When She Was Wicked (20 page)

A
nabelle missed breakfast in the morning. Although she woke in time, she ignored the gnawing sensation in her belly. She wasn’t ready to face Owen, his sisters, or Dennison just yet. Instead, she tightly coiled and pinned her hair and covered the bun with her cap.

Thinking about the night she had shared with Owen made her flush hot all over. Her introduction to pleasure had been natural and beautiful and every bit as lovely as she’d hoped. If only she could bask in the glow without the intrusion of reality a bit longer.

But she and Owen had crossed a line. How was she supposed to behave toward him now? When others were present, she’d have to pretend nothing of an earth-shattering nature had transpired between them. The idea of keeping their relationship a secret felt wrong, like keeping a beautiful songbird covered in a cage.

However, she was not naïve. She and Owen each had roles to play—that of seamstress and duke. And she would do well to remember that. She mentally added the item to her List of Nevers: “No matter how tempting it is to dream, one must never forget the boundaries of one’s station in life.”

The thought tangled up her insides, and she wondered how they might act toward one another in private. She had no experience to guide her. Flirting might be in order
if
she were the flirting type. Alas, she’d never developed the skill. They might talk, but she doubted he was interested in news that satin spencers of gray or orange trimmed with buttons
à la militaire
were all the rage. Likewise, she could not comment intelligently on the latest maneuverings in Parliament. There must be
something
they could discuss besides servants’ caps and doctor’s bills. But what?

She didn’t anticipate flowers or a declaration of any sort, but some acknowledgement of their friendship might be nice. Something to make her feel like more than a drunken night’s diversion.

Anabelle sighed and threaded a needle. In the harsh light of morning, the workroom was hardly the romantic retreat it had been last night. Mounds of fabric covered every surface in the room, reminders of the many dresses she still had to complete to fulfill the deal. She might have believed the prior evening had been a dream if one of the atlases resting on the bookshelf didn’t have several drops of cooled wax on its cover. She had checked it—just to be sure.

A tap at the door sent her heart into her throat. “Come in,” she called, heat creeping up her neck.

“Good afternoon, dear,” said Mrs. Pottsbury. “Dennison said you had a message delivered this morning but that you hadn’t risen yet.” Wonderful. If the butler hadn’t already thought Anabelle was a lazy opportunist, he must be convinced now. “When you didn’t come down for breakfast I feared you were sick. You know, I believe you are a little flushed.”

“I’m fine,” Anabelle said, certain she was becoming redder by the minute. “Sorry I worried you. Since I overslept, I wanted to get to work as soon as possible.”

“It’s not like you.” The housekeeper eyed Anabelle critically, as though she might be harboring a ghastly illness. “In any case, I told Dennison that I would deliver your message and check on you personally.”

Anabelle took the letter, which was addressed in Daphne’s handwriting, and frowned. If Daphne had paid for a messenger instead of using the Post, the contents must be urgent. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the note.

“Are you sure you are all right, dear?” the housekeeper asked doubtfully.

“Yes. Thank you for bringing this.”

“Ah, that’s fine, then. See that you make it down for lunch, and be careful that you don’t take a chill.” With a jangle of her keys, Mrs. Pottsbury swept out of the nursery.

The moment she was gone, Anabelle said a quick prayer that Mama had not taken a turn for the worse. Taking a deep breath, she read the note.

Anabelle read the letter again to make sure she’d understood correctly.

Mama had gotten out of bed.

She was improving.

The note slipped from Anabelle’s hands and fell to the floor; hot tears sprang to her eyes. Her heart was so full of joy, she feared it might burst. As she looked out the window at the dark gray clouds, she thought she’d never seen such a beautiful overcast day. Who needed the glare of a brilliant sun or the incessant chirping of happy birds? There was much to be said for the quiet, unassuming calm that accompanied a perfectly dreary day.

“Anabelle?”

She turned from the window to see Olivia and Rose standing behind her, concern creasing their brows. She must look a wreck. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and although she wanted to reassure them, her throat was too tight to speak.

“What’s wrong?” Olivia asked.

Anabelle shook her head, picked up Daphne’s letter, and handed it to Olivia.

Rose looked over her shoulder, and when both girls finished reading, they smiled. “Your mother is improving?” Olivia asked. “You’re crying because you’re happy?”

Feeling foolish, but not really caring, Anabelle nodded.

Rose clasped her hands under her chin, and her eyes glistened. Olivia bounced happily. “This is wonderful!”

The girls joined Anabelle on the window seat, wrapped their arms around her, and began crying, too. There was not a handkerchief to be had among the three of them, so much sniffling ensued until the tears finally petered out.

A rather violent hiccup escaped Anabelle’s throat, sending them all into fits of giggles. “I think that one or
both of you ought to try on a gown so I can keep up the pretense of working and avoid being sacked.”

“Oh, yes,” Olivia said. “Being sacked would definitely spoil your day, and that would be a shame after the wonderful start.”

Anabelle hugged each sister fervently before picking up her needle again.

If last night had been magical, this morning had been miraculous.

She couldn’t wait to see what the afternoon would bring.

Immediately after tea, Anabelle met Owen in the foyer for his promised drive across Town to visit Mama. He stood next to a gilt table, rifling through notes and calling cards left on an ornate silver stray, and her breath caught at the sight of him. His dark hair hung over the slash of his brows, and the angles of his face were somehow both harsh and beautiful. Though he barely moved, a vibrant energy flowed out of him and seeped under her skin.

Olivia had informed Owen about the wonderful change in Anabelle’s mother and insisted that he escort her home for a visit. Although she really shouldn’t take off another afternoon or monopolize Owen’s time, she told herself the visit would be quick. She’d use the coach ride to figure out the rules of their unlikely but very real relationship. Her pulse skittered at the thought of broaching the subject, but broach it she would. And she still wanted to bring up the matter of his sisters. The lines she’d practiced in the workroom had sounded very diplomatic to her own ears. Pity she couldn’t remember a word.

He turned as she approached, a smile stretching lazily across his face. “Are you ready?”

She’d thought she was. But with him standing so close it was impossible to appear cool and unaffected. Dennison rolled his eyes as he handed Owen his hat.

“Yes.” She felt slightly cheated that she couldn’t take his arm as they walked outside, but that was silly. A few moments later they were ensconced in the private luxury of his coach and could speak freely.

Owen sat on the bench opposite her. “I’m happy to hear your mother is improving. I’ve asked Dr. Loxton to meet us at your home so he can give you his professional opinion as well. I thought it might give you some added peace of mind.”

“Thank you.” It was an undeniably kind and thoughtful gesture, but his manner was polite and distant—at least compared to last evening. Her earlier joy wilted.

“Last night…” he said.

“Yes?”

“… you mentioned that you wanted to talk with me about Olivia and Rose.”

“Yes.” She swallowed her disappointment and straightened her spectacles. “Your sisters are curious about your life. They want you to confide in them more.”

He took on the dazed look of a boxer who’s received a blow to the head. “What?”

“They’d like to know more about you. What you do during the day, your views on various subjects, your marriage plans—”

“Christ, Belle.”

She shrugged. “They seem to think a wife would soften some of your rough edges.”

“Is this about—”

“No! I’m simply trying to help you. You wanted to
understand your sisters better. They want the same thing. Only, the three of you need to talk with each other.”

“I sincerely doubt Rose and Olivia are interested in my daily activities. Why would they care about tenant problems and taxes and sheep?”

“Maybe they wouldn’t. I cannot say, but I don’t think you should underestimate them.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “My private life is none of their concern. They don’t need to know the sordid details.”

She flinched. Last night had not seemed sordid to her. “You’re embarrassed.”

Regret washed over his face. “Not of you, Belle. But of some of the things I’ve done. I haven’t always set the best example.”

“I’m not suggesting that you discuss
those
types of details with your sisters. Rose and Olivia are interested in knowing about the proper young women that you may one day marry—those who could be their sister-in-law.”

He stroked his chin as he gazed at her for several moments; the rumbling of the coach’s wheels over cobbled streets was the only sound. “I just want to know what Olivia and Rose are plotting. They’re keeping something from me, probably because they fear I’ll lock them in their rooms for the next two months—an idea with significant merit. I don’t see how talking about my bloody dance partners will make a difference.”

“Well,” she said dryly, “when you have a conversation, you share some information, and then the other party shares. If you want to know more about Rose and Olivia, you have to reveal more of yourself. They’ll follow suit. When they
do
talk to you, you must listen without issuing judgment.”

“I knew it.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “They confided in you, didn’t they? Are they involved in anything that could hurt them? Tell me that much.”

“No.” Although Rose’s budding romance with the stable master could be problematic in many ways, she didn’t think Rose could get hurt. For the time being, at least, there was no opportunity for her to be with him, so… “If I believed either of them was in physical danger, I would tell you.”

He nodded, but had the cynical expression of an older brother worried about myriad misfortunes befalling his sisters.

They had almost reached Anabelle’s street. “There’s one more thing.” She had debated whether to say anything about Lord Winthrope to Owen. She could never reveal the earl’s secret. But if Owen could figure it out without her help, then she wasn’t violating her List of Nevers. “I think I may know what happened to Rose the night that she disappeared at the house party.”

His eyes focused sharply on her. “You know what changed my sister?”

“Not for certain. I need to find out a bit more. But, in the meantime, she needs to feel safe. She needs to know that you’ll stand by her no matter what.”

Owen lifted his chin as though mildly insulted. “She already knows that.”

The coach pulled up in front of her building. Anabelle reached across the cab and laid a hand on his knee. “But she—and Olivia—might like hearing it once in a while.”

His beautiful mouth was closed in a tight, thin line. Finally, he said, “I don’t see Loxton’s coach yet, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon. I’ll send him up.”

“You’re not going to come upstairs?”

“No. I thought I’d give you and your mother and sister some privacy. Please give them both my best.”

“Of course.” Despite the warm sentiment, his distant manner gave Anabelle a chill. Wobbly and confused, she gathered her reticule, patted her cap, and edged toward the door where a footman waited outside.

Owen reached out and squeezed her arm, stopping her. “You’re different today.” His tone walked the line between hurt and accusatory.

She
was different? She shook her head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs which were surely there. Sitting back against the velvet squabs, she raised a brow and smiled. “I suppose I am different. I’m wearing several more articles of clothing today. My nightgown didn’t seem appropriate for a cross-town coach ride. Also, I’m making a valiant attempt to adhere to basic social strictures.”

“That’s better.” He grinned, and her traitorous heart skipped a beat. “I didn’t mean to imply that you should traipse around in a filmy nightgown. I wouldn’t object, you understand, but I appreciate the need for clothes, on occasion. After last night, though, it was a shock to see you in your cap, spectacles, and drab gown.”