When She Was Wicked (22 page)

“Oh, people will be staring all right.” He made a mental note to keep his friends away from his sisters.

“We love the gowns. They’re nicer than anything we’ve ever owned.”

“Does Miss Honeycote realize that she doesn’t have to scrimp on fabric? I can afford a
complete
dress.”

Olivia laughed and plopped herself into a chair opposite his desk. “This is what all the young ladies are wearing.”

“I don’t care what all the young ladies are wearing—just my sisters.”

Rose glided into the chair next to Olivia, smiling innocently.

A chill ran the length of his spine. “I assume that the two of you are here with a request of some sort.”

“We are,” admitted Olivia. “We want Anabelle to go to Lord Harsby’s house party with us—as our companion.”

He considered the idea for the space of a heartbeat.

“No.” He picked up his pen to signify the conversation was over. No matter how appealing the idea, it wouldn’t be prudent. When he’d passed Anabelle in the corridor yesterday, it had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed
not to press her against the wall with his hips and ravish her mouth with his. Out of respect for her, he had to avoid her.

Olivia sighed. “That’s fine, then. I suppose you shall have the pleasure of escorting us to all the entertainments.”

Dread perched on his shoulders like a vulture. “What kinds of entertainments?”

She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, the usual—charades, whist, shopping excursions in the village, flower gathering—”

“
Flower gathering?
”

“Of course. We’ll pick them in the fields. You may carry the basket.” The imp smiled smugly.

He knew what Olivia was trying to do, and he felt a stir of pride. She’d come a long way.

But she was no match for him.

“I’ll be pleased to spend so much time in the company of my sisters.”

Rose tapped Olivia on the shoulder and leaned in to tell her something.

Olivia nodded. “Not just our company. Lady Harsby and her mother shall be at all the festivities.”

Nice move. Lady Harsby was a shrill harpie, and her mother had a habit of talking in long, winding sentences that never seemed to end. Still, he would not relent. “We shall never lack for conversation.”

Olivia leaned back and crossed her ankles. “Are you aware that Lady Harsby’s sister has two daughters of marriageable age? I believe you have heard them sing and play the pianoforte together. Perhaps you could sing a duet with—”

Damn it. “Fine.”

Olivia tented her fingers. “Meaning what, precisely?”

“Meaning I’ll talk to Miss Honeycote about acting as your chaperone.”

“Oh, we’ve—”

Rose placed a hand on Olivia’s arm, silencing her momentarily before she continued. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

Owen glared at the pair of them, debating whether it was worth his time to question them further. The housekeeper’s keys clinked as she walked down the corridor. “Mrs. Pottsbury,” he called.

She teetered to the doorway of the study, the toes of her impossibly small feet touching the threshold. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Inform Miss Honeycote that I wish to see her at once.”

She scurried off, and his sisters exchanged a look. “Excellent,” Olivia said. “We shall leave you to talk with Anabelle. Do try to ask nicely.”

He grunted. Did she think him some sort of beast?

The girls started to leave, but Olivia halted at the door and faced him. “This room is starting to feel right again. The whole time we were talking, I never once thought about him.”

Owen swallowed past the knot in his throat. It had been ages since they’d spoken of their father. Guilt niggled between his shoulders. “Don’t forget him. Our father was weak, but he was a good man. And he loved the two of you more than anything.”

Olivia pressed her lips tightly together, as though she were fighting back tears. “Don’t worry. I remember him well. I only meant that the image of him—here, at the end—
that
is fading.” Her eyes flicked to the spot behind the desk where a new carpet covered the bloodstained floor.

“I’m glad.” Owen rose from his chair, walked to the other side of the desk, and put an arm around each sister. “Remember picnics by the river with him and the ponies he bought you. Forget the rest.”

“What about Mama?” Olivia whispered.

The pain in her voice made fury course through him—not hot, but ice cold. For all he cared, their mother could rot in hell. But that image wouldn’t comfort his sisters. “Our mother made choices that I don’t understand. I doubt I’ll ever forgive her for leaving the two of you. But you may choose to remember her as you wish.” He squeezed their slight shoulders and then held them at arm’s length so he could look into their brown eyes. “Know this. Mother may have abandoned you. In his own way, Father did too. But I never will. I’ll be here for you long after you’re married. Even after you have children and grandchildren. We’re family.”

Both sisters launched themselves at him; he patted their backs awkwardly. If he’d known they were going to cry he would have changed the subject to bonnets or wallpaper or poetry, for God’s sake.

Belle arrived at his study in the middle of the maudlin scene. Owen looked at her over the girls’ heads and shrugged helplessly. Anabelle would know what to do, thank God.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her face pale.

Olivia turned toward her and sniffled. “We’re just happy.” She blew her nose loudly into the handkerchief she’d plucked from his pocket.

Anabelle shot him a suspicious look. “Is this a bad time?”

“Oh no,” Olivia answered for him. “Rose and I were
about to leave.” She stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his cheek. Rose mirrored the action on the other cheek. Maybe—wonder of wonders—he’d finally done something right where his sisters were concerned. They linked arms and gave Anabelle a conspiratorial smile as they left.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes.” Several tendrils had slipped free of her normally unflinching knot, and they curled softly around her face—the face that filled his mind as he drifted off to sleep each night and countless times throughout the day. He could almost ignore the cap. Almost.

Running his palms down the front of his tear-dampened jacket, he said, “I could use some fresh air.” And a drink. “Let’s go sit in the garden.”

Although he tried to usher her out of the room, she remained frozen, her feet rooted to the rug. “Is that an order or a request?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter? There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

She raised her chin a notch, every inch a viscount’s granddaughter. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Her stiff manner seemed like a denial of everything they’d shared, and it hurt more than he cared to admit. But he couldn’t blame her for hating him. He’d been the one keeping his distance, and it was for her own good.

She followed him through the library, onto the terrace, and beyond to the small, lush garden. He waved her to a bench in the shade of a dense canopy of leaves and sat beside her—at a respectful distance.

He hadn’t been in the garden for months. Hadn’t appreciated the vibrant blossoms up close or inhaled the unmistakably
sweet scent of summer. Now, he longed to race across a pasture on his horse, the warm wind whipping at his clothes.

Although they were located in the middle of Town, he could almost imagine that Anabelle and he were in a country field surrounded by wildflowers and grass and sunshine. No one but the two of them for miles and miles.

If only it were true, he’d pick a bright yellow flower and put it in her hair. Then, after removing every stitch of her clothing, he’d lay her back in the soft grass and pleasure her a dozen different ways before plunging into her and making her his. All his.

“What would you like to discuss?” she asked, her spine as straight and unyielding as a rod. How could her poise and fine manners have escaped his notice? He should have known she was no ordinary seamstress. Had circumstances been different, she might have had her first Season a few years ago. Lovely as she was, many gentlemen—including some of his debauched friends—would have tripped over themselves to gain her favor and offer for her.

He shook off the thought with distaste. “Do you want to go to Lord Harsby’s house party?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I assume my sisters have already told you their proposal.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek. “They have.”

“Will you come? It was the girls’ idea, but I’ll admit that I like it, too.”

Peering at him out of the corner of her eye, she asked, “You do?”

“You make my sisters happy.”

“Though I may look the part”—she pushed her
spectacles onto the bridge of her nose—“I’m hardly a suitable companion.”

He wanted to say that, as a viscount’s granddaughter, she was more than qualified. But since he suspected she didn’t want him knowing about her lineage, he said, “You’ll do.”

“Have you forgotten the circumstances under which we met? And the rather scandalous things we did afterward?”

His blood heated at the mention of their passionate encounters. He looked directly into her eyes. “I haven’t forgotten.”

She blushed. “And you’re not worried I’ll corrupt your sisters?”

“Maybe I should be,” he teased, “but no.”

“How would it look if I accompanied you to the house party?”

“It would look like my sisters had a companion who was far younger and prettier than most.”

Her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. Clearly exasperated, she stood and paced in front of the bench. “People are bound to ask questions about who I am. What would you have me say?”

“The truth.”

She threw up her hands, agitated and yet utterly beautiful. “That I’m a servant with whom you’ve taken many liberties and have recently promoted to companion?”

“You forgot to mention that you were also an extortionist.”

“This will never work, Owen.”

Encouraged by her use of his name, he stood and took her hands in his. His body instantly responded to the feel of her skin, and he had to think hard about what he wanted
to say. “Your mother is recovering nicely. She and your sister will be fine for a few weeks. Getting away from Town would be good for you.”

“I need to finish making the dresses.”

Of course she wanted to be done with them. With him. “How many do you have left?”

“Six.”

It wasn’t much time, but maybe the house party would delay her departure. With a casualness he didn’t feel, he shrugged. “Make them when we return.”

“I can’t. The last two are the gowns for Rose’s debut ball. It’s less than a month away.”

She was slipping away from him, and it was his fault. Avoiding her had been infinitely easier than admitting the depth of his feelings. He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed her hands. As though holding onto her were just that easy. “Is there anything I could say that would convince you to come?”

“Yes.” Her gray eyes searched his, and he knew what he had to do.

“Belle,” he said softly, “I want you to go with us. Not just because I’m trying to avoid Lady Harsby and her mother, or because you make my sisters happy, or because the country air would be good for you. I want you to go because if you didn’t… I’d miss you.”

He’d spoken the truth, but it didn’t make him feel any less foolish. He’d sounded like a lovesick boy.

Anabelle smiled, transforming her face. “I’ll go with you.” She was more beautiful than a dozen Miss Starlings, more captivating than a choir of sea sirens. Best of all, she challenged him to be a better man. Maybe he could find a way to fulfill the duties of his title and ensure the
acceptance of his sisters without forfeiting a future with Belle. The odds weren’t in his favor, but he clung to hope like a cardplayer who’s wagered everything on a poorly dealt hand.

She pulled free and began walking to the house; he released the breath he’d been holding.

“But”—she whirled around to face him—“I’ll need to bring the material and supplies for the dresses. I’ll work on them there.”

“Fine,” he said. He could live with that.

He might be a fool, but he was a happier fool than he’d been in weeks.

I
n the days leading up to Lord Harsby’s house party, Anabelle might as well have had a needle attached to her hand. She worked from dawn till after midnight; even as she slept, dresses swirled in her head like bodiless ghosts dancing the quadrille on an otherworldly dance floor. As a result, she was able to piece together all six of the remaining dresses. By no means were they done—they were little more than shells at this point, all in need of trimming, hemming, and adorning. But accomplishing those things at the house party would be fairly easy, especially during the hours everyone was resting or dressing for dinner.

The ball gowns, in particular, delighted her; the silk she’d chosen was exquisite. Rose’s gown was white, of course, but would be trimmed in a light green satin perfect for her fair complexion. Olivia’s gown was pale pink
silk embellished in white satin. Individually, they would look lovely; together, they would be striking.

Before dawn on the day they were to leave, Anabelle carefully packed each of the gowns, along with all the lace, ribbon, swansdown, feathers, and crepe she could possibly need. The gowns and her sewing supplies occupied a large trunk, which Olivia had provided.

Her own things fit into the small shabby portmanteau that Daphne had sent from home, filled with almost all of the drab, serviceable clothing Anabelle owned. The contrast between the contents of the trunk and her bag was stark. And rather depressing.

Her dismal dresses would reflect not only on her, but on Rose and Olivia as well. Of course, companions were supposed to fade into the wallpaper, but it would never do for Anabelle to arrive at a fashionable house party wearing dresses that bordered on ragged.

Since she lacked the time and fabric to make herself new gowns, she resolved to spruce up the old ones. Rummaging through a pile of scraps from the girls’ wardrobes, she plucked out several items, which she shoved into her portmanteau. Her first order of business ought to have been replacing her old cap, but for reasons she couldn’t explain, she was reluctant to let it go. Just in case she changed her mind, however, she stuffed an old bonnet into her bag as well.