When She Was Wicked

Chapter Eleven

Contour: (1) Cut on a curve, instead of a straight line. (2) A curving shape or surface, as in: She traced the contours of his chest with a fingertip.

Owen wanted to kiss Anabelle. Again.

He wanted to press his lips to the creases in her forehead and make her forget her family’s problems. He wouldn’t mind having her back on his lap, either, with the pressure of her soft bottom rocking on top of him. With every shaky breath she drew, she tempted him.

But she was distressed, and the thing that she probably most wanted was the thing he’d become something of an expert at avoiding. Conversation.

He stroked his thumbs across her smooth cheeks. “I’ll do what I can to help your mother. I promise.” She smiled, and he exhaled slowly, relieved to know he’d said the right thing. Encouraged, he continued. “I know what it’s like to fret about your family. I worry about my sisters.”

She frowned, and her eyebrows dipped below her spectacles. “But, they’re healthy and happy, and you’ve made sure they want for nothing.”

His concerns must seem trite compared to hers. They weren’t life or death, but with both his parents gone, he was acutely aware of his duty to his sisters. “Rose might go the rest of her life without speaking, without experiencing life in the way she should.”

Anabelle stared at a spot on her skirt. “Rose is so wise and warm that I sometimes forget she doesn’t really… talk.”

“I do the same. The worst part is, it’s getting difficult to remember what she sounded like. I don’t mean just the tone and pitch of her voice, but all the things that she said and how she said them. She giggled when she read the scandals in the gossip sheets. Her voice cracked when she read the indulgent scene where Romeo finds Juliet in the tomb. I miss that side of her—even the way she chided me for hunting poor, defenseless foxes. Now that she’s silent, I’ve lost a part of her.”

Anabelle nodded soberly. “You want that back, you want her back, and yet, you feel guilty for not accepting Rose as she is now.”

Exactly. He coughed into his hand. “Something like that.”

This whole exchange with Anabelle felt awkward, as if he’d used muscles that hadn’t been exercised in, oh, a couple of decades. But it was a relief to tell another human being the thoughts that had been knocking around in his mind for so long. Anabelle seemed to understand. He laced her fingers through his and pressed their palms together, liking the fit. “It’s not just Rose who concerns me. I worry that Olivia’s headstrong ways will land her in trouble. She’s always been impulsive, which is my fault. After my father died, I was too lenient with her. I still don’t know which member of my staff she’s seeing. After I received your extortion note, I confronted her. She refuses to talk about it.”

Anabelle’s face flushed at the mention of the note. After a few moments of silence she said, “I wonder if I could help.”

“How?”

“Well,” she began, licking her pink lips, “I could try to learn more about your sisters—not as your spy, you understand—but as a concerned friend. Maybe I could persuade them to confide in you.”

“You would do that?”

She gazed at their intertwined fingers. “It’s the least I can do. You’ve done so much for my family and me. And I don’t think it will be difficult to convince your sisters to talk with you about personal matters. They worship you, you know.”

He arched a brow. “They have an odd way of showing it.”

“When you look up to someone, you live in fear of disappointing them.”

He wondered if her wisdom was hard won; not much in her life could have been easy. “You think Rose and Olivia fear me?”

“Of course not. I suspect they’re among the precious few who don’t. But perhaps they’re afraid they can’t live up to your high standards.”

Ridiculous. “They could never disappoint me.”

Anabelle adjusted her spectacles. “Have you told them that?”

“Not recently.” Not ever.

“I see.” She looked directly at him, her huge eyes shining with compassion and amusement. “I’ll subtly encourage Olivia and Rose to open their hearts to you. But you…”

“What?”

“… must try not to frighten them off.”

“Preposterous. I—” He paused and shot her a wicked grin. “Do I frighten you, Belle?”

She raised her chin in that adorable manner of hers. “No,” she said, a bit too emphatically. “You are not frightening. The shade of green around your eye, however… that’s rather alarming.”

Owen nodded, pleased with how the morning had turned out and annoyed that it was almost over. The coach rumbled along, and fat raindrops continued to pummel the roof. Anabelle pulled her hand free from his and placed it in her lap, leaving him suddenly bereft. The closer they drew to Mayfair, the more rigid her posture became. He considered ordering the coachman to ride north for two hours until the social strictures of London were tiny dots on the landscape seen from the back window of his coach.

Their relationship—if it could be called that—did not fit into any neat category, and that irked him. Categories were useful. Living things, for example, were Animalia, Plantae, or Protista. He generally classified women as wives, mistresses, relatives, and acquaintances. His relationship with Belle was not an affair or a courtship, so what was it? Why the hell wasn’t there a category for a not-quite-affair between a duke and an aspiring extortionist-turned-seamstress?

She sat on the same bench as he, her leg inches from his, but the chasm between them was as wide as the English Channel. As St. James’s Square came into view, he shamelessly grasped at the one thing that bound her to him. “Olivia tells me you promised her and Rose ten dresses each.”

Anabelle blinked, clearly puzzled by the sudden change in subject. “That’s right.”

“I trust you’ll be able to deliver them within the three-month period.” He congratulated himself on his pompous, ducal tone. God, he was an ass.

A hurt expression flashed across her face before a mask of indifference settled over it. “Yes. I shall make twenty gowns before I leave, and each one shall be to your sisters’ satisfaction. You have my word.” In an acidic tone, she added, “Your Grace.”

Touché. “Excellent.”

According to Olivia, Anabelle had completed two and one-half gowns. He assumed the next eighteen would require a good bit of work, which meant he’d have time. Time to hammer their relationship into some identifiable, legitimate category. As the coach pulled into the Square, he said, “In the meantime, you are not to leave the house without my knowledge. If you wish to visit your family, I will escort you myself.”

She narrowed her beautiful gray eyes at him. Damn, she probably saw right through him—knew how desperate he was to keep her with him. Even the visits would give him an excuse to spend time with her. “Thank you for rescuing me last night and for your assistance today.”

“It was nothing. I’ll send my doctor over to see your mother this afternoon.”

“Maybe you should ask him to come here first and tend to your arm.”

Good point. His forearm hurt like the devil. “Maybe you should remove that godawful cap.”

She shot him a lethal look.

At least they were back on familiar, solid footing.

The coach rolled to a stop, a footman opened the door, and Owen stepped out. The rain had turned into drizzle. He extended a hand to Anabelle to help her step down from the cab. “Your charm knows no bounds,” she said sweetly.

He chuckled. “So I’ve been told.”

As she walked into the townhouse, he appreciated the elegant line of her neck and the gentle sway of her hips. He hoped eighteen dresses would take a very long time.


A few hours later, Owen gritted his teeth in pain. The kind of pain that makes one want to spew curses and drink copious amounts of alcohol. Nothing personal against Dr. Loxton, but Owen was leery of the medical profession as a whole. Loxton was employing some kind of sadistic torture that would supposedly help heal his arm, all the while shaking his graying head over the unlikelihood of encountering wild dogs in the capital of a civilized nation such as this. When he put down his sharp metal instruments and finally began bandaging, Owen loosened his death grip on the arm of his chair and breathed easier.

Loxton was the rare physician who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty. He’d set a fracture or stitch a person up as long as the patient could be trusted not to spread the gory details about Town. Of course, he didn’t want it known that he occasionally did such ungentlemanly work—his wife had been presented at Court, for God’s sake.

The doctor had an opinion on everything, which didn’t bother Owen. Listening to those opinions did bother Owen, but he tolerated the doctor’s ramblings because, well, he was the best.

“I’d like you to visit and examine the mother of… a servant of mine.” Owen held out a card with Anabelle’s address on it. “The mother’s name is Mrs. Honeycote. I don’t know much about her condition, but her daughters are very worried. Dr. Conwell has been treating her.”

The doctor stroked his bushy beard. “The man you inquired about a couple of days ago? I asked around. He’s not licensed by the Royal College.”

“Maybe he’s a surgeon.” Damned if Loxton wasn’t tying the bandage too tightly.

The physician puffed out his chest. “Then he shouldn’t tout himself as a doctor. None of my colleagues is familiar with him. My guess is he’s a fraud.”

Owen clenched his fist and tested the feel of the dressing as he considered the possibility that Anabelle had been handing over every shilling she earned—or extorted—to a quack. “Mrs. Honeycote is very sick. Don’t tell her or her daughter, Daphne, about your suspicions. Just do everything you can to help her and send me the bill.”

The physician raised his wiry, white brows. “You’re a generous employer, Huntford.”

“Actually, I’m a demanding bastard.” To prove his point, he bit off the knot of his bandage and unraveled it like an irate mummy. “It’s a bandage, not a tourniquet. Try again.”


Later that evening, as Anabelle threaded a needle, her mind was still reeling from the coach ride with the duke. Owen. After kissing him in his carriage today—their third kiss—she’d begun to think of him by his Christian name, even if she couldn’t quite bring herself to utter it.

Kissing had certainly made him seem less intimidating. He’d talked with her like she was more than a lowly seamstress—like a trusted friend.

Things between them had grown complicated, indeed, but she harbored no illusions about the true nature of their relationship. She was a paid servant… with whom he wanted to dally. The friendship aspect, which had developed of late, blurred the line, but once her debt was paid, she’d never see him again—unless he happened to return to Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop one day in the future, with his mistress in tow.

Still, she was indebted to Owen on many counts. He’d offered to help Mama, bought her new spectacles, and rescued her from vicious dogs. Although her List of Nevers forbade her from becoming involved with him, she felt obliged to help him and his sisters. She’d do what she could to make Rose less shy and to bring the siblings closer to one another.

Mama’s condition was distressing, and Anabelle was eager for news from Dr. Loxton. Since she could do nothing but wait, however, she dedicated herself to making a gorgeous walking dress for Rose. She was preparing to sew some velvet trim onto a pelisse when both Olivia and Rose entered the workroom. “Good evening,” Anabelle said with surprise.

Olivia smiled warmly. “I hope you don’t mind some company. Rose and I thought we’d visit—unless you find it too bothersome while you work.”

“Not at all.” Anabelle cleared snippets of fabric and lace from the window seat and invited the women to sit. “I’m delighted you’re here. Would you like to see how your newest dresses are coming along?”

Rose shook her head, and gently nudged her sister with an elbow.

“No,” said Olivia. “That’s not why we came.” She worried the ends of the pink ribbons that served as the sash of her dress. “We heard that Owen took you to visit your mother this morning. We didn’t know she was ill. If there’s anything we can do, you must let us know. We feel awful that you’re here slaving over fancy gowns for us when you’d most certainly rather be at your mother’s side.”

Anabelle’s nose stung and her eyes welled; she set the pelisse in her lap. “You’re both very kind. Thank you. Your brother has generously offered to send his physician, but to be honest, I’m not sure anything can help her.”

Rose reached out and clasped her hand.

“You mustn’t say that,” Olivia scolded. “Don’t give up hope. Dr. Loxton is a learned man. He cares for all of our great-aunts.”

Anabelle sniffled. So, Owen did have great-aunts. “How many aunts do you have?”

“Fourteen,” said Olivia proudly, “ranging in age from fifty-nine to—”

“Eighty-two.”

Rose clapped her hands in delight.

“How did you know?” asked Olivia.

“Your brother mentioned them once.” Of course, immediately afterward he’d denied their existence.

“Did he?” Olivia asked with some surprise. “He dotes on them shamelessly.”

How interesting. Anabelle turned up the lantern on the table and adjusted her spectacles before picking up her sewing. “Your brother also seems very devoted to the two of you.”

“Oh, yes,” said Olivia. “He means well, in any event. It is sometimes hard for him to fathom that we’re no longer wearing pigtails and dresses with bloomers. He keeps us on a very short leash, and he never tells us anything.”

Anabelle tilted her head. “Why do you think that is?”

Olivia sighed. “Ever since Father died, Owen’s been quite protective. He’d like to shield us from all of life’s unpleasantries, which, as you know, is quite impossible. Nor is it any way to live. Suffering is a part of life.” She looked wistfully at Rose and then continued. “In any event, we believe that if he just found the right sort of woman to marry, she could help him be less…”

“Rigid?”

“Precisely! Of course, our brother is extremely particular when it comes to women. Everyone seems to think Miss Starling will be the miss to capture his affection.”

Rose puckered as though she’d sucked on a lemon wedge.

Olivia turned to her sister. “You cannot deny that Miss Starling is beautiful. And her manners are so refined. She’d make an excellent duchess.”

Anabelle considered the matter objectively, which was difficult because her stomach was twisted in knots. She chalked it up to the fish she’d eaten at dinner. But it was obvious that Miss Starling had been raised to be a duchess—or a countess at the very least. She certainly seemed to think so. “Does your brother seem fond of her?” It was an absurd question. Any warm-blooded male would be fond of Miss Starling.

“It is hard to say,” admitted Olivia. “Owen doesn’t keep us apprised of such matters. I expect he’ll call us into the drawing room one evening and announce that he’s betrothed in much the same way he’d announce he’s bought a gelding.”

Interesting. Owen wanted his sisters to be more forthcoming, and they wished the same of him.

Rose, in particular, looked highly agitated by the conversation. Anabelle couldn’t tell if she objected to Miss Starling or to the idea of her brother suddenly announcing his engagement. Either way, a change of subject was in order. She forced a bright smile. “Well then. What kind of husbands would the duke choose for the two of you?”

The sisters exchanged a glance that Anabelle couldn’t read. “Someone from a respectable family,” said Olivia.

“You mean, a gentleman?” Anabelle recalled the rumor she’d transcribed in her extortion note and felt like she was treading close to the edge of a rocky crag.

“A rich and titled gentleman,” Olivia clarified.

Anabelle smiled sympathetically. “Does that seem unreasonable to you? You are, after all, the sisters of a duke.”

Rose tapped Olivia’s shoulder and pressed her palm to her heart.

Olivia interpreted. “Rose thinks a kind and gentle nature is more important than wealth and lineage. She believes in love.”

It didn’t surprise Anabelle that Rose was a romantic sort. Under different circumstances, Anabelle might have been one herself. As it was, she’d given up on fairy tales. To Rose, she said, “Perhaps you’ll be fortunate enough to find a man who meets your brother’s high standards as well as your own.”

Although Anabelle had meant to cheer Rose, the redhead’s shoulders drooped as though she were… broken-hearted.

“Forgive me if I’ve offended you,” Anabelle said.

Rose stood, gave a wan smile, and touched Anabelle’s shoulder before tilting her head to the door regretfully.

“Sleep well,” Olivia said to her sister. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Rose glided silently from the room, leaving Anabelle feeling wretched.

“I’m sorry I upset her. What was it that I said?”

Olivia waved away her apology. “We’ve both been a bit sensitive lately. You couldn’t have known about—”

About what? Or whom? Anabelle waited impatiently for Olivia to complete her thought.

“I shouldn’t say more on the subject.”

Anabelle stifled her disappointment. “I understand.”

“Although, it would be lovely to have someone to confide in. You seem so sure of yourself—and wise for someone so young.”

Although Anabelle longed to know the sisters’ secret, she didn’t feel worthy after threatening to publish horrid gossip about Olivia. And the more she thought of it, she didn’t want to be in the awkward position of keeping secrets from Owen. “You could always confide in your brother,” she said.

“No, no. We most certainly cannot.” Olivia began pacing, nibbling on an index finger as she wore a path in the Aubusson rug. “But I know we can trust you.”

Anabelle tamped down a wave of guilt. If Olivia chose to confide in her, she wouldn’t let her down again. “Yes, of course you can.”

Olivia walked to the door, closed it quietly, and continued her pacing. “Rose fancies herself in love.”

“Why, that’s wonderful. Isn’t it?”

“Yes. And no. The man she loves is not someone my brother would approve of.”

“Because he’s not titled?”

“Or rich,” added Olivia.

“Perhaps, if your brother got to know him, he’d change his mind. Does this man treat Rose well? Does he make her happy?”

“Charles—that’s his name—admires Rose greatly. And when she’s with him, she’s a different person. Confident, secure… and yes, happy. I don’t know if my sister will ever talk freely again, but I think if anyone could help her, Charles could.”

“Maybe if your brother could see for himself how happy Rose is with Charles, he’d be more willing to entertain the idea of a match.” For some reason, Anabelle desperately wanted to believe he would.

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Did I mention that Charles is the stable master at our country estate? Owen has very strict rules regarding friendships with servants.” As though the thought had just occurred to her, she asked, “Is this uncomfortable for you to discuss? That is, I don’t think of you as a servant, but I suppose you are in the strictest sense of the word. And yet, we’ve become friends, have we not?”

Anabelle swallowed the knot in her throat. “I would say that we have.” And then, although she suspected that the answer would be painful, she was obliged to ask the question. “What are your brother’s rules regarding friendships with servants?”

“They are strictly forbidden. The worst part is that he’s threatened to fire any member of the staff he suspects could be involved. Of course, he’s convinced I’m the one who’s been having clandestine meetings, when, in truth, it’s been Rose all along.”

Anabelle digested this news. She was tickled to learn that Rose had a slightly rebellious nature. At least she wasn’t afraid of defying her brother. How had someone of her mettle remained almost completely silent for close to three years? A thought occurred to her. “You said Rose disappeared at that house party the night before your mother left.”

Olivia nodded. “We were terrified that some harm had befallen her. But when we found her the next day, she seemed fine, by all appearances. Only… she wasn’t.”

“Perhaps if we could find out what happened that night, we might be able to help her find her voice again.”

Olivia gave a weary smile and shrugged. “I have asked her. Whatever happened, Rose does not want to talk about it.”

“Maybe someone else at the house party knows. Do you recall who was there?”

“My mother and father, Owen, Rose, and I…” Olivia counted the guests on her fingers. “… Lady Fallon, Sir Howard, Lord and Lady Winthrope—”

At the mention of that last name, Anabelle’s heart seized. “Did you say Winthrope? As in the earl?”

“I did. Are you acquainted with him?”

Anabelle was not. But she knew more about him than did most of the ton. And she wished she didn’t. “No, I don’t know the earl. I know a little of him.”

“Oh, well, there’s not much to know. He’s a dreadfully boring sort. He’s mostly bald, but he tries to hide it by brushing a few strands ’round the top of his head. He doesn’t say much, and he wears a perpetual scowl.”

“Really?” The earl’s mistress had painted an altogether different picture of him in Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop. She’d alluded to his sexual prowess and his fondness for tupping two women at the same time. Anabelle repressed a shiver.

On that momentous, gray morning in Hyde Park when Owen had caught her, he’d asked about previous extortion schemes—demanded truth. Even at the time, she’d known the lie that crossed her lips would haunt her. But she’d never fathomed that she’d feel so wretched about her deception.

It seemed her first extortion scheme had improbably collided with what would have been the fourth.