When She Was Wicked (27 page)

“Look,” said Olivia, wandering into one of the bedchambers. “Our bags are already here. And from our windows, we can see miles and miles of green forests. How wonderful it is to be away from Town!” She rushed back into the sitting room and planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t the two of you want to see?”

Rose shook her head and wrung her hands. Anabelle sat beside her and Olivia rushed to her other side. “What’s wrong?”

Although Anabelle knew the cause of Rose’s distress, she couldn’t say so. “You seemed fine in the coach. Was it something Lady Harsby said?”

Olivia waved a hand in the air. “Don’t fret over the countess’s matchmaking efforts. I assume you noticed she’s trying to pair us up with Lord Danshire and his younger brother. If she’s going to expend her energy pushing a gentleman my way, why can’t it be the
right
gentleman?”

Rose gave a weak smile, and Anabelle endeavored to
reel Olivia back to her sister’s problem. To Rose, she said, “Is there a particular guest she mentioned that you wish to avoid?”

Rose’s head snapped up.

“I don’t understand,” Olivia said. “You knew everyone who would be here, except for… Lord Winthrope?”

After several moments, Rose gave a slow nod.

“Winthrope is a harmless old codger,” Olivia said dismissively. “Why, we barely know him. I’ve seen him at the occasional ball, but you couldn’t have seen him since…” Understanding dawned. “Oh.”

Anabelle took Rose’s trembling hand in hers. “Would it help if I promised to go with you whenever you leave our rooms? Between Olivia, your brother, and me, we can make sure you’re spared the earl’s company as much as possible.”

Rose pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of her pinafore, dabbed her nose, and nodded.

“There,” Olivia said. “That was easy enough. Now, come have a look at the view.”

Rose and Anabelle joined her, and Olivia was correct—the view of the landscape from the second-story room drew a collective sigh. The air was so clear and the sky so blue, even Anabelle’s poor vision seemed acute. If not for all the trees, she fancied she’d see all the way to the English Channel.

A knock on the sitting room door drew them away from the window. Anabelle admitted a maid carrying a tray of tea and pastries. “Where would you like this, ma’am?”

Anabelle blinked.
Ma’am?
Her new dress must have elevated her status in the eyes of servants. “The table next to the settee, if you please.”

“It’s been hours since we ate lunch.” Olivia poured tea into dainty cups and passed them to Anabelle and her sister. “I intend to eat a scone—or two—and close my eyes for a bit. I suggest you ladies do the same.”

“I have a few things to do,” Anabelle said. A glance at the clock on the escritoire tucked in the corner of the room showed she had barely three hours until dinner.

Three hours to unpack all of their things, begin embellishing one of the dresses she was making for Olivia, help the girls dress for dinner, style their hair, and make herself presentable.

Most importantly, however, she had to figure out how on earth she’d manage to watch Miss Starling flirt outrageously with Owen and refrain from ripping her eyes out. It would require a bit of thought.

O
wen rubbed his freshly shaven chin and glanced toward the door of Harsby’s drawing room.

James Averill tipped his glass and drank. His friend was a chameleon, equally at ease chatting in an opulent drawing room, fighting in a gritty boxing ring, or digging at an exotic archeological site. “Relax, Huntford. Your sisters will be here soon. And so will their companion. I confess I cannot wait to meet her for myself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so—” He gave his cocky smile, the same bloody one that made debutantes fan themselves.

“Watch yourself, Averill.”

“—distracted.”

An apt description—and not the worst his friend could have used. “Rose seemed troubled when we got here. I just want to see whether she is recovered.”

“Well then,” James said, raising his glass toward the door, “you can put your mind at ease.”

Rose and Olivia walked into the room, turning heads
in pale green and pale pink gowns, respectively. They wore their hair pinned up, with loose curls around their foreheads and faces, just like the Season’s beauties did.

“Your sisters look so…”

Owen growled but didn’t wait for Averill to finish his thought. He strode to his sisters and Belle and bowed deeply. “Pardon me, ladies,” he began with uncharacteristic formality, “I wonder if any of you has seen my sisters and their companion.”

Olivia grinned. “Can you describe the young ladies in question?”

“They’re remarkably like yourselves, only not as well-dressed. And I’m accustomed to seeing them in braids and”—he turned to Anabelle and swallowed—“caps.”

Tonight, Anabelle’s honey-streaked brown curls were bound with a pretty green ribbon. Her yellow dress—the same one she’d worn this afternoon—was the plainest in the room, and yet, she stood out like a pretty wildflower in an otherwise predictable garden.

Dragging his gaze away from her, he said to Rose, “Are you feeling better?”

She nodded bravely.

“Good. Take my arm. We’ll make our way around the room, and I’ll show you off to everyone.”

Although Rose kept her expression serene and her steps graceful, she clutched his forearm as if he stood between her and a colosseum full of lions. Olivia, on the other hand, seemed eager to meet all the other guests. Her gaze darted around the room, landing on each guest in turn like a fickle butterfly. She was looking for someone. When she sucked in her breath and fluttered her lashes,
Owen knew she’d found whomever it was. He looked over his shoulder and saw the rogue. Averill.

Olivia fancied
him
? Better than being in love with a servant, true, but
Averill
? The man was Owen’s best friend, for God’s sake. Correction. He
had
been.

Averill bowed smoothly. “Good evening, ladies.”

Olivia blushed three shades of red. “How lovely to see you, James.”

When they were lads and Olivia little more than a toddler, “James” had sounded charming coming from her lips. Now it set Owen’s teeth on edge like a screeching violin.

He placed Olivia’s hand firmly on his free arm and glared at Averill. Hard. “I’m about to take my sisters and Miss Honeycote to meet everyone.”

“Excellent. I’m honored to be the first.” He leaned over Olivia’s hand and then Rose’s. “You’re a far cry from the little urchins who carried frogs in the pockets of their frocks.”

Olivia blanched. “Er, that must have been Rose. She’s much fonder of animals than I. Not that I dislike animals. Just the kind that hop or slither. And beetles. Anything with more than four legs, now that I think on it.”

“Have you no mercy for the octopus?” Averill’s damned eyes twinkled. At his sister.

Owen cleared his throat. He might as well get the next part over with. “Averill, this is Miss Honeycote. She is a companion to my sisters.”

Olivia scowled. “Anabelle is much more than a companion. She’s a dear friend.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Averill.”

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. It seems unjust that Huntford has a beautiful woman on each arm while
both of mine are empty. Would you allow me to escort you around the room, Miss Honeycote?”

Owen clenched his fists, wishing they weren’t in a genteel drawing room where brawling would be frowned upon. “She doesn’t need an escort.”

“Unless you’ve sprouted a third arm, I believe she does.”

Anabelle pushed her spectacles higher up on her sloped nose and shot Owen a pointed look. “Thank you, Mr. Averill. I’ll happily avail myself of your kind offer.”

Hanging on to his temper by the thinnest of threads, Owen led the way around the room, stopping first to greet Lady Danshire, an elderly widow with a penchant for purple, and her irresponsible sons, Danshire and Sandleigh. Both gentlemen sported bloodshot eyes and rumpled cravats—and reeked of brandy. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Owen steered his sisters toward Mrs. Starling and her daughter.

Olivia and Rose were at ease in Miss Starling’s company, but he was not. During their brief conversation, Mrs. Starling managed to mention no less than five different virtues her daughter possessed. Miss Starling said little but gazed at Owen with an expression that was both demure and expectant. It made him want to saddle a horse and ride hard in the opposite direction.

He contented himself with crossing the room to where the Earl of Winthrope, his wife, and their daughter sat in a group of chairs beside the dormant fireplace. Rose clutched his arm harder when they approached the earl. Odd; nothing about the man struck Owen as intimidating. A few greasy strands of hair covered his shiny head, and he was thin if one discounted the paunch that looked like he’d hidden a cat in his waistcoat.

The old earl stood and smiled broadly, showing teeth tinged from tobacco. “Good to see you, Huntford, and your lovely sisters, too.”

“Winthrope.” Owen nodded congenially. “Lady Winthrope and Lady Margaret, you’re both looking well.”

The countess fanned herself and her daughter turned four shades of red.

The earl coughed, rattling phlegm in his throat. “Margaret is seventeen—of an age with your sisters, I presume.”

Olivia bobbed her head. “I am nineteen, and Rose is seventeen.”

Winthrope brushed idly at the sparse strands covering his head. “Rose. A demure name for a demure young lady. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you have your mother’s eyes.”

Rose’s hand trembled on Owen’s arm. He leveled a glare at the earl that was half-question, half-warning. The gentleman should have known better than to mention their mother, even in the most innocuous manner, and yet, Owen couldn’t detect the slightest hint of malice. Mystifying, but he’d make sure she was never left alone with Winthrope—or anyone. Being so painfully shy put her at a distinct disadvantage, in even the most nonthreatening social situations.

When the butler finally entered, announcing that dinner was served, Owen was relieved to escort his sisters into the dining room. A minute later Averill entered, Belle on his arm. She listened intently as he waxed on about some bloody fossil; Owen endeavored not to snap the stem of his wineglass in his fist.

While Averill got to sit beside Anabelle, he was
sandwiched between Lady Danshire and Lady Harsby. Although neither had daughters of a marriageable age, it seemed they had many friends and close relatives who did.

They prattled on, finding no shortage of topics, in spite of the five-course meal. All he could think about, though, was holding and kissing Anabelle last night. The hours in her cozy room at the inn were worth the conk on the head, the lack of sleep, and the miniature bed. He hadn’t felt that happy in a long, long time.

He needed to find a way to be alone with her again. Soon.

Anabelle had fretted over the seating arrangements at dinner. Rose would be most comfortable sitting between her and Olivia, but protocol had to be followed, and since Anabelle was at the bottom of the pecking order, she should have been seated farthest away from the head of the table.

Fortunately, Mr. Averill was near the bottom of the pecking order as well, and he did a little shuffling, which resulted in Miss Starling sitting closer to Owen and Anabelle remaining beside Rose.

Never had Anabelle experienced a dinner such as this. Eating was something she did out of necessity, to nourish her body. This meal, on the other hand, was an event in and of itself, involving a dizzying number of dishes and a parade of servants—three did nothing more than attend to half-empty wineglasses. Although Mama had taught her all the social norms and manners, they were dreadfully complicated, and Anabelle could barely recall which utensil was used for each course.

She received curious looks from several of the other
guests. Mr. Averill asked probing questions which she deftly dodged; Miss Starling glared at her like she’d spilled soup on her bodice. Owen stared at her as though he wanted to kiss her.

She’d have to speak to him about that.

After being invisible for so long, the scrutiny of the strangers around the table made her want to hide under it. Although she managed to remain in her seat, she ate very little. And imbibed more wine than she ought to have.

By dessert, the dining room was thick with the smells of rich foods and overly warm from the multitude of candles and guests. Upon noticing her napkin had slipped off her lap, she leaned down to pick it up. When she righted herself, however, bright spots danced in the corners of her vision. The room tilted like a rowboat broadsided by a wave.

She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself and blinked, vaguely aware of Rose gesturing to Olivia. Her brows furrowed in concern. “Are you in need of fresh air, Anabelle? Rose and I could walk in the gardens with you.”

What kind of companion required assistance from her charges? She inhaled deeply. “I, ah…”

Mr. Averill stood and gently pulled on her elbow. “Lady Olivia and Lady Rose, please stay and finish your cakes. I’ll escort Miss Honeycote to the terrace.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself.” She reached for her water glass and almost knocked it over; Mr. Averill caught it before handing it to her as though she were a child. It seemed other conversations at the table ceased and everyone watched to see if she would fall face-first into the pears on her plate.

Owen stood and walked around the table to stand behind her. “Sit, Averill. I’ll take care of this.”

Anabelle bristled at being referred to as “this”—like she was a rather embarrassing mess to be swept under the rug and covered with a potted palm. However, she couldn’t afford to be thin-skinned—she needed to escape the dining room. Quickly.

With an amused smile, Averill sat.

Owen helped her up and guided her toward the drawing room. As he whisked her past the guests, he said, “Excuse us.” It was less entreaty than order. “Keep breathing,” he whispered to her, his palm firm and steadying on the small of her back. When at last they reached the terrace, cool air whirled around her face, neck, and chest. The peaceful, low humming of insects soothed her frayed nerves.