When She Was Wicked (21 page)

“Careful, Your Grace, you’ll turn my head.”

He grimaced. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? Last night didn’t change who we are. You’re still a duke. I’m still a penniless seamstress.”

“That’s
not
who you are.”

She leaned forward and enunciated carefully, willing him to understand. “Yes, it is. I work for a living and earn a deplorable wage making beautiful gowns for wealthy, privileged ladies. I am a seamstress.”

He shook his head as though disgusted and gazed outside.

She tried a different tack. “You aren’t the same as last night either. Today you are in utter control—a duke from the toes of your polished boots to the folds of your starched cravat. This is who you are. A member of the
ton
’s upper crust. A dashing aristocrat.”

With a hollow laugh he said, “I pray to God I’m more than that.” Stiffly, he opened the door, stepped out of the coach, and helped her down, leaving her wondering what on earth she’d said wrong.

Owen watched as Anabelle walked inside and up the stairs toward her rooms. He waited another minute and then went inside, knocked on the landlady’s door, and heard her shuffle toward it.

“Who is it?” she called through the scraped and paint-chipped door.

“The Duke of Huntford.”

After a beat of silence, “Sure, and I’m Marie Antoinette.”

For the love of—“Mrs. Bowman, I apologize for coming unannounced. Miss Honeycote is upstairs visiting with her mother and sister. Could I please have a word?”

She opened the door a crack. “Hmm. I’d heard you’d escorted Anabelle to visit her mother.” Her wise old eyes traveled the length of him as though he were a ruffian straight off the streets. “Very well. Come in.”

The landlady’s apartment was stuffed with furniture, and almost every surface was covered with knickknacks and decorative objects. He felt cramped the moment he entered.

She pointed to the portrait of a stern-faced man above her mantel. “When my husband passed—God rest his soul—I decided to rent out the rooms upstairs. I had to
clear out those rooms, of course, but I couldn’t bring myself to sell the things we’d accumulated during our wonderful life together. So it’s a bit crowded.”

Owen doubted she’d disposed of a single item since the reign of George the First.

She waved him toward a faded green sofa, where he sat between a tabby cat and a silver antique that looked part candlestick, part serving platter. The cat was sleeping. At least he hoped it was sleeping.

“Shall I prepare tea, Your Grace?”

“Thank you, no. I won’t take much of your time. As you may know, Miss Honeycote has been working for me.”

Mrs. Bowman arched a sparse white brow. “I’d heard.”

He shifted on the couch, and the cat’s tail twitched.

“Actually, she’s making gowns for both of my sisters.”

“I see.” Mrs. Bowman laced her arthritic fingers with unexpected grace and scrutinized him as thoroughly as any queen might.

He’d better get to the point. “I’d like to pay the Honeycotes’ rent, in advance, for the next year.” He handed her a pouch of coins. “I’ve included a sum for you as well—all I ask is that you not mention anything to the Honeycotes.”

“You don’t want them to know that you’re paying their rent?”

“Not yet.”

“And why not, Your Grace?”

Anabelle was too proud to accept an outright gift. She’d insisted on staying to complete the dresses for his sisters even after he’d released her from their agreement. “I would prefer to be discreet.”

Although the woman’s eyes were cloudy with age, they pinned him to the sofa. She clinked the bag of coins
against her open palm. “Miss Honeycote is a fine girl who was taught the manners of a lady—her grandpapa was a viscount, you know.”

“
What?
” His heart thudded against his ribs. Why would she keep that from him?

“He wasn’t happy when his son married a common sort of girl and refused to support them. Anabelle’s father made ends meet somehow, but after he died, her family fell on hard times.”

Owen wrestled with this knowledge. Belle was the granddaughter of a viscount, hell bent on insisting she was nothing but a seamstress.

“Anabelle is a fine girl,” Mrs. Bowman repeated, “who would do just about anything for her mother and sister. I’m sure there are some who would take advantage of her dire circumstances.”

The cat beside Owen stretched a paw sleepily and dug its razorlike claws into his leg; he pried the animal off and turned his attention back to the landlady. “You misunderstand. She’s working for me—as a seamstress. I’m simply trying to help her family.”

“And do you routinely pay the rent of your servants’ families? Do you even know their families or where they live?”

He pondered this. “No. But perhaps I should.” He stood and walked to the door. “I don’t intend to hurt Miss Honeycote.”

The gray-haired woman smiled sadly. “Your kind never does.”

O
ver the course of the next four weeks, Anabelle’s mother continued to recover. Although still thin and tired, she no longer spent the majority of time in bed. During Anabelle’s frequent visits home, she rejoiced at the rosy tinge to Mama’s cheeks. Even better was the return of the woman Anabelle remembered—who worried and chattered, and occasionally meddled.

During a recent visit, she’d overheard Mama talking to a neighbor in hushed tones about her plans to throw Daphne into the path of a dashing young viscount—proof Mama was on the mend. Anabelle was ecstatic, if nervous about Mama’s matchmaking tendencies. At least she focused the majority of her efforts on Daphne rather than on Anabelle, whom she no doubt recognized as a lost cause.

Dr. Loxton, who now called to check on Mama only once a week, concluded that she had most likely suffered from a bad case of the croup, exacerbated by the near-fatal
doses of opiates that Conwell had prescribed. Owen had notified the authorities and had gone so far as to search for Conwell himself, but the lout appeared to have left London. Anabelle was so incensed she often dreamt of subjecting the man to various forms of public humiliation. She imagined printing a large advertisement in the newspaper proclaiming him a fraud and requiring him to sell the paper on a street corner. Or, perhaps, he should have to
eat
the entire newspaper. Or parade down Bond Street wearing nothing
but
the newspaper.

She could amuse herself thus all day.

Devising means of torture for Conwell was vastly preferable to thinking of Owen. Ever since the night of their encounter in the workroom, he’d avoided her. He was rarely home, and when he was, he holed up in his study, working. He hadn’t escorted her to visit Mama and Daph again, leaving the job to one of the footmen. On the rare occasion when Anabelle saw Owen—at breakfast or in passing—he greeted her like a friend of his sisters, or perhaps a distant cousin.

Each civil remark and polite comment about the weather was a little stab wound, killing her slowly and painfully. It would have been more humane had he told her outright that he never should have given in to the drunken urge to hold her, kiss her… and more.

Only the hungry looks he sometimes cast her way gave her hope. One morning last week, she’d been in Olivia’s room, showing her how she could use a hot iron to curl a few tendrils around her face. A frisson of awareness skittered down Anabelle’s spine, making her tingle all over. She turned toward the door and saw Owen standing there, staring at her with undisguised longing. His heavy-lidded
gaze almost made her lose her grip on the iron, and her heart leapt. He was not as unaffected by her as he pretended to be.

He no doubt thought their relationship a mistake, and yet, he wanted her. It was some comfort.

At least he was making an effort to converse more with Rose and Olivia. A few days ago, he’d taken them on a picnic—just the three of them—and Anabelle had never seen the girls so happy. They returned with flushed cheeks, eager to divulge the details of their outing. Owen had told them he wanted to have a come-out ball for Rose at the end of the summer. At first, Rose balked at the idea, but when she found out it would be held at their country estate, she agreed.

Anabelle suspected she was more excited about the prospect of seeing her beau, the stable master, than in having a ball thrown in her honor.

But Owen had finally realized that Rose should have the same opportunities as Olivia and the other young ladies of their station. Being shy shouldn’t destine her to the rank of social outcast. If Owen stood behind her, the rest of the
ton
would take their cue from him—hopefully.

Six gowns. They were all Anabelle had left to make. In the last month, she’d worked from dawn to dusk and beyond in order to complete riding habits, day gowns, carriage dresses, and evening dresses. Rose and Olivia were so delighted with their garments, Anabelle didn’t mind the late nights in the least. She was especially looking forward to making the gowns Rose and Olivia would wear to the ball at Huntford Manor and decided to save them for her last two projects. They’d be the
pièces de résistance
of the girls’ wardrobes.

And then, Anabelle would go home. She hadn’t yet figured out how to make ends meet once her assignment was over, but at least Mama was well. It was a chance for a fresh start.

Anabelle sighed and blinked back the tears that constantly threatened of late. Like a teacup filled to the brim—the slightest rattling made her overflow. But she was determined to make the most of the day.

The late July morning was warm and damp, the kind that made the little wisps of hair at the nape of one’s neck curl and stick to the skin. She’d opened wide the workroom window and left the door open to allow for a cross breeze, as if it were that easy to air out the anguish in her heart.

Her next project would be a morning dress for Olivia, made of fine cambric muslin. After rolling out the smooth fabric, Anabelle carefully measured the length she’d need and picked up her scissors.

The thumping of footsteps in the corridor, however, made her set them down to investigate. Before she’d taken two steps, Olivia appeared in the doorway with Rose right behind her. “Anabelle, we have news!” Olivia waved a large card in her hand and spun a pirouette across the room.

Just seeing the girls cheered Anabelle. She placed a finger on her chin. “Let me guess,” she teased. “You’ve been invited to join the Royal Ballet Company.”

“Oh, how I wish! But it’s almost as grand. We’ve been invited to a house party at Lord Harsby’s estate, and Owen said we could go.”

“How wonderful!” Anabelle hoped she sounded sincere. She’d known her days with Owen and the girls
were drawing to a close, but it seemed they would end more abruptly than she’d imagined. “When will you leave?”

“In just a fortnight. This has been the best summer.” Olivia ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “First we met you. Then, Owen started to treat us like grown women. Next, we received an invitation to a fashionable house party. On top of that, we have Rose’s ball to look forward to.”

Rose’s eyes shone with happiness, but she was not quite as exuberant as Olivia—no one ever was. The pretty redhead walked up to Olivia and whispered in her ear.

“Oh, yes,” Olivia said. “We hoped you would come, too.”

Heavens. The very idea was preposterous. “I’m certain that Lord Harsby’s invitation wasn’t extended to me.”

Olivia studied the invitation as though perhaps she’d merely overlooked Anabelle’s name, and then frowned. “True. But Rose and I would enjoy the party so much more if you were there, and we thought—”

“That no one would notice if you brought your seamstress along?”

Rose’s mouth dropped open; Anabelle crossed her arms, daring her to say something.

She didn’t.

“You’re much more than a seamstress, Anabelle,” Olivia said.

Odd; that’s what Owen had once told her. Recently though, he seemed to have forgotten. “That’s kind of you to say, but I doubt Lord Harsby and his wife would agree.”

“That’s why we thought that you could accompany us. As our companion.”

Anabelle blinked. “Do you mean, as your chaperone?”

A flush crept up Olivia’s neck. “I know that you aren’t more than a few years older than Rose and me, but you’re very wise. And you’ve been working so hard. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a break from Town? The three of us would have such a grand time.”

“Have you mentioned this to your brother?”

“Not yet. But we feel sure we could convince him. We just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t mind the companion role. It would be for show only, of course. And you’d gain admittance to all the festivities.”

Anabelle suppressed a shudder. A week or more exchanging meaningless pleasantries with the other ape leaders while a parade of young beauties flirted with Owen sounded torturous. However, Rose and Olivia were clearly excited at the prospect of having her along, and their thoughtfulness warmed her.

Not in a million years would Owen agree to let her act as their chaperone. First off, he was much too protective of his sisters to entrust them to her care. Second, it seemed he could barely stand to be in the same room with her. Why would he unnecessarily subject himself to her company?

Confident that he would veto the idea, she relented. “If your brother agrees, I have no objection.”

Rose clapped and Olivia squealed. “Hurrah! We shall go talk to him at once, then return directly to tell you the good news.” They each gave her a quick hug before scurrying from the room.

The rustling of fabric made Owen glance up from the letter he was composing to his steward. His foolish heart beat faster on the off chance Belle had come to see him.
She hadn’t, but he was pleased to see Olivia and Rose looking fresh and happy.

Until he realized they must want something. Bracing himself, he set down his quill and narrowed his eyes at Olivia’s bare arms. Too much skin showed above the neckline of her dress. “Shouldn’t you be wearing a shawl?”

“Heavens, no. It’s warm in here.”

“For modesty’s sake. You too, Rose,” he said.

Olivia huffed. “Anabelle made these dresses. They’re in the first stare of fashion.”