When She Was Wicked

Chapter Thirteen

Darts: (1) Tucks used to remove extra fullness from a garment. (2) A sharp projectile similar to an arrow, employed by Cupid to induce wanton, foolish behavior.

Owen vaguely recalled a promise he’d made to himself before looking for Belle to tell her the news he knew would unsettle her. He was fairly sure the promise involved kissing. Or not kissing. Right. Under no circumstances was there to be kissing.

It wasn’t that he was opposed to the idea—quite the contrary.

But he’d suspected that she was going to be upset, and he didn’t want to take advantage of her distress. Only a scoundrel would try to seduce a woman who’d just received momentous news.

He supposed “scoundrel” was an apt description for him. In his defense, she’d started it… and his body had thought it a capital idea.

When he’d tasted the salt of her tears on her cheeks and lips, he’d wanted to wash away her sadness. Even with her puffy eyes and pink face, she was utterly irresistible. He couldn’t imagine that she showed this vulnerable side very often, but she had for him, and he was strangely humbled.

Telling Belle she’d been swindled had been harder than he’d thought. It shouldn’t have been. After all, her mother was going to receive proper care now and could conceivably recover. But Belle’s family was everything to her, and, ridiculous as it seemed, she felt she’d let them down. He’d seen it in the shock and anger that flitted across her face. He’d seen her normally proud shoulders slump in defeat.

And he wanted to make her feel good again, to remind her that she wasn’t just a daughter, sister, or seamstress. She was all of those things and more—a woman, young and vibrant, with dreams and desires of her own.

He wanted to make them all come true.

Her lithe body pressed against him, taunting and torturing his senses. Her tongue teased the corner of his mouth, and for a brief moment, Owen considered laying her back against the soft window seat cushions and seducing her until she begged him to take her—honorable promises be damned. The sight of her pebbled nipples jutting toward him made him want to lay claim to every inch of her until she was crying out his name.

“Owen,” she murmured.

At last. She’d said it. Not “Your Grace” or even “Huntford,” but Owen.

He let one last sweet kiss linger before he pulled away. “You are so beautiful,” he said, smoothing a few wisps of hair away from her face, “that I forget myself. You don’t know how badly I want you.”

She blushed. “I like kissing you.”

Since the current conversation was not cooling his ardor, he needed to do the sensible thing and put some space between them. He stood, raked a hand through his hair, and walked to his old globe on the shelf where he’d abandoned it decades before. He spun it and let his fingers trail over the oceans and continents until it slowed to a stop.

“There’s something else I need to tell you, Anabelle.” Upon seeing the stricken look that crossed her face, he quickly added, “I think you’ll be pleased.”

She looked rather doubtful but smiled bravely.

“Circumstances being what they are,” he said, “I’d like to propose that we amend the terms of our agreement.”

“I don’t understand.”

He shrugged, a feeble attempt to appear casual when he felt anything but. “I’m sure you’d like to be with your mother right now, and though Olivia and Rose will be sorely disappointed, I can have someone else make their gowns. If you’d like to go, you’re free to do so.”

He held his breath as he awaited her response. He’d hoped for at least three months with her, but that was selfish. For some time now, he’d known that she presented no threat to society, and yet, he’d wanted her to stay. To help him understand his sisters; to challenge him when he behaved badly; to brighten the whole damned house.

But he couldn’t keep her here like she was some prisoner. He spun the globe again.

She nibbled on her bottom lip. “You’re releasing me from my debt?”

It sounded so final. “Yes.”

“That’s very generous, but… I can’t allow you to do that.”

“I already did.”

“I owe you too much. It wouldn’t feel right after all you’ve done for my family and me. I know I’ll never be able to repay you—not unless I discover that I’m an heiress to a long-forgotten fortune.”

“Duly noted. However, if you should become an heiress, I’ll come to collect your debt. With interest.”

“That seems reasonable,” she said seriously.

He was teasing, for God’s sake. “Anabelle, there is no more debt.”

She strode toward him and placed her palm on the globe, stopping it on its axis. “I won’t accept outright charity.”

He snorted. Couldn’t help it. “You were willing to extort money from me. How can you object to charity?”

Her gray eyes flashed at him, and he had his answer. Pride.

“We made a deal, and I intend to honor it. It’s the least I can do.”

She stood so close that he could smell the soap she used to wash her hair—citrusy and sweet—and her hand lay next to his, somewhere near the North Pole. “Fine.” He managed a light tone, as though he couldn’t care less one way or the other.

She’d made it clear she was only sticking to their agreement out of a sense of obligation, but at least he knew she wouldn’t disappear from his life altogether. Not yet. He exhaled, took her hand from the globe, and held it lightly in his. He had one other option to offer.

“If you’d like to return home and be with your family, you may. You could work out of your apartment or Mrs. Smallwood’s shop, finish Olivia’s and Rose’s wardrobes, and fulfill your end of the bargain.”

He held his breath and waited for her answer.

She let go of his hand and drifted around the room, pausing now and then to inspect various items. Ethereal in her pale nightgown, she ran her fingers over the fabric piled on the tables, ribbons strewn across an old desk, and a yardstick leaning against the window seat. When at last she’d circled the room and stood in front of him once more, she said, “Would you prefer it if I left?”

“No.”

She nibbled the tip of her index finger. “There’s little I’d be able to do for Mama at home, and I know she’s in excellent hands with Dr. Loxton. Daphne can keep me informed of her progress, so… I think I’d like to stay.”

“You would?” He dared to hope he was the reason. Or, at least, a reason.

“This room is so spacious and bright, and everything I could possibly need is here. If I were to work at the shop, I’d be distracted by customers and other projects. It could easily take me a year to complete the assignment. If I stay, I’ll be able to make the dresses more quickly and confer with Rose and Olivia whenever I need to.”

“It’s settled then. You’ll remain here.” He spoke quickly, before she had the chance to change her mind. It pricked a little that she was only staying for the conveniences and not because she’d miss him, but at least she was staying. “You may visit your mother and sister whenever you wish.”

She beamed. “Thank you, Owen.”

“However,” he said sternly, “you will not walk there unescorted.”

“But I am accustomed to walking alone to the dress shop each day. I promise not to attempt another evening visit.”

“That is comforting,” he said wryly. “I must have your word that you will not go anywhere, especially to your home, unescorted. You may take a footman or, if you can bear it, you could take me.”

She opened her mouth to object, but then appeared to stop herself. “You’d walk me to my house?”

“I’d prefer to take the coach. But yes.”

“I’m sure you have many more important matters to tend to.”

“Not really.” Most days he didn’t even have time to read a newspaper, but he had time for her.

“I’d love to visit Mama this afternoon,” she said timidly. “Just to see how she’s getting on without her medicine. But there’s no need to rearrange your schedule. I could ask Roger or another footm—”

“How is four o’clock?”

She blinked. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“I’ll see you then.” He gave a cursory bow and turned to leave. If he had to stay in that room alone with her for one more minute he might lock the door, strip off her nightgown, and show her there was much more between them than a simple business arrangement. She was more than his employee, and he was more than a deal to be fulfilled.

He just needed the chance to prove it to her.


Much later that evening, after most of the household had been in bed and dreaming for hours, Anabelle was back in the workroom. One of the sleeves on the dress she was making for Rose had turned out to be puffier than its partner, and she’d decided the only hope of correcting it was to remove the flawed sleeve entirely and start over. Normally, fixing her own mistakes put her in a surly mood.

But as she carefully snipped the threads along the shoulder seam she was unusually content.

She liked the coziness of the night—the inky sky hanging outside her window, the silence that had settled over the house like a warm blanket, and the solitude that gave her imagination free rein. Thoughts of Owen had occupied her all evening. She knew she was foolish to daydream about him, but she gave herself license. Dreaming was less dangerous than doing, and the day had been too magical to stick it in the back of a drawer like a pair of torn stockings and forget about it.

Owen had taken her home for a visit, as promised, and had been most gracious from start to finish. After they’d ridden across Town in his coach, he’d surprised her by escorting her upstairs. He sat patiently in the parlor while she chatted with Daphne in Mama’s room, waiting for her to wake. When she did, Anabelle brought Owen into the bedroom and introduced him. Mama kept saying that she must be having visions if there was an honest-to-goodness duke—and a handsome one at that—in her bedchamber. Owen laughed good-naturedly and presented Mama with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. The smile on her face had melted Anabelle’s heart like a pat of butter on a hot plate.

There’d been no more kissing since that morning, but there had been moments of… giddiness. Mortifying as it was to admit—even to herself—Owen could make her belly turn a somersault without even saying a word. All it took was his heavy-lidded stare, his hand on the small of her back, or the ironic smile he shot at her when no one else was looking.

Despite her intent to keep their relationship on a purely business level, she couldn’t deny that it had evolved into something more complicated. She wouldn’t delude herself that he’d offer marriage—the very idea of a duke courting a seamstress was laughable. And yet, the unfairness of it all made her want to scream. Or hurl a porcelain vase at the wall. Why was she less worthy of Owen’s love than a gently bred lady? She might not be perfectly at ease in the company of titled lords and ladies, but she had good manners, which was more than she could say for Miss Starling.

Anabelle sniffled and swiped at her eyes. The anger and sadness gnawed at her insides like a rat chewing through a rope. She mustn’t let the hurt fester, turning her relationship with Owen into something rotten and putrid. She’d rather enjoy the tenuous truce they’d achieved—and the occasional kiss—for a bit longer.

She’d removed the offending sleeve and was preparing to reduce its puffiness when she heard something in the hallway outside the workroom. Footsteps.

Her breath hitched in her throat. Luckily, she was still dressed. After Owen’s unexpected visit this morning, she’d surmised that working in her nightgown was not prudent. Her plain, yellow gown was comfortable enough, and her usual cap kept wisps of hair from falling into her eyes as she worked. The only concession she’d made to the late, or actually, early hour was kicking off her slippers.

She put them on now. And pinched her cheeks for a little color.

She’d heard Owen was attending a ball tonight, but maybe he’d—

“Anabelle?” Olivia whispered through the crack of the slightly ajar nursery door. “Are you still working?”

She rushed to the door, tamping down her disappointment and eyeing the clock as she passed it. “I am,” she said, waving Olivia in. Rose tiptoed behind her; both girls were clad in their nightgowns. “What are you two doing up at this hour?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Olivia said with an impish grin. “So I checked on Rose, and she was awake, too.” Rose rolled her eyes and Olivia quickly added, “Well, she was sleeping so lightly she may as well have been awake. We decided we’d sneak down to the kitchen and help ourselves to a snack. When we noticed your light, we made a detour. Let’s go, shall we?”

“What?” Anabelle glanced over her shoulder at the one-sleeved gown, a pitiful sight if ever she saw one. “Oh, no. I can’t. I’m in the middle of fixing a—”

Rose grasped Anabelle’s forearm and pulled her firmly behind as she began walking down the hall. For a quiet, subdued girl, Rose really was very strong. Anabelle stumbled a little as they rounded a dark corner, and Olivia giggled.

On the way down the stairs, Anabelle whispered, “Do you do this often?”

“More often than Owen knows.” Olivia led the way to the kitchen, and when they entered the dark room that still smelled of savory stewed vegetables Anabelle realized she was, indeed, hungry.

Rose lit a drip-covered candle in a rustic pewter holder and set in on the sturdy kitchen table. Copper pots gleamed above the range, a teapot dangled at a jaunty angle over the fireplace, and clean white aprons hung from nails beside the door. No grand paintings or silver-plated serving pieces in sight, thank goodness. Every item in the room was blessedly utilitarian. Anabelle approved.

She sat on a bench beside the table and watched as Olivia and Rose scoured the pantry and raided the shelves. They returned with appetizing bits of cheese, grapes and berries, and an assortment of dainty cakes left over from tea that afternoon, all arranged haphazardly on a large plate. Olivia set the food in the center of the table and poured generous amounts of wine into three glasses. “This should help us sleep,” she said, topping off the last glass.

The girls’ enthusiasm was infectious. The only thing that could have made the escapade more perfect was if Daphne had been there, too. She would love Olivia and Rose, and of course, the girls would love her—everyone did. Owen had found her delightful without falling the least bit under her spell. Anabelle sighed contentedly.

The sisters sat on the bench opposite her, but as she and Olivia reached for a morsel from the plate, Rose swatted their hands away and raised her wineglass.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Olivia said. “We need to make a toast. Anabelle, would you do the honors?”

She thought of the girls’ kind, sweet nature and all they’d had to endure. They’d been abandoned by their mother, left heartbroken by their father’s suicide, and unappreciated by the ton.

“Yes, I would.” Anabelle raised her glass. “To the ones who pulled our hair and braided it at night, the ones who borrowed our dresses and lent us theirs, the ones who read our diaries and kept our secrets. To sisters.”

“To sisters!” said Olivia, clinking her glass to Anabelle’s.

Rose tapped Olivia on the shoulder, pressed a hand to her chest, and pointed to Anabelle.

“Right,” said Olivia. “To sisters and sisters of the heart.”

Anabelle’s eyes stung, and, fearing she’d be reduced to a puddle of tears, she took a gulp of her wine and smiled brightly. “I’m famished. Shall we?”

“It’s every woman for herself,” announced Olivia. She popped an impressive wedge of cheese in her mouth.

Rose was slightly more timid but did not hesitate to go directly for the sweets. Anabelle followed suit, sampling tarts and little pies. Before long, they’d devoured everything on the platter. Only crumbs remained. Anabelle’s eyelids grew heavy, but she so enjoyed the girls’ company that she continued sipping her wine and chatting. When the conversation eventually turned to Owen, as she’d hoped it would, she endeavored not to appear overly interested.

But she hung on every word.

“He’s at the Milford ball this evening,” said Olivia. “Miss Starling mentioned it when I saw her at the musicale yesterday. She was kind enough to sit next to Rose and me. She must have had a dozen admirers trying to curry her favor. But she discouraged them all—politely of course. I wish I had a smidgen of her beauty and grace.”

Anabelle wanted to tell Olivia that Miss Starling was not really a friend and that she was using her and Rose to snare Owen, but she feared Olivia would be devastated to hear it. Instead, Anabelle latched on to Olivia’s other comment. “You are every bit as beautiful as Miss Starling. More so, if you ask me.”

Olivia erupted into peals of laughter, surely loud enough to awaken the servants. Rose put a finger to her lips to shush her sister.

Anabelle was insulted by Olivia’s skepticism. She’d always had an eye for beautiful things; it was part of what made her a talented designer of gowns. She could see the potential in fabrics, frippery, and people. “You don’t believe me?”

“Miss Starling is a diamond of the first water,” Olivia said. “I’m paste jewelry.”

Rose frowned and shook her head. At least she was on Anabelle’s side.

Her lips loosened by the wine, Anabelle said, “Miss Starling is the cumbersome train and feathers one must wear before the Queen at Court. You are the stunning silk gown made for whirling around the dance floor in a candlelit ballroom.”

Olivia actually blushed. “I liked the whirling part. I shall try to remember your kind description next time I’m tripping over my own feet. Now, what kind of dress is Rose?”

Anabelle thought for a moment. “Rose is a light, shimmery summer frock made for chasing butterflies in the meadow.”

Rose smiled and Olivia sighed happily. “Well, it seems Miss Starling is destined to become our sister-in-law,” Olivia said. “I, for one, couldn’t be more pleased.”

Anabelle’s heart thudded in her chest. “Why do you say that? I mean, the part about her being destined?”

Olivia leaned forward as though about to impart something salacious. “Just yesterday, Owen told me it was high time he did his duty and married. When I asked him if anyone had captured his fancy he gave me a dark, disgusted look and said he’d probably do as our father would have wanted and shackle himself to Miss Starling. Papa and Mr. Starling were quite chummy before… In any case, Owen said he supposed marrying Miss Starling would be the most expedient course.”

“How utterly romantic.” Anabelle tipped her wineglass back and swallowed the last drop.

Olivia giggled and then went silent. She and Rose were both focused on something behind Anabelle.

And then she knew.

“What’s romantic?” Owen’s deep, rich voice sent shivers down her spine.

She turned and saw him leaning casually against the doorjamb. His hair was mussed and his shirttail was showing on one side. Anabelle couldn’t recall him ever looking as handsome.

“Well?” he asked, scowling at her. Or perhaps he was scowling at her cap. Either way, Anabelle had no intention of answering his question.

Olivia, however, managed to find her tongue. “Ah, we were just having a girls’ chat. How was the ball?”

“Splendid.” He plopped himself down on the bench next to Anabelle and eyed her empty wineglass. “Why are you three sitting in the kitchen at this hour of the morning?” She detected the hint of a slur to his words.

“Probably the same thing you are,” Olivia said. “Shall I round you up a snack?”

He raised his brows and looked pointedly at the empty plate in the center of the table. “Is there anything left?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can find a stale crust of bread.” Olivia began to rise from the bench but Rose motioned for her to stay and headed to the pantry herself.

“So, tell me,” Olivia said gleefully, “which ladies did you dance with tonight?”

“If you’re so bloody curious, you should have come.”

“Owen!” Olivia shot a pointed look in Anabelle’s direction.

“Sorry,” he said. “If you’re so damned curious.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Forgive my brother,” she said to Anabelle, “I fear he’s foxed.”

He grunted but did not deny it. Perhaps that was why he seemed even more attractive than usual. Although he could not be called charming by any stretch, he was not as firmly in control as he normally was.

His sister prodded him some more. “If you tell me your dance partners I shall fetch you a glass of brandy.”

Anabelle did not think it wise to bribe him with more drink, but she had to admit she was oddly curious about his dance partners. She supposed it wasn’t unlike a starving person asking for a description of each course of a feast. It would be torture, but at least she’d know what she’d missed.

“Lady Portman, Miss Morley, and Miss Starling. There’s a decanter on the sideboard in my study.”

“How many times with each?” Olivia pressed.

“Once, once, and twice. Don’t be stingy with the stuff.”

Olivia flipped her thick brown braid over her shoulder and sighed as she rose from the table. “Behave yourself while I am gone.”

The moment she left, Owen reached under the table and squeezed Anabelle’s hand. In a gruff whisper he said, “I missed you.”

Her face grew hot. Although she longed to believe him, she sincerely doubted that he had spared her a thought while drinking champagne and spinning beautiful women around the ballroom dance floor. “You didn’t miss anything. It was not an especially exciting evening in the workroom.”

“No?” He leaned closer, warm breath tickling her ear. “It could have been exciting.”

She bit her bottom lip and tried to scoot farther away from him on the bench. His teasing was exquisite torture. “Not now.”

He would not let go of her hand. Instead, he traced little circles on her wrist. “When?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought about you all night. Give me a time.”

Anabelle craned her neck to see where Rose was. The pantry door was still ajar. “Later.”

“Fine. I’ll come to the workroom in an hour.”

She opened her mouth to tell him that under no circumstances should he venture anywhere near her end of the corridor, but at that very moment, Rose returned carrying Owen’s snack. Anabelle kicked Owen’s shin—hard—but not before Rose’s keen gaze flicked to their joined hands beneath the table. She gracefully set the plate on the table, sat, and smiled like a cat presented with a saucer of warm milk.

Anabelle sprang off of the bench. “This was delightful,” she said to Rose. “But I’m afraid I must turn in.” She swallowed and turned to Owen. How her fingers itched to slap the smirk off his face. “Good night…”—she couldn’t imagine how she’d choke out the words—“… Your Grace.”