When She Was Wicked

Chapter Eighteen

Owen lost a few pounds playing vingt-et-un in the smoky taproom to a blacksmith with either incredibly good luck or an incredibly slick hand. He didn’t care much. He just wanted to sit on something other than a saddle, have a drink… and think about anything other than Anabelle.

She’d avoided him all day. Not that they’d had much chance for conversation, but it wouldn’t have killed her to smile at him once in a while.

When the bleary-eyed innkeeper finally announced he was closing the bar, Owen trudged up the stairs, cursing under his breath at the bed awaiting him. It was so short that when he’d lain on it this afternoon, his feet hung over the end. He already missed his massive four-poster bed at home, which had plenty of room for him and Belle.

He stopped in the middle of the stairway and blinked.

What was wrong with him? He should not be thinking of Anabelle in his bed.

He was supposed to find himself a wife. Maybe if he accepted his fate and did his duty, Olivia and Rose would have a role model for ladylike behavior.

Miss Starling was the logical choice. Their families had always been close. As a schoolboy, Owen had ice-skated with her on the frozen lake at her father’s country estate. Olivia seemed fond of Miss Starling, and marriage to her could only enhance his sisters’ social status. Since she was widely regarded as the most beautiful woman on the marriage mart, and Owen’s title made him the most sought-after gentleman, half the ton already assumed they were engaged. The problem was, each time he thought about her in his house, in his bed, he felt empty, and worse, indifferent.

As he walked down the corridor, he paused outside his sisters’ room. Olivia had a tendency to forget things like extinguishing candles and locking doors. To put his mind at ease, he tested the doorknob. It didn’t budge.

Satisfied, he proceeded farther down the hall only to discover a light shining beneath the door of the second room he’d secured. Odd at this hour of the night.

He checked the knob and it turned, damn it. Any rogue could have walked in and robbed them—or worse. And why was the lantern still lit? He pushed open the door, prepared to lecture anyone who was awake, but before he could say a word, his head exploded in pain. He fell to the floor, heard the clinking of glass around him, and then…

Numbing blackness.


“Owen?”

Cool hands smoothed his hair away from his face. It felt good. If he focused on the gentle brush of those fingers across his skin, he could almost ignore the intense throbbing that radiated from a spot at the back of his head. Almost.

“Owen, can you hear me? I’m so sorry. I thought you were an intruder.”

Belle.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The light sharpened the pain, so he shut them again. “For the love of—What did you do to me?”

She moaned in embarrassment. “I bashed you with a pitcher. Can you roll toward me a little? But be careful of the sharp pieces. I want to close the door before anyone comes.”

He did as she asked, and she quickly shut the door. They remained still and silent for a few moments as they waited to see if anyone would come to investigate the thud Owen had made when he hit the floor. Apparently, no one awake at that late hour was concerned enough to get out of bed.

Owen groped the back of his skull, felt a knot budding, and groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t realize it was me.”

“Of course I didn’t,” she hissed. “I never imagined you’d barge into my room at two o’clock in the morning.”

“You don’t know me very well.”

She clucked her tongue. “Your injury cannot be that serious if you’re blithely tossing around innuendos.”

“I beg to differ. It hurts like hell.” He opened his eyes a slit and tried to make her face come into focus. Her hair formed a cloud of chestnut waves around her head, and behind her spectacles, her delicate brows furrowed in concern. She wore a sleeveless white garment—a chemise, if he wasn’t mistaken. A chemise, of all things. Unless he was hallucinating, that was all she wore. He swallowed, wondering if the blow to his head was more serious than he’d initially thought.

“Do you think you can sit up?”

He grunted. “Of course I can.” And he could. He did. Only, it hurt so much that he immediately lay back down. His head landed in Anabelle’s lap. Which was… nice.

“Goodness,” she said. “I think you need to rest for a while.”

Stretching out his legs and adjusting his head to a more comfortable position on her thighs, he sighed. “Definitely.”

She shot him a mildly scolding glance. “I could have killed you.”

“I doubt that.”

“What possessed you to sneak into my room?”

“I wasn’t sneaking.” It was damned difficult to hold up his end of the conversation when the swell of her breasts rose above the low neckline of her chemise. “I was checking that you’d locked the door. I thought you’d fallen asleep with the lantern on.” He congratulated himself on sounding coherent.

“You could have knocked.”

“You could have locked the door.”

She frowned. “I thought I had, but perhaps I was distracted by a… project. I need to look at the back of your head. I don’t think you’re bleeding, but you might have a shard of the pitcher stuck in your scalp.”

Her graphic description made his stomach clench. “Fine. But be gentle.”

Chuckling, she said, “I promise.”

He turned his head away from her and held his breath as she carefully probed. When she found the lump, he flinched.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s bigger than a quail’s egg but smaller than a chicken’s. No blood, but it’s warm to the touch. What can I do to make you feel better?”

As he thought of all the things she might do, he grinned, and Belle blushed bright red from the lobes of her pretty ears to the hollow of her lovely throat. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d like to lie still for a few minutes.”

“Certainly.” While she seemed eager to oblige him, her leg muscles tensed as though she found their current position awkward.

Maybe it was—for her. He was enjoying every moment.

As he inhaled the scents of clean cotton and citrusy soap and nestled into her soft lap, he decided he could be content right there for a very long time. If he didn’t move, the pain remained at bay. And other than the sounds of insects chirping outside the open window, the room was blissfully quiet.

After several minutes, he said, “Have you lost feeling in your legs yet?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“Liar.” He slowly sat up and cursed.

“Maybe you should lie down on the bed.”

He didn’t argue.

Pushing aside a yellow garment, she fluffed a pillow and helped him ease his head down onto it. From his comfortable vantage point, he watched with amusement as she briskly picked up the broken pieces of pottery from the floor and deposited them on the washstand. The picture of efficiency, she dipped a cloth into the basin, wrung it out, and returned to his side. The mattress sank as she sat beside him. “Let me hold this to your head.”

She pursed her lips as she leaned over him and tenderly checked the bump again. Her manner was exactly like that of a nursemaid, or a kindly nanny. The only difference was she was young, beautiful… and scantily clad. A circumstance that could only serve to hasten his healing.

Her shoulders and arms were so inviting that he had to check the impulse to lift his head and kiss her smooth skin. Her chemise, too loose for her thin frame, gaped between her breasts and beneath her arms. Using self-control he hadn’t known he possessed, he refrained from staring. The last thing he wanted was to send her fleeing for her robe.

He risked a small peek. The sight of her high, softly rounded breasts made his mouth go dry.

“How does that feel?”

“I think it’s helping.”

She smiled and, with her free hand, pulled up the thin straps of her chemise. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

“You did the right thing. Well, it would have been the right thing if it were anyone other than me. I’m glad you defended yourself.”

“After Papa died, Daphne and I quickly learned to do what we must.”

“How did he die?” It was a brutally forward question, but he’d always hated it when well-meaning acquaintances tried to couch their inquiries.

Belle didn’t seem offended, just unbearably sad. “He suffered from a wasting disease. We lost him little by little over the course of several months. He knew he was dying and we knew it too. There was nothing we could do to help him or even ease his suffering in the end.”

“I’m sorry.”

“When Mama became sick, I couldn’t let the same fate befall her.”

“Didn’t you have any other family you could turn to?” Why the hell hadn’t her grandfather—a viscount, according to Anabelle’s landlady—helped them?

She stiffened. “No. Believe me. Extortion was my last resort.”

“Would you have done it?”

“Done what?”

“Printed the gossip about Olivia in The Tattler. If I hadn’t caught you, or paid the forty pounds, would you have destroyed her?”

She swallowed. “That was all before I really knew her—or you.”

“So, you would have.” His head began to throb again.

“I can’t honestly say what I would have done. There would have been nothing for me to gain at that point, so maybe not. I only know I was desperate.” She placed her palm on his cheek and turned his head until they looked into each other’s eyes. “And I’m truly sorry. I pray they never learn of my wickedness.”

“As do I.” Deciding the mood was too somber, he changed the subject. “Are you trained in the use of other weapons? Besides a pitcher, I mean?”

She pressed a finger to her chin. “I’m quite skilled with a parasol, but my weapon of choice would have to be… a candlestick.”

He winced. “I should count myself lucky.”

“Perhaps you should,” she agreed. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before she stifled a yawn and gazed longingly at the pillow.

Although he hated to leave, she needed her sleep. He sat up and swung his legs to the floor, pleased to find that the room had stopped spinning. “What were you doing up so late?”

She blushed. “Working on a dress.”

“The yellow one that was on the bed?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be working this late, no matter how eager you are to fulfill your end of our bargain.”

“This one isn’t for Rose or Olivia,” she admitted shyly. “It’s for me.”

He blinked. “That’s wonderful,” he said, meaning it. He was so used to seeing Anabelle in dark colors it was hard to imagine her wearing sunny yellow. “May I see it?”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she slowly walked to the foot of the bed and held the garment beneath her chin.

It was familiar. Pretty. And yet something about it felt oddly… sinister. He must be drunk and dazed. “Did you make it?”

“No. Olivia and Rose gave it to me.” She cast him a wary look, as though he were a lion about to pounce.

“My sisters haven’t been that small since they were twelve. Where did they get it?”

“Actually,” she said, her voice tremulous, “this gown used to be… your mother’s.”

He remembered. His mother had breezed into the nursery during his lessons like a bright butterfly and inquired about his progress. His Latin tutor had looked more than a little lovestruck as he gave a glowing report. Mother announced that learning a dead language seemed a terrible waste of time, slammed shut the book of Ovid’s poems, and left.

He remembered the dress well.

And he didn’t want Anabelle wearing it.


The edge of the mattress bowed under Owen’s weight; he rested his hands on his knees as he grappled with the fact that Anabelle had pilfered his mother’s dress. His dark brows slashed across his unusually pale face. Though injured, he still exuded power and vitality, and the room seemed infinitely smaller with him in it. With a scowl he said, “Why would my sisters think it appropriate to give you our mother’s dress?”

Before now, she’d been too concerned he might keel over and die to give much thought to her state of undress. But his brooding stare made her drop the dress and cross her arms in front of her chest. She’d been afraid he’d react this way. She never should have accepted his sisters’ gift.

“Don’t blame Olivia and Rose. I mentioned that I’d like to become more fashionable.” It was lowering to admit.

He lifted an eyebrow and then winced as though the tiny movement had caused him pain. “I see. You want to make a good impression at the house party.”

She shrugged. “I suppose I do.”

“In order to catch the eyes of the eligible men there?”

Nothing could have been further from her mind. “Perhaps.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he sat up straighter. “You’ll have many admirers.”

With a sigh, she said, “Actually, my primary motivation was to avoid embarrassing your sisters. As their companion, my appearance reflects on them.” Of course, she’d also hoped Owen would notice her, but she’d cut her tongue out before telling him.

He seemed to ponder what she’d said. “Whatever your reasons, I think it’s high time you stopped hiding your beauty. But you should not be wearing my mother’s dress.”

Anabelle sank to the corner of the bed farthest from him. “Fine. I’ll tell your sisters I can’t accept them.”

“There are more?”

“They brought a bag full of gowns. Most of them were entirely too elegant for me, but I thought I might make use of a few.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Yes, you made that clear.” She felt hollow inside, like all the hope in her chest had rushed out. She didn’t know why, when Owen only confirmed what she already knew in her heart. She didn’t belong in his world.

He slowly turned to her, reached out, and laid his hand over hers. “I don’t think you understand.”

She yanked her hand away. “Oh, but I do.” Anger and despair battled for the top spot in her whirling, tangled emotions. “I’m good enough to amuse you. Not good enough to wear your mother’s cast-offs.”

“No,” he said adamantly. “That’s not it at all. You’re too good to wear her cast-offs, Belle. You’re everything she wasn’t. Loyal, warm, sincere.”

Oh. Her eyes grew moist. “They’re just dresses, Owen. Fabric held together with thread. Wearing them wouldn’t change who I am.”

“Promise?”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Promise.”

After taking a deep breath, he said, “Then I won’t forbid you to wear them. I still don’t like the idea, though.”

“How about if I just wear them during the house party? Nothing else I have is appropriate.”

“That seems reasonable.” He paused and then tilted his head. “I don’t suppose you’d let me buy you new dresses?”

“I would not.”

“Damn.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Could I convince you to forego dresses altogether? You look very fetching in your chemise.”

His smooth words rolled over her, soothing the hurt. She looked into his eyes and saw not the arrogant duke, but him. Heat flared between them, and like a fool, she walked into the fire.

“I’ve missed you,” she said.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Leaning across the bed, he carefully removed her spectacles and placed them on the bedside crate. In one swift motion, he captured her cheek in his palm, drew her face toward his, and gently kissed her lips. Desire coursed through her body, tingling her scalp, tightening her nipples, curling her toes. She kissed him back, reveling in the perfect melding of his lips to hers. Whatever their differences—and there were many—their connection felt right and true.

She pulled back slightly. “Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“Improving by the second.” He grinned and leaned in for another searing kiss. With each thrust of his tongue, each touch of his hand, he brought her further under his spell. She wanted to stay like this, cocooned in their private, simple world forever.

This time, however, she was determined to give pleasure as well as take it.

Brushing a few stray locks away from his face, she said, “Remove your jacket.”

The corner of his mouth curled in a heart-stopping smile as he shrugged off the jacket and handed it to her.

“Thank you.” With relish, she tossed it over her shoulder. Then she loosened his cravat, tugged it off, and sent it sailing across the room as well. “Lie back.”

Green eyes full of anticipation, he did as she asked. When he placed his hands behind his head, the muscles in his arms flexed, making her mouth go dry.

“What next?” he challenged.

“I shall attempt to remove your boots.” Although difficult, she managed the task with a minimal amount of grunting.

“I have to confess I found that oddly arousing,” he said.

“That’s good,” she said, feeling quite the seductress. “We’re just getting started.” She turned the lantern down low and stretched out beside him on the soft mattress. The hunger that shone in his eyes was so fierce she could see it even without her spectacles. She could feel it. Taste it.

She needed to tell him how she felt about him, needed to know if he felt the same. “Owen, when I first met you, I thought you were arrogant and stubborn. But now I see a different side of you, and I… I care for you. Deeply. I love the way I feel when I’m with you.”

There. She’d said it. And now she held her breath.

He cursed softly—not the reaction she’d hoped for.

Picking up a tendril of her hair and winding it around his fingers, he said, “You are amazing. But despite our connection, I don’t know what the future holds for us. You deserve marriage, which I can’t promise.”

Anabelle already knew this, but hearing him say the words aloud was rather crushing. She leaned over him, placing a palm on his chest. “I’m not seeking marriage. I just want to feel that there’s something real between us.”

“There is, Belle.” He dragged her head down and kissed her until she was dazed with longing. “Don’t doubt it. I care a great deal for you.”

As declarations went, it wasn’t the grandest. But for him, she suspected it was extraordinary. With her index finger, she traced small circles on the hard planes of his chest. “When I’m not with you, I start to wonder if this is all a figment of my imagination. If it only exists in the dark, when we’re alone.”

“It’s always there. I’ll show you that what we have is very real… and erase the doubts from your mind.”

He flipped her over so she was beneath him and kissed her hard, proving his point with every thrust of his tongue. And it was convincing.

As though removing the bow from a long-awaited present, he slipped the straps of her chemise off one shoulder, then the other. He lowered his head to suckle her breasts and kiss her belly, dragging her chemise lower and lower, until she wore nothing. He gazed at her with unabashed appreciation, and her body tingled in response.

Eager to see more of him, Anabelle lifted his shirt over his head. His chest and abdomen were so sculpted and hard they could have been made from marble. But unlike stone, his skin was warm and smelled faintly of brandy, cheroot smoke, the starch of his shirt, and him. She explored the cords of his neck, the expanse of his shoulders, and the ridges of muscle beneath his skin. When she touched his flat nipples, he kissed her even more deeply. She moaned from sheer pleasure.

Curious to know how his naked body would feel against hers, she pulled him closer. How different they were, and yet, they fit perfectly together. His arms felt strong and secure around her; the light sprinkling of hair on his chest tickled the sensitive skin of her breasts, teasing the tips to rigid peaks.

“Do you believe yet?” he asked.

“Hmmm?” Her head spun with desire.

“Do you believe in us?” He sucked lightly on her neck. “Do you believe in this?”

“I believe that you make me feel very good.”

He went still for a moment. “You may be even more of a cynic than I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Just close your eyes and enjoy. We have a few hours before dawn—I don’t intend to waste a minute of it.”

True to his word, Owen made excellent use of his time. He didn’t make love to her but taught her new things about her body—what felt good, what felt amazing, and what felt utterly divine. He talked to her about his sisters and his vast assortment of great aunts and asked about her family and her childhood. She almost told him about her grandfather, the viscount, but couldn’t choke out the words. Instead, she tried to explain that dressmaking was more than a profession to her; it was also her passion. They shared their silliest secret fears—hers was spiders and his was Latin translations.

Sated, she snuggled into the crook of his arm. Almost instantly, sleep began to descend upon her. Valiantly, she fought it, knowing it would end her time with Owen. But she was too content and comfortable to resist closing her eyes for a few moments. She drifted off in his arms.

Some time later, the sun’s golden rays, refracted by the porthole window, warmed her cheek in a celestial kiss, and she awoke. Alone.