Wicked, My Love (6 page)

He glanced up. She knelt by an open drawer, holding what looked to be an extremely lacy and sheer chemise adorned with several yards of pink ribbons.

He sucked in his breath and tucked Busby's letter into his coat. He squatted before her, resting a hand on her shoulder and letting his thumb caress the soft skin on her neck. He started in on the talk his friends had given him when Cecelia left, which included such banal clichés as “he wasn't for you, and in the end, when you meet someone else, you'll be thankful that this little affair hadn't worked out,” “Although it hurts now, and you feel as if you will never love again, in time your heart will heal,” “when you find someone new, you will love him more deeply,” etc., etc. But even as the words flowed from his mouth, he knew in his heart that he was lying. Powers had probably been Isabella's last hope.

She broke his heart the way she stared at him, her eyes large and inky. He couldn't take it any longer and wrapped her in his arms.

“Ah, Isabella, I'm sorry.” He ran his hand up and down her back.

“But just look at it!” she wailed, shoving the chemise against his chest.

“I know, I know,” he said, trying to soothe the distraught virgin. “Why don't you wait in the kitchen? I'll finish going through this.”

“You don't understand.”

“I know the pain—”

“It's got cat whiskers embroidered on it and a long, pink, fluffy tail!”

“What?” He was mistaken; her eyes weren't large and inky with unrequited sorrow but repulsion. He glanced at the large chemise falling from her fingers. “What the hell is that?!”

Aside from the whiskers and tail adorning the garment, little kitten cupids dotted the sheer fabric. Twin hearts with large red ribbons flowing in their centers were embroidered on the bodice, the right size to fit two ample breasts, with streamers dripping from
the nipples.

“What kind of man desires a woman in this gaudy thing?” she cried. “I can't believe that I actually wanted to marry him.” He heard a thud downstairs, but apparently she hadn't, because she continued, “It's as I always suspected: something is very, very wrong with me. I—”

In a twinkling, his lips were on hers, his hand behind her head. She squirmed underneath his mouth. “Mut arm mou moing? Ahm gomma mill mou!” she said, her hands beating against his chest. But he kept his mouth clamped hard on her lips—supple, cushy creations.
Dammit, Isabella, be quiet!

She closed her lids, her lips began to tentatively, nervously move against his, as if the poor dear thought he was actually trying to kiss her and not hush her.
Bang!
Someone slammed into a chair or such below them, knocking it over. Her eyes shot open. He held her captive in his kiss a second longer, because, bloody hell, she was exhilarating. Then, keeping her secured to his chest, he reached into his waistband, withdrew his pistol, and aimed it at the open door.

“You brought a gun?” Unmistakable awe imbued her hushed voice.

“What does it look like, love?”

“Tony, it's your favorite naughty pussycat. Are you home?” A loud, slurring female voice called from the bottom of the stairs. Isabella and Randall glanced at each other, slowly rose together, and edged toward the corridor, still locked in their embrace.

“Pussycat has a wicked surprise for her papa. M—Oh, Lord Randall and Miss St. Vincent. It's you.”

At the bottom of the stairwell stood Alice Owens. Her face was flushed with inebriation and dark, shiny sausage curls danced about her bright eyes. She was a favorite among the village men for her comely looks of the merry variety, and her refreshing lack of intelligence coupled with a happy-go-lucky attitude and skirts that were easily lifted by buttery words and sugary punch.

She tried to curtsy but fell against the wall. “Oh, I've had a wee too much of the fruity crank.” She giggled. “I was thinking me Tony had returned because the back door was open and what.” Her eyes squinted in the dim light. “Say, is that my kitty chemise?” A sly smile curled on her lips and she wagged a finger. “Miss St. Vincent, were you playing Who's Papa's Naughty Pussycat with Lord Randall? I always thought you were a bit spoony for him.”

Isabella emitted a tight, choking sound, dropping the shift. Randall didn't know the specifics of the Who's Papa's Naughty Pussycat game, but he had a feeling that if he asked Isabella to play, she would punch him.

“Mr. Powers was supposed to attend my ball this evening,” he said. “When he didn't arrive, we were worried that a terrible accident might have occurred or that he might be ill.”

Alice drew her brows together. “Is this sumpin' to do with that bank of yours?”

“No!” Isabella cried. “I-it's because I'm madly, desperately, spoony in love with Mr. Powers.”

Randall gazed at his business partner, his heart full of admiration in the way that a war-weary soldier might be for his comrade-in-arms.
Good
fall
on
the
sword, old girl.

“And I was terribly worried about him,” Isabella continued in a skittery voice. “That is why we are looking for him. No other reason at all. Nothing to do with the bank whatsoever. Oh, no, no, no. If you thought that might be the reason, you would be terribly wrong. I just—”

“Do you know where we might find Mr. Powers?” Randall cut in before Isabella could sound any guiltier.

Alice didn't answer him but gazed at Isabella. “Oh, you poor little thing. You loved him, and all this time you didn't know that he was wild in love with me.” Her triumphant smile of having bested another woman belied any sympathy in her words.

“
Or
a
whole
drawer
full
of
other
women
,” Randall heard Isabella mutter under her breath. “Do you know where Mr. Powers went?” she asked.

Alice's eyes lifted heavenward. “Do you ever know where they go?” she waxed. “They just go. I know how you feel, Miss St. Vincent…well, a little. I do try to dress up a bit nicer than you and take a little trouble with me hair. And you are getting a bit long in the tooth, and you never really had a suitor that I can remember, and me Tony was probably your last chance for happiness and—”

“That wasn't a rhetorical question,” Isabella sniped.

“Rhetorical?” Alice blinked. “Does that mean like a joke or riddle? I loves a good joke. Have you heard this one about the naughty vicar and the—”

“No, it means do you know exactly where he went?” Isabella said, annoyance seething under her words. “A destination? An address? A name?”

“You don't have to get all snippy,” Alice protested. “It's not my fault Tony likes me better. Anyways, he told me that he was visiting a friend. Someone named…Rigsby? Saxby? Danby? Sumpin' with
a ‘by.'”

“Busby?” Randall asked. “Nicholas Busby?”

Alice's face lit with recognition. “That's it! Me Tony said that kind Mr. Busby always helped him, lending him money and such. A good sort of fellow, he was.”

“Did Mr. Powers say when he planned to come back?” Isabella asked.

“No, but I'm sure he will.” She began twisting at her ankles, side to side like a three-year-old. “He said he wouldn't miss seeing me for the whole wide world. Ain't that the most romantic thing you ever heard?”

Isabella groaned.

“Thank you, Miss Owens,” Randall said, because he feared Isabella was beyond the power of speech. He stepped into the bedchamber to retrieve his lantern. “Now if you will excuse us, I fear Miss St. Vincent has an excruciating headache.”

“Maybe when I'm Mrs. Powers, all proper, I can come to one of your fancy balls,” Alice said, as Randall escorted Isabella down the stairs.

He flashed a charming smile. “I look forward to it,” he told her, knowing full well Powers had left her, the bank, the village, and Isabella for good.

In the scullery, Isabella yanked her elbow from his grasp and tromped out the back door. He jogged to keep up.

“Milton, I told you to go home,” she cried, taking out her anger on the furry feline still perched in the window, howling for the lady cats. “Clearly this village doesn't need any more naughty kittens.” He watched her clench her hands and stomp her foot. “I'm so embarrassed. How could I have liked him?”

He couldn't help himself. “Well, you weren't the only one.”

The glower she gave him could have boiled
the Thames.

“Don't feel so bad.” He rested his arm on her shoulder and continued without thinking. “I have made some very poor choices in lovers myself lately.” Cecelia's beautiful face filled his mind, tears streaming down her cheeks as she told him that she was leaving him for Harding.

“Mr. Powers wasn't my—my lover.” Isabella blushed. “Not like your lovers. We never…I mean, I've never…you know.”

“Played the Who's Papa's Naughty Pussycat game?”

Her gentle laughter sounded like rain on a windowpane. “No, thank heavens.”

Randall winked. “Well, it's my favorite pastime when I'm not trying to track down a Mr. Nicholas Busby”—he drew out the man's letter—“of Itching-by-the-Ditch.”

She looked at the letter and then at him, her eyes glowing with admiration. “You are so clever!”

“I need to note that somewhere.” He patted his coat, pretending to look for a notebook. “On this day and year of our Lord, Isabella said something nice about me,” he quipped, giving her a dose of her own medicine before turning back to the matter at hand. “I guess I'll take the first train out tomorrow.”

“No, I will. You need to get married. Your future depends on having the perfect wife of the appropriate political connections and financial soundness.”

He was about to protest—
No, my future depends on slowly eviscerating Powers before he can open his damned mouth—
but realized he would be wasting precious time that could be better spent arguing with his mother. She wasn't going to take his early departure from the house party well. He foresaw a fierce clash, Mama deploying her huge arsenal of tears, veiled and outright threats, and spiky guilt traps. He handed Isabella the letter, having already memorized the address. “The first train leaves at eight thirty. I expect you to be on it while I'm huddled on one knee in the orangery, shackling my black heart and soul for life.” He reached for his crowbar and bag, drawing them over his shoulders, and began to walk away. “Godspeed.”

“Randall,” she whispered.

He spun around. The pale moonlight poured over her creamy skin and reflected off her lenses. Her fallen black hair curled around her bosom. He stood, arrested at the sight. Despite the tension wracking his body, a small measure of peace washed over him. He remembered the touch of her lips, the rise of her breasts against his chest. Again he marveled at the paradox that was Isabella—as sensual as she was awkward, as tender as she was hard, as yielding as she was stubborn.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He nodded. “Just don't miss the train.” He gazed at her for a second more, then turned and headed, weary but resigned, for battle.

Isabella couldn't sleep. She had read about an Oriental phenomenon called a tsunami, a huge tidal upsurge formed after a volcanic explosion or earthquake. In the early hours of the morning, as she tossed and turned in her bed, she imagined an enormous wave rolling across the ocean, growing bigger and bigger, its rippling foam spelling out her name.

Milton strolled in a little after four and curled up on her pillow, exhausted after a long night of tomcatting on the town. At five, she woke him up out of spite. “I'm leaving for a few days. Don't you dare wet t
he bedcovers.”

He gave her a nasty flick of his tail, rolled over, and fell back asleep.

She slid out of bed, lit her desk lamp, and opened her wardrobe. She began pulling out her frumpier gowns, which seemed to be most of her wardrobe, and laid them on her bed, talking aloud to her snoozing cat in the barely lucid manner of an anxious woman who hadn't slept in eighteen hours. “I'll tell Judith that I'm leaving for the Wollstonecraft meeting a few days early to speak with my stockbroker and the bank manager. That's a good excuse because it's not exactly a lie, as I do plan to make a beeline to Mr. Harker's as soon as I set foot in London.” Milton's ears, notched about the edges from numerous cat brawls, slanted back as he gave her a green-eyed, will-you-just-be-quiet-crazy-woman glare.

She dug beneath her winter petticoats, muffs, and heavy woolen cloaks until she located her bag. “I must travel alone. Our servants have the loosest tongues in England. If they get even a tiny whiff of this scandal, the news will travel to the nether reaches of Russia in a matter of days.” For all her love of carefully orchestrated order, in her agitated state, she shoved her clothes willy-nilly into her bag. “On the train, I'll pretend I'm a drab, inconspicuous spinster who is visiting her dear sister and her children in Belgravia.”

But
you
are
a
drab, inconspicuous
spinster,
she reminded herself.
You
don't have to pretend that no man wants to have a thing to do with you.
The
only
reason
Randall
kissed
you
was
to
keep
you
quiet.
Her face heated with embarrassment as she remembered thinking that, for one stupid moment, her touch had elicited the same tingling in the baby-making regions as his had done.

“Idiot,” she muttered.

Now she could add “ruined my first and probably only kiss” to the long list of wrongs the viscount had committed against her.

By seven, when the sun was up and finches tweeted from the trees outside, she had mentally completed a detailed plan of action with several possible outcomes. The worst case involved sewing stones into her gown and sinking into the reeking waters of the Thames. She composed the first lines of her obituary as she stood on the bed and jammed her foot into the opening of the bag, forcing down the contents. Removing her foot, she quickly latched the dangerously overstuffed bag and wiped her perspiring brow. She rang for the servant to bring up a pot of tea and to help her into her plainest, loosest, leave-me-alone-I'm-a-drab-raisiny-old-spinster gown.

After the servant left, Isabella shoved into her corset a pouch containing two hundred pounds and a few of the fraudulent stock certificates. She sucked in a breath, held it, and swung her painfully overstuffed bag off the bed.

“I mean it, Milton, you wet my covers and you're going to live in the stable. I'm not joking this time.” Her cat yawned, unimpressed by the oft-heard threat. Fueled by three cups of black tea, her head was buzzing and her muscles jittery as she lugged her bag downstairs to the dining room.

***

Judith sat at the table, dressed in her customary dark blue, her rich auburn hair swept up. She bent over her breakfast, glasses perched low on her nose, reading a letter while she nibbled a cheese muffin. She looked up when Isabella entered, her face as cheerful and chipper as the painfully bright morning light streaming through the windows into Isabella's burning, sleep-deprived eyes.

“The current president of the Wollstonecraft Society writes that they have received numerous inquiries about your appearance at their annual meeting.” Judith set down her linen, pushed back her chair, and rose. “So many nonmembers have expressed their intention to attend that the society has had to request a larger venue for your speech. Think how wonderful that will be for the society. We can spread the message of female liberation to the masses. And all because of you.” She waved her missive before Isabella's face. “It will be just as I foresaw. You're going to be a great leader of the women
of England.”

A bark of hysterical laughter flew from Isabella's lips before she could purse them into a tight, inescapable line. The only place she would be leading England's women would be to the poorhouse.

“Isn't that interesting,” she muttered, her brain whirling with the drunken sensation of too much tea and not enough sleep. She inhaled and launched into the intricate lie that she had formulated while packing her toiletries. Her words fell out in one big, caffeine-infused splat. “I need to leave early for London on business about some stocks—my own personal stocks, that is. No one else's. Certainly not the bank's, if that's what you're thinking.”
Stop
rambling. She'll know you're lying.
“I'm taking the eight thirty. Must be off. Have a pleasant morning. Cheerio, then.”

“What!” Judith cried, removing her reading glasses. “Why didn't you tell me?”

The hurt in her companion's voice made Isabella feel like the lowest lying cur. She wished she could tell Judith everything, but the truth was so horrid she couldn't let anyone know. Not until she had done her best to hold back the financial tsunami. “I-I just decided last evening.”

Judith tilted her head and studied Isabella with hard eyes. “Last evening?” she asked slowly, her voice thick like syrup. “During Lord Randall's ball? The one you went rushing to attend? And you despise dancing.”

Isabella's face flamed hot, and her eyes darted around the room—anywhere but Judith's face.
Can
you
look
any
guiltier?
“That's correct. R-right in the middle of the quadrille.” She turned on her heel, making her break. “So, good-bye then.”

“Wait!” Judith grabbed her companion's elbow, wheeling her around. “I still have time to pack. But you really should have told me sooner.”

“Oh, but…but…I'll be busy running about the exchange and taking care of boring bank business.” Isabella waved her hand in a casual, don't-trouble-yourself manner and struck her own chin.
Ouch!
“I wouldn't be good company. Why don't you just leisurely make your way down a day before
the meeting?”

“I would love to spend time visiting old friends. How I miss London. I feel my heart never left
the city.”

Isabella swallowed and braced herself. “I-I want to go to London alone,” she said, trying to emulate her father's firm tone, the one that arrested further discussion on any given topic.

Her companion blinked, pressing her hand to her chest. “What do you think—” Something changed in Judith's eyes. “Isabella,” she said in a hushed voice. “Have you taken a
lover
?”

Isabella's jaw dropped. Before she denied the question, the tiniest root of a bad idea took hold in her overwrought mind. “Err, yes. You've guessed it. I've taken a l-lover, and we are rendezvousing in London for a romantic holiday. Just the two of us.”

Judith stepped closer and lowered her head until they were eye to eye. “It's Lord Randall, isn't it? I've seen how you've chased after him all these years.”

“What? No! Why does everyone think I love
Lord Randall?”

“Oh, thank heavens.” Judith released a long breath. “In that case, I applaud you.”

“You-you do?”

She placed her hands on Isabella's cheeks. “Now, my dear, I understand that a young woman has
desires
. I think one in your position—intelligent, financially independent, and educated—shouldn't have to sacrifice her freedom to some ape-ish, ignorant man to satisfy those
desires
.”

“That was m-my thinking entirely,” Isabella stammered, her face still sandwiched between Judith's warm palms.

“Such a wise woman.” Judith's severe brows lowered with her voice. “You just make him promise to pull out his silly male fertilizer before he violates your sacred chamber with his seed. Don't let him reach his animalistic climax inside your pristine vessel.”

Isabella's cheeks, neck, chest, stomach, and feminine region all burned with achy embarrassment. She backed up, colliding with the cupboard. “I-I really have to get along now. I d-don't want to be late for my climax. I mean, train!”

“Now don't forget to practice your speech.” Judith straightened Isabella's hat. “The Mary Wollstonecraft award is far more important than any brief, and ultimately unsatisfying, moment of passion with a mindless, barbaric man. You must speak in a clear, confident voice as we have practiced. Do not mumble or stare at the floor.” She tapped her index finger on Isabella's collarbone. “And remember, women respond to stories that they can emotionally connect with, not boring, mannish numbers. Understand?”

“No boring numbers, don't emotionally connect with the floor, brief barbaric passion,” Isabella muttered absently through her tight, forced smile. “Sorry, but I really must be off now. Can't keep my
l-lover waiting.”

***

“You are not leaving this house to visit some supposed dear old Cambridge friend on his deathbed.” The countess whopped Randall's shoulder with a stuffed lappet vulture, sending black feathers flying. “If he were such a dear friend, he would have the courtesy not to die during our annual house party.”

Backed against the glass cabinets of the Fauna chamber, Randall shielded his face. “Mama, put the bird down! I'm your only son.”

The irate countess whopped him again and then threatened the bird's sharp beak under his nose. “You will go downstairs, eat breakfast, marry a Tory, and have Tory children.”

“I can't let Dunbury die without saying good-bye.”

“I've never heard of this Dunbury. You've made him up. I wager this has something to do with that dreadful Isabella St. Vincent. That's why she was here last night, wasn't it?”

“No, of course not,” he said in his most soothing voice, disarming his mother long enough to snatch away her bird weapon.
Hah!

Undeterred, she seized a yellow-nosed albatross by the neck. “Isabella has been trying to sink her marital claws into you since she could think of such things.”

“This has nothing to do with her. And stop saying mean things about her. You just don't like her because she's intelligent and isn't afraid to stand up to you.”

His mother tilted her head, considering him. She flashed a tight smile and marched across the room. With her albatross clutched to her chest, deadly beak pointed out, she took position in front of the door. “Well then,” she said in a bell-like voice. “You get to choose between your dying friend or your dying mother. Because the only way you are leaving this house is over my dead body.”

He flung up his arms, raining black feathers down on himself. The hands on the clock over the mantel pointed to ten after eight. He couldn't let Isabella go alone. That was like sending an ungainly giraffe to do a stealthy panther's job. “Very well, I'm going to tell you the truth,” he conceded. “Let's just put the
birds down.”

He set his vulture on his cot and approached his mother, hands up, like a surrendering soldier. He whispered the events of the last days in her ear in case a servant might be lurking about. Their household staff did an inordinate amount of lurking.

His mother's eyes grew wide. The albatross slipped from her fingers. “That-that poor, poor Mr. Dunbury,” she said slowly. “What he must be suffering in your absence. You should hurry along. I'll just keep everyone here distracted. Err…
entertained
.”

***

From the platform, Isabella watched the Northwest to London Railroad train chug in at eight fifteen. A tired-looking couple and three bickering children disembarked from one of the first-class carriages. As the father passed Isabella, he bellowed to his offspring, “For God's sake, we're on holiday. If you brats can't behave, we'll just take this train straight home
to London.”

Isabella shoved her bag into the vacated cabin and stepped inside, her soles crunching on biscuit crumbs. The ticket master told her that her bulging bag was too big and would have to be transported in the baggage carriage. Now the bag had shrunk enough to be shoved under the seat, but Isabella wore two cloaks, the pockets stuffed with shoes, petticoats, and a rolled copy of
Important
Financial
Matters
Concerning
England
and
Continental
Europe
. She disrobed down to her frumpy dress and piled her discarded garments and extra shoes in
the corner.

She stationed herself by the window and scowled as if to say to the people looking in her window for vacant seats,
Don't get in this carriage. It's occupied by a dangerous, sleep-deprived, hysterical woman who wants to be left alone. Stay away. Stay away.
When the conductor's whistle blew and the train started to rumble underneath her feet, she released her held breath and rested her head against the back of the seat.