When She Was Wicked (10 page)

Exhaling, she attempted to restore herself to some semblance of respectability. She smoothed her skirts and tucked loose wisps of hair behind her ears, all the while ignoring the duke’s amused glances.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said and, with as
much dignity as she could muster, walked toward the door. He backed up, blocking her path, and scooped up one of her hands in his. With a wicked smile, he said, “Good afternoon, Miss Honeycote,” and seared the back of her hand with a kiss.

She tried her best to appear unaffected but marched out of the room on shaky legs. The import of what she’d done was sinking in. She’d kissed her employer, who happened to be a duke
and
the man she’d tried to extort money from. A clear and blatant violation of her own rules of conduct. She was scurrying down the hallway and heading for the staircase when she stopped in her tracks.

Dash it all, she had to go back.

Full of dread, she spun around and returned to the scene of the kiss—er, the study. When she arrived at the doorway, the duke was staring out the window rather contemplatively. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to be doing but was vastly relieved to see that he wasn’t, oh, banging his forehead on his desk in regret or tossing back a large glass of gin.

When she cleared her throat, he looked at her, surprised. And, perhaps, a little hopeful.

“I came to retrieve something that belongs to me.” Without waiting for permission, she crossed the study, plucked her cap off the clock, and jammed it on her head.

It occurred to her she should amend her List of Nevers to include rules governing her unusual relationship with the duke. The first addendum would be “Never remove one’s cap—or allow it to be removed—in the presence of the duke, as it may well be the only impediment to wanton behavior by both parties.” Yes, now that she thought on it, rules were definitely necessary.

She dared not look at him as she exited the room—for the second time. She was fairly certain he’d be mocking her; but of course, he’d been mocking her since he’d met her.

The problem was, she now cared far more than she should.

T
he next day as Owen sat in his coach, rumbling across Town to an appointment, he was still trying to come to terms with what he’d done. At first he told himself that he’d kissed Anabelle because he felt sorry for her. That was laughable. She wasn’t the kind of woman one pitied—she’d never permit it.

He then wondered whether she’d somehow seduced him with coy looks and subtle invitations. But that, too, was ridiculous. It was impossible for a woman to be coy in a huge floppy cap.

One could argue that in the absence of a mistress, he’d lowered his normally high standards for feminine companionship. But… no.

The truth was he’d admired her since the first morning he’d met her. He’d desired her since the evening she’d tripped and fallen into his arms. She was clever, proud, beautiful, and loyal.

A damned arousing combination.

Just this morning, he’d found himself concocting excuses to walk by the workroom where he knew she’d be. That’s when he’d realized he needed to get out of the house. Determined to turn his mind to business—contracts, estate matters, and finances—he leaned back against the velvet squabs in his coach and dragged his hands down his face.

Maybe once he’d finished his meeting with James Averill, Owen could convince the solicitor—also a trusted friend—to head to Bond Street for a boxing match.

Owen was a decent fighter. He’d been in his share of tavern brawls, and although he rarely escaped unscathed, the other chap usually looked much worse. But Owen was no match for Averill in a boxing bout. A few solid punches to Owen’s head might help him forget about Anabelle. Or at least knock the good sense back into him. The thought cheered him.

His coach came to a halt in front of Averill’s office on Chancery Lane. Owen strode up an ancient-looking stone walkway and entered Averill’s office, which was cluttered with an odd collection of exotic furniture that he had purchased on his travels. The solicitor was bent over a stack of papers on his desk looking thoroughly perplexed—like a frustrated archeologist trying to decipher hieroglyphics.

Without preamble, he glanced up at Owen and said, “The allowances you’ve set up for your aunts are extremely generous, Huntford. Are you sure you didn’t write an extra zero or two here?” He spun a paper around for Owen’s examination.

Owen checked the figure and grunted. “They’re sweet old ladies. And they’ve known me since I was in nappies.”

“Ah. In that case, their allowances can’t be too large.”
Averill grinned. “After seeing these numbers, I’m thinking I should raise my fees.”

Owen picked up a dreary-looking urn and inspected a crack near the rim. “So you can buy more ramshackle furniture and chipped vases?”

Averill sprang from his chair, snatched the vase from him and cradled it in the crook of an arm like it was his firstborn. “This is a relic from ancient Greece. I paid almost as much for it as you did for your gelding last spring.”

“If that’s your idea of an investment,” said Owen, “I must be insane to entrust my business affairs to you.”

“Not insane. A bit naïve, perhaps.” He grinned, set the vase on a stack of dusty tomes behind him, and returned to his chair.

Chuckling, Owen picked up a white marble statue of a cross-legged man occupying
his
chair. “Sorry,” he said to the Buddha, placing him on the floor. To Averill, “How was the opera last night?”

“Dreadful. My sister, however, was mesmerized by the performance. She declared herself forever in your debt. Thank you for giving us your seats.”

Owen held up a hand, happy to have been spared.

“Miss Starling, however, was disappointed to discover that we were in your box… and you weren’t.” Averill raised a cocky brow. Owen would enjoy taking a few punches at him later. “Her dowry would pad your coffers nicely.”

“My coffers are doing just fine.”

“True, but if you keep giving those aunts of yours huge allowances—”

“Damn it, Averill, just give me the bloody papers to sign.”

One hour and a couple of drinks later, Owen’s business
was concluded. He loosened his cravat as Averill poured more brandy into their glasses.

“What you’ve managed to accomplish in a little over two years’ time,” Averill mused, “is nothing short of miraculous. I wish my other clients took their responsibilities half as seriously as you do.”

Owen stared into his glass. Rather than deal with the unpleasant realities of an adulterous wife and a dwindling fortune, Owen’s father had pointed a gun at his right temple and squeezed the trigger. A cowardly, selfish act if ever there was one. As a boy, Owen had wanted nothing more than to be like him—riding fine horses, hosting lavish parties, and drinking expensive brandy.

But Owen was
not
like him. He would never let down his family, never shirk the responsibilities of his title.

Oh, he’d resented being thrust into the role of duke so suddenly, but righting the affairs of his estates was giving him more satisfaction than he’d thought. It took a hell of a lot of time and energy, and it was worth it. His
sisters
were worth it.

The meeting with Averill had been productive, and yet, Owen still hadn’t managed to banish Anabelle from his mind.

It occurred to him that her allure could stem from the mystery surrounding her. Miss Starling, for example, although undeniably beautiful, was not appealing. Owen had the misfortune of sitting next to her during a musicale last week, and during the course of the twenty-minute performance, he’d learned that she’d spent the day embroidering birds on a handkerchief and purchasing a new hat. She’d waited for him to compliment the latter, and he did, even though, to him, it looked unremarkable. Miss
Starling was like every other young miss on the marriage mart: intent on snaring a titled gentleman by any means possible.

But Anabelle was an enigma, and therein lay her charm. If he knew more about her, he would certainly lose his fascination with her.

Even within the confines of his own mind, the theory sounded thin.

He swirled the liquid in his glass, studying the sloshing waves he created. Anabelle had tried to extort money from him. He’d trusted that the story about her family’s dire circumstances was true, but what proof did he have? Perhaps she’d lied about her mother’s condition to gain his sympathy. It couldn’t hurt to investigate.

“Ever heard of a Dr. Conwell?” he asked Averill.

Concern registered on his friend’s face. “Are your sisters well? No one is sick, I hope.”

“Olivia is fine, and Rose… well, she’s the same. I asked because the mother of one of my servants is ill. Dr. Conwell is treating the woman, and I’m curious. Er, to know how serious her condition is.”

Averill stared suspiciously, damn him. “Is the servant requesting too much time off, shirking duties and the like?”

“Nothing like that. But I do wonder if her mother is as sick as Miss Honeycote claims.”

“Would Miss Honeycote happen to be young and beautiful?”

It was no use lying to Averill. “Yes. But she’s also stubborn and conniving.”

His friend nodded sagely and tented his fingers. “Are you thinking mistress or marriage?”

“Good God. She’s a seamstress. She dresses like a
spinster who’s been on the shelf for a couple of decades. Hardly duchess material.”

“Mistress, then.”

“No.” Owen seethed. How he longed to punch the smirk off Averill’s face. Instead, he stood and said, “This bloody inquisition is over. I’m going to ride across Town and ask my physician about Conwell. Why don’t you come, and afterward, we can box a few rounds?”

Averill stood, flexed his hands, and looked at Owen as if he’d gone mad. “If you’re sure.”

Owen glared at him and headed for the damned door. “You coming, or not?”

Anabelle was nearly finished with Olivia’s ball gown. It was white sarsenet, with a bodice and sleeves of blue satin that set off Olivia’s light green eyes. The sleeves, slitted in the front, were held together by gold clasps matching a Grecian border. Anabelle planned to stitch the border in gold thread but needed Olivia to try on the dress one more time before she did so.

Since Olivia was shopping and wouldn’t be available for at least a half-hour, Anabelle ventured downstairs to ask Mr. Dennison about the post. Two days had passed without a letter from Daphne. Never having been apart from her family for so long, Anabelle missed them. She was accustomed to coming home from work, sitting at Mama’s bedside, and telling her and Daphne all about the quirky patrons at the shop. Silly things, like the countess demanding five ostrich feathers on her hat or the debutante wanting padding sewn into the breast area of her corset.

Since Anabelle had arrived at the duke’s house, a mere five days ago, she’d seen and experienced so much.
Mama would love to hear about the crystal chandelier in the duke’s foyer, and Daphne would love to hear about the kiss in the duke’s study. Anabelle supposed she could describe the chandelier in a letter, but a kiss like that… well, it defied description.

In the absence of a letter from her sister, Anabelle imagined all sorts of tragedies. Perhaps Daphne had fallen sick, or Mama’s health had taken a worse turn, or they’d used up the money the duke had sent and would starve in their apartment rather than worry Anabelle. She desperately hoped for word from them.

When she located the butler at his usual station in the pantry, his white eyebrows rose halfway up his wrinkled forehead. “Miss Honeycote,” he said kindly. “How may I help you?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Dennison. Could you tell me whether the post has arrived?”

“It has.” He hoisted himself off his stool and beckoned Anabelle to follow him. After sifting through a stack of letters sitting on a table in the foyer, he handed an envelope to her. “It arrived just a few moments ago.”

She glanced at the envelope, relieved to see Daphne’s handwriting. “Thank you.” She tapped the envelope against her palm and headed for the privacy of her bedchamber to read her sister’s note. After slipping off her shoes and climbing onto the bed, she tucked her feet under her and opened the letter.

Pressing the letter to her chest, Anabelle choked on a sob. Mama was getting sicker, and she had been frighteningly
sick to begin with. If Daphne, the eternal optimist, was concerned, the situation must be dire.

Anabelle sprang off the bed and paced the length of her room. She needed to see Mama for herself. The duke, however, had made it clear that visits would not be permitted during the term of her indenture. Although he’d been fair in most respects, he’d been adamant that she was a prisoner in his house. She couldn’t blame him for not trusting her. He probably feared she’d head out of Town, leaving his sisters with nothing more than half a ball gown each. She had no intention of reneging on her end of the deal, but she couldn’t abandon her family.