna hadn’t complained. She’d begged his promise to return. She would have met with him again.

Without doubt, there was nothing wrong in what had passed between them at Anover House.

Yesterday, however…

Max was thoroughly ashamed of his behavior in the billiards room. More so when he held it up against Anna’s in comparison. He’d thought she’d played him for a fool and he had treated her with derision and scorn. She’d thought he’d broken his promise and she’d remained perfectly polite…until he’d become a boor, but she could scarce be blamed for that.

It occurred to him as they reached the edge of the back lawn that Anna was, by far, a greater lady than he was a gentleman. He’d have liked to tell her so but feared it would sound disingenuous so soon after their row.

Forgiving and patient would have to do for now. They weren’t, in his opinion, the defining characteristics of a lady, but they seemed to please her, and he couldn’t ask for more.

Well, he could, and likely would in time. But for the duration of their walk—

“Oh, no,” Anna gasped suddenly, jerking in his arms. “Set me down. Set me down this—”

“Easy.” He tightened his grip. “I thought we’d been through this.”

“They’re watching. Set me—”

“Stop squirming. Who’s watching?”

“Someone in the house, of course.” She unwound an arm from his neck to point. “Didn’t you see the curtains move?”

There were, at best guess, thirty sets of curtains visible from the back side of the house. “No. I confess I did not.”

“Well, I did. Now—”

“What difference does it make if someone sees?”

“They’ll talk.”

His eyes widened in mock amazement. “Discuss the marquess’s recently discovered and only just arrived half sister who is purported to be the daughter of
the
Mrs. Wrayburn? Never say.”

She merely sniffed at that. “The fact that there is substantial talk already occurring is not a reason to encourage even more—”

“We’re not encouraging anything. Unless it’s a muscle spasm of crippling proportions,” he amended. “You’re not as light as you look.”

There was a long, weighted pause before she responded. “Charming.”

He wasn’t concerned with charm so much as distraction. It was a good deal easier to carry the woman when she wasn’t struggling. “At least you’re not wearing one of your bejeweled gowns.”

She was visibly taken aback by that comment. “I…What? I haven’t any bejeweled gowns.”

“The diamond dress?”

“The what?” she asked with a small, surprised laugh.

“The ball gown with the diamonds sewn into the sleeves.” That gown had been all the talk for weeks.

“The…” A small line formed between her brows as she searched her memory. “That light blue bit of nonsense with the cream ribbons along the hem?”

“If it had diamonds sewn into the sleeves, then yes, that one.”

“What nonsense. They were paste, of course. Who told you they were diamonds?”

“I don’t recall if I was told, exactly. It was simply assumed as the truth.” He was confident it had been Mrs. Wrayburn who’d spread the rumor, but Max rather thought Anna had heard enough about her mother lying for one day.

“By everyone?” she asked.

“Was there a jeweler in attendance who was allowed a closer inspection?”

“No.”

“Then yes, everyone.”

She slumped a little in his arms. “Diamonds sewn into the sleeves. Good Lord, the demimonde is gullible. I wish I could have brought that gown along. I’d have worn it to Bond Street before leaving London and sold it to the first idiot who called it the diamond dress.”

He sidestepped a muddy patch of ground. “Why couldn’t you bring it along?”

“It’s not mine. It’s my mother’s.”

Mrs. Wrayburn was both taller and notably more ample in the bust than her daughter. “You shared gowns with your mother?”

“I suppose one might call it that. She had ball gowns made for me to wear but not to keep. She took them back.”

“To reuse the material,” he guessed.

“One would assume.”

Clearly, she had her doubts. “But you—?”

She gave him a patronizing look. “Don’t think I’ve not recognized your attempt at distraction, Lord Dane.”

“Max,” he encouraged. “And I wasn’t attempting to distract you so much as occupying your mind until we reached the house.”

“That is the very definition of distraction.”

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face. “No, it’s not.”

“It…” She opened her mouth, closed it. “Yes, it is—”

“Not at all.”

“How can you—?”

“Not the least bit alike.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re just being—”

“Care to put a wager on it?”

“You may stop now. I’ll not ask you to set me down again.” She looked up at the house. “Not much point to it now.”

“None at all,” he agreed. They’d already reached the steps of the back terrace.

“But you’ll not be carrying me inside.”

“Certainly not,” he agreed, but only because opening the door with his hands full would be an exercise in physical comedy.

Instead, he climbed the steps and set her down in front of the door, keeping one hand at her waist longer than was strictly necessary. He hadn’t intended to draw the moment out, he just couldn’t seem to stop himself. He felt compelled to retain that simple connection with her, his hand one tantalizing inch above the gentle curve of her hip.

“Will you require assistance to your chambers?”

“I didn’t require assistance to the house,” she reminded him and took a step back, disconnecting from him entirely.

Because he wanted to reach for her again, he caught his hands behind his back. “You’re welcome.”

She accepted the lighthearted reprimand with good grace. “I thank you for coming to my aide.”

“It was my pleasure.” His arms would be sore for it tomorrow.

“Well.” Her eyes shifted to the door and back. “I should…”

“You’ve plans for the remainder of the day?” he asked quickly. He didn’t want her to leave. Not quite yet.

“To be honest, Lord Dane—”

“Max,” he encouraged again. “Please.”

“Max, then,” she agreed with a smile. “To be honest, I’d planned on being well on my way to Mrs. Culpepper’s sister. It was not my original intention to stay on at Caldwell. I’d thought…Well…”

“You thought you’d take your thousand pounds and go.”

She squared her shoulders defensively. “I had assumed that would be the marquess’s preference.”

“And I assumed that would be your assumption. I meant no offense.”

“I…” She blew out a small breath. “It will take some effort, this coming to know each other.”

“It’s not the knowing, I think. It’s the trusting.”

And trust, once lost, even through no—or, in his case, partial—fault of one’s own, could be difficult to regain. For reasons he wasn’t yet ready to look at too closely, Max wanted that trust back, for both of them. But it was going to have to wait a little longer.

“So you’ve no plans…” he prompted.

“I believe I shall keep my companion company for the morning and tend to my wounds, grievous as they are. And you?”

“I’m for Codridgeton,” he lied. “With any luck, I’ll conclude my business before dinner.”

“Well then…” Her eyes traveled back to the door. “Until this evening, I suppose.”

“This evening,” he agreed, unable to think of another way to stall her departure. Or his.

He watched her walk through the door, then spun about and headed straight to the stables. Only, he wasn’t for Codridgeton. He was for London, to visit with Engsly’s man.

Max knew that, generally speaking, lying wasn’t the most effective means by which to regain trust. But now and again, telling the truth was equally unhelpful. He believed Anna in so far as
she
knew herself to be the daughter of the late marquess. But with the only evidence having originated from the something-less-than-believable Mrs. Wrayburn, he remained unconvinced.

Journals could be fabricated. Letters and contracts might be forged. One would hope Lucien’s man would recognize when he’d been presented with a fake, but it was always better to ensure for oneself.

Why Mrs. Wrayburn would set up such a ruse, Max couldn’t begin to guess. There were no rumors of financial instability, no indications that the woman was interested in attaching herself to the respectable set. But after what he’d learned today, he’d not rule out pure spleen as a motive.

Whatever Mrs. Wrayburn’s rationale, if the contract was false, he’d find a way to extract Anna from the mess. It was the least he could do. And Engsly would help. He’d not blame the daughter for the sins of the mother.

If the contract appeared valid, well then, he’d feel like an arse…or more of an arse, to be precise. But better he be uncomfortable with having done too much than someone else be miserable because he’d failed to do enough. He’d experienced the repercussions of the latter once before. He’d not make the same mistake again.

 
 
Chapter 9

Anna kept to the impromptu plan she’d given Max on the terrace. She changed out of her muddy gown and into a slighted dated but clean dress of ivory muslin with eyelet trim. Then she saw to the care of her blisters and went to check on Mrs. Culpepper. She found her friend awake, dressed, and eager for both company and a spot of breakfast.

Happy to see to both, Anna had trays brought up to the room. While they worked their way through a well-prepared meal of eggs and fish, Anna explained the changes in their circumstances. To Anna’s great relief, Mrs. Culpepper had already ascertained for herself what was going on and took the news of their unexpected stay at Caldwell quite well. She was, she professed, in no hurry to be inside that dreadful carriage once more.

Mrs. Culpepper then proceeded to ask a seemingly endless number of questions about Engsly, and Anna spent the next hour doing her best to answer them all. But not once did Mrs. Culpepper mention Max, leaving Anna to believe that no one had yet mentioned Lord Dane to her. Not eager to be the first, Anna said nothing of him during their meal and conversation, nor afterward when they fell into the easy midmorning habit of settling in with their books of choice.

As familiar and comforting as the routine was, it failed to put Anna in a settled state. She had difficulty concentrating on anything but her morning walk with Max. Her mind went back to certain moments, over and over again. A look here, a touch there. An eighth-to-quarter mile in his arms. It was all terribly exciting. More so, no doubt, because it was a kind of excitement of which she had very little past experience.

She was interested in a man. It was likely irrational and ill-advised given their history, but there it was…She still rather liked Max Dane. And it felt marvelous. There were, after all, many kinds of adventure. This was but one.

One highly distracting adventure, she mused after reading the same paragraph for the third time and realizing she would need to read it a fourth.

Giving up, Anna traded her book for her embroidery, but as the day stretched on, she found herself no more engaged by her sampler than she had been by her story. She stuck herself twice, both times a direct result of her looking out the window to the front drive rather than at her work.

She knew Max had claimed he’d not be back until evening, but one could never be entirely certain of these things. The village wasn’t far, and if his business was completed very quickly, then…then he would return early and she would still be keeping company with her friend. What difference did it make where the man was just now?

In a few hours, of course, it would make all the difference, but—

“If it’s not too much trouble, dear, might you hand me my tea?”

Pulled from her musings, Anna looked to where Mrs. Culpepper sat in a chair by the window, a cream shawl about her shoulders and her book of poetry in her hands.

“You are looking much improved,” she commented, reaching over to give Mrs. Culpepper the cup. Her friend’s gray coloring had been replaced with a healthier, albeit still pale, pink.

“As are you,” Mrs. Culpepper commented.