When She Was Wicked

Chapter Twenty-six

Owen trembled from wanting Anabelle so badly. And now he was holding her and kissing her… and would finally make love with her.

The longing he felt for her transcended the physical. God knew, there was that. But he missed her at the strangest times. While he was walking with Miss Starling a couple of days ago, a tiny duckling waddled across his path, and he thought it tragic that Anabelle was not there to see it. Likewise, while riding his horse over the fields, he wished he could capture the spectacular sunset and somehow bring it home to her. A sunset, for God’s sake. He’d never noticed such trifling things before; now he waxed poetic like the lovesick fool he was.

Reluctantly, he broke off their kiss, removed her spectacles, and tucked them into his coat pocket. “Are you sure about this, Anabelle?” He had to ask but prayed she wouldn’t change her mind. “I want you to be mine. Forever.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she twined her arms around his neck. “I am yours. For now.”

A chill washed over him. “What does that mean?”

“I know how important your sisters are to you. I understand the duty you have to them and to your title. I won’t interfere with that because if I did… you’d resent me forever.”

“I would never resent you.” Why was she talking about his sisters and duty right now? “This is about us.”

“Hmm?” She left a trail of hot, moist kisses on the side of his neck, making it damned near impossible to think.

“I want us to be together,” he managed. “Always.”

“I want that, too, but I’m not willing to compromise.”

“Neither am I.”

With a seductive smile, she slipped her hands underneath his shirt and gently raked her nails down his chest. Pleasure spiked, and he groaned.

“Let’s focus on tonight, shall we?”

In some corner of his mind, he was dissatisfied with her response, but his brain—muddled with desire—couldn’t sort it out. All he knew was he’d die if he didn’t have her now.

He shrugged off his coat and yanked off his boots and trousers. To his utter delight, Anabelle shed her chemise.

She didn’t attempt to cover herself as she stood before the fire. Her skin glowed, and the shadows only highlighted the lush curves of her breasts and bottom. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight. “You are gorgeous.”

With an apologetic smile, she ran her hand over the length of her braid and plucked a blade of grass from it. “Hardly. But thank you for saying so.”

“Come here.”

She knelt beside him on the pallet. He slid the knotted ribbon off the end of her braid and ran his fingers through the plaits until her hair flowed down her back. Starting at her crown, he massaged her scalp, neck, and back.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He swept her shining tresses aside and took the tip of her breast into his mouth, sucking until she moaned softly. Together, they lay back on the makeshift bed, and he covered her body with his, loving the way her hips cradled him.

Although she may have been inexperienced at lovemaking, she returned every thrust of his tongue and explored his body as freely as he did hers. She ran her hands down his back, over his flanks, raising his body temperature with every stroke. When she reached down to touch him, though, he stopped her.

Looking confused and slightly hurt, she said, “I shouldn’t touch you?”

He swallowed and counted to three in his head before answering. “I love that you want to touch me. More than you know. But if you do, this will be over quickly. Too quickly.”

“Then can’t we just do it again?” She was impossibly beautiful lying beneath him, her hair fanned out around her. And her innocent question made him even harder—if that were possible.

“Yes,” he said, kissing her on the nose. “Yes, we can.”

Her face lit as though she’d been given an expensive gift, and she eagerly took him in her hands. “You’re so warm and smooth.” Her inexpert touch was more arousing than he’d imagined. “Show me how to please you.”

“You are.”

“How is this?” She grazed her thumb across the tip of his cock, and he groaned. “Bad?”

“Good.” He couldn’t wait any longer. He eased her legs apart, pressed himself against her, and kissed her thoroughly. She moved against him, warm and slick with her desire and his.

“You’re mine, Anabelle.”

“Yes.”

With that, he thrust into her. She was incredibly tight, and he had to go still or risk climaxing instantly. As good as he felt, however, he couldn’t bear the thought that he might have hurt her. “Are you all right?”

Her sultry eyes gleamed mischievously, and she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. “I know it’s supposed to hurt, but I like the feel of you inside me.”

Owen growled. All thought was replaced with pure, hot need. He pumped into her again and again, and with his hands, his mouth, and his body, he claimed her. His.

She moved with him, matching his rhythm as though perfectly in tune.

A pulsing began in his ears—low, steady, unstoppable. It powered through him, coursing through his veins and pounding in his loins until he came. He spilled his seed into her, the only woman he had ever or would ever love, as he whispered her name and held her tightly.

He would never let her go.


Anabelle loved feeling so close to Owen, so connected. She loved the abandon with which he’d taken her and the weight of him lying on her now. Her first experience with lovemaking left her breathless and awed.

And only mildly disappointed. She’d thought she would feel the earth-shattering pleasure he’d given her before, but tonight had been different. Still wonderful, but different.

He eased himself off of her and thoughtfully pulled the quilt up to her chin. “You are amazing.”

She breathed a bit easier. It was good to know she hadn’t botched things completely. “You enjoyed it, then?”

“Immensely.” He ran his palm up and down her bare arm, making her shiver. “And now, you shall too.”

Her toes curled with anticipation. “There’s more?”

He slipped a hand beneath the quilt and slid it up her leg. “Much more.”

Sucking in a breath, she savored his touch. As he stroked her thighs and kissed her neck, hunger welled up inside, pulsing at her core. Her head lolled back and Owen’s hand drifted higher, till he found the center of her need—and pleasure. Murmuring her name, he caressed the nub until she writhed in exquisite torture. When the mounting pressure became almost unbearable, she cried out and lifted her hips. His eyes full of understanding, Owen slid a finger into her and said, “My beautiful, my Belle.” She shattered then, surrendering to the lovely spasms that radiated through her body and quelled the fire burning within.

When at last her breathing returned to normal, Owen rained light kisses over her face. “I’m sorry your first time wasn’t as pleasurable as it should have been. You rob me of my self-control.”

She smiled. “You accuse me of thievery?”

“Something like that. But I promise you that this time”—he rolled her hips toward his—“you won’t be disappointed.”

“I’m not—” Oh. Whatever she’d been about to say died on her lips. Owen thrust into her, filling her body, heart, and soul.

“You and I are meant for each other, Belle,” he whispered against her neck. “I won’t let anything—or anyone—keep us apart.”

His words washed over her like a cool rain shower, leaving her energized, renewed, and utterly aroused. Each time he rocked against her sensitive, swollen flesh, her inner muscles clenched around him, pulling him deeper, filling her more, till she thought she’d die of sheer pleasure. Faster and faster he plunged into her, till the sounds in and around the cottage faded away, and all she could hear was their breathing, her heartbeat, and the soft slap of their bodies coming together—perfectly. Her climax built slowly and when release finally came, she pulled Owen along with her, the two of them shooting through the sky like comets, before gently, sweetly returning to earth.

Sated and suddenly sleepy, she nestled into the warm crook of his arm. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

As she drifted off to sleep, he whispered in her ear. “We will.”


Anabelle’s dreams were too pleasant to let reality intrude, but she’d apparently neglected to close the drapes in her bedchamber. An annoying beam of light prodded her awake in spite of her tightly closed eyelids. Thinking to combat it by covering her head, she reached for her pillow.

Only, it wasn’t there. Odd.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, and saw the cottage. It looked quite different in the morning light, which was unobstructed by curtains but muted due to the filth covering the window. The few items in the room—the trunk, the shelves, the pallet on which she lay—were well-worn, and a thin layer of dust covered most surfaces.

Owen was gone. He had to leave, of course, but she clung to his promise—that they could be together forever. Hope sprouted in her chest like a seedling, green and vulnerable.

The previous night rushed over her in a flood of emotion—panic, joy, loneliness, passion. She felt as though she’d lived a lifetime in one day, unsure what the new one would bring. Sitting up, she realized she was quite naked and should probably rectify the situation before the cavalry arrived to rescue her.

Before going in search of her clothes, however, she needed her spectacles. An advantage of occupying a one-room cottage should have been that it was nearly impossible to lose anything. And yet, her spectacles weren’t on the shelf or the trunk or the rustic mantel. They weren’t even hiding in the straw of the pallet. The last time she’d worn them had been—

Oh. Just before Owen removed them and put them in his pocket. A gallant gesture at the time; now it vexed her.

She wriggled into her shift and risked a quick walk outside in order to remove some of the dried mud from her yellow dress. Although she detested the thought of donning the soiled dress, it would never do to be caught in her chemise when Owen returned to the cottage with Mr. Averill and Olivia. At least they were too kind to fault her unkempt appearance. Before presenting herself to Lord and Lady Harsby and their guests she’d sneak to her bedchamber, bathe, and change.

Humming, she secured her hair with the ribbon at the nape of her neck, and then tidied the cottage as best she could. Before long, someone outside shouted her name.

Olivia.

Eager to hug her and celebrate Rose being found, Anabelle rushed to the cottage door, swung it open, and—

Froze. Olivia and Mr. Averill stood before her, smiling warmly. Owen was just behind them, his eyes full of tenderness and the secrets they’d shared. That bit was wonderful.

But Owen wasn’t alone.

At his side, Miss Starling linked her arm possessively through his.

“I’m so glad to see you!” cried Olivia. “You poor thing! Did you have a horrid night?”

“It wasn’t dreadful.” Her eyes flew to Owen’s, and she flushed. “That is, I was quite… comfortable.” She wanted to crawl into the trunk and have someone put her on a cargo ship to Africa.

“How reassuring,” Owen said with a wry smile.

Miss Starling shuddered delicately and peered over Anabelle’s shoulder into the room. “I fail to see how anyone could possibly be comfortable in this pathetic excuse for a cottage. Why, I should think it barely qualifies as a shack, Huntford.”

Owen ignored Miss Starling, and yet, she clung to his sleeve like a barnacle to the bottom of a boat. “Miss Honeycote, thank you again for helping me locate Rose and for volunteering to stay behind last night. It was a brave and selfless thing to do.”

Although his words were merely for the benefit of the others, Anabelle flushed some more anyway. “I’m delighted I could help.”

“Say,” interjected Olivia, “where are your spectacles?”

Good heavens. Her face must resemble a beet. “I, er… seem to have misplaced them.”

“Allow me to help you check the cottage,” Owen said smoothly. After extracting his arm from Miss Starling’s clutches, he walked in. He made a show of rummaging around the shelves, discreetly removed the spectacles from his pocket, and turned around, holding them out to Anabelle. “Here they are.”

“Thank you. How silly of me.”

“Not at all.” He gazed at her with such heat and intensity that she thought she might melt. She did not but was quite unable to breathe for several seconds.

Miss Starling cleared her throat, and when Anabelle faced her, she took in the woman’s shrewd, blue, narrowed eyes. “You must have been desperately lonely last night, Miss Honeycote. Without any sewing to occupy you.”

Swallowing, Anabelle glanced quickly at Owen. He pressed his lips together tightly and shot her a warning look that said: admit nothing.

“Yes, I suppose.” Miss Starling wasn’t so intimidating—if one discounted her perfect hair, flawless complexion, and lush figure.

“You are very fortunate, you know,” she continued icily. “Had a man been in this part of the woods, he might have welcomed the opportunity to ruin an innocent like you. In spite of your filthy dress and disheveled appearance.”

Anabelle blinked, stunned. Olivia gasped, and Mr. Averill crossed his arms over his chest.

“Miss Starling,” Owen said sharply, “that’s quite enough.”

“Indeed,” she said, apparently inspecting the back of her glove for a loose thread or speck of dust. There was none, of course. “I believe I see the way of things. And to think, I skipped breakfast for this.”

Owen poured the last bit of water in the bucket onto the grate and the remaining embers hissed. “Let’s go.”

Their entire party followed the meandering path through the woods until it spilled onto the fields where the tethered horses grazed. Anabelle rode in front of Owen as she’d done before, but felt none of the exhilaration of the previous day. She was certain that Miss Starling’s eyes were boring into the back of her head. And while the spoiled miss was clearly a shrew, her insinuations happened to be true.

If Anabelle had had her List with her, she’d add: “Never delude oneself into thinking love is an excuse for breaking the rules.” For she had definitely broken the rules, and now, Miss Starling intended to make her pay.

The manor house finally came into view, and the group rode directly to the stable. Anabelle avoided Owen’s gaze as he helped her dismount. Olivia was deep in conversation with Mr. Averill, and Owen turned to give instructions to the stable hand. To no one in particular, Anabelle said, “Forgive me, but I think I shall walk to the house and freshen up.” Eager to escape Miss Starling’s scrutiny, she glided out of the stable. Slipping into a steaming hot bath was going to feel so—

“Miss Honeycote!” The shrill voice rang out behind her, and she spun around.

Miss Starling walked briskly, looking perfectly elegant as she did so. “Do wait—I shall join you.”

Anabelle tried to disguise her dread but feared she was not entirely successful. “Of course.”

Falling into step beside her, Miss Starling gave a quick glance over her shoulder as though making sure they were alone. A chill ran the length of Anabelle’s spine.

She told herself Miss Starling couldn’t know Owen had spent the night at the cottage with her.

But she was wrong.

“I confess that I may have underestimated you, Miss Honeycote.”

Although this conversation was unavoidable, Anabelle had hoped to postpone it until after she’d removed the bits of leaves caked onto her hem. “In what way, Miss Starling?”

“Oh, I think you know.” She absently twirled a blond strand of hair around her index finger until it formed an obedient curl. “I awoke this morning at dawn. I happened to look out the window of my bedchamber, and I saw the duke walk up to the house.”

“How fascinating.” She tried to sound droll, even as her pulse beat out of control.

“He was wearing the same clothes as last evening.”

Anabelle raised her brows. “Your eyesight must be extraordinary.”

“Quite.” Miss Starling stopped at a rosebush along the path and admired a succulent, pink bloom. “I might not have given it a second thought, but when I joined him downstairs, I asked whether he’d been hunting. He said he hadn’t.”

“A scintillating conversation, to be sure. I’m not certain what it has to do with me.”

“Patience, Miss Honeycote.” She continued walking as if they were on a pleasant stroll. “Huntford also denied that he’d been out riding. I couldn’t imagine what he was hiding from me, but I had a niggling suspicion that you were involved.”

“I’m flattered.”

Miss Starling glared. “So, I decided to join him on his ride to retrieve you. And I saw the most peculiar thing. Your missing spectacles were in the pocket of his jacket. How do you suppose they got there?”

“I have no idea.” Her cheeks flamed. For an extortionist, she was a dreadfully poor liar.

“Well, I do. And it does not cast you in a favorable light.” Her sharp tone made the hairs on the back of Anabelle’s neck stand up. They were only a few yards from the house; she longed to flee to her bedchamber and slam the door. “Your actions are beyond the pale—hardly proper for a companion. If your indiscretion were to become known, I suspect your charges would be shocked and dismayed.”

Anabelle swallowed the knot in her throat. She hated the thought of hurting Rose and Olivia.

“Such a scandal would not help ease their way into society. They’re odd enough to begin with.”

“They’re lovely girls,” Anabelle said hotly. “And better friends than you deserve.”

Miss Starling raised a perfectly arched brow. “Your indignation is charming, in an unrefined way. Allow me to make my point, Miss Honeycote. You are merely a plaything for the duke. We both know he will tire of you before long, and your fairy tale will end. You’ll return to your pathetic existence, hemming dresses and wearing your dowdy clothes. Meanwhile, Huntford will marry me.”

Anabelle’s chest constricted with anger and something else. Quite possibly fear. She tamped it all down. “This has been delightful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go rest.”

“Not so quickly.” Miss Starling grabbed her arm in a viselike grip. “This afternoon, you will tell the duke that you must leave the house party immediately and that you can no longer act as the girls’ companion.”

“I can’t do that. I—”

“You must.”

Anabelle jerked her arm away. “I don’t take my orders from you, Miss Starling.”

With an amused smile, she responded, “No? Then consider this. If you don’t leave—immediately—I will inform everyone that you are the duke’s mistress.”

“Mistress? That’s a lie!”

“Is it, Miss Honeycote?” She laughed as though Anabelle had uttered the most amusing witticism. “Don’t tell me you are deceiving yourself?”

Anabelle turned and strode into the house, fighting tears the whole way. Happiness, within her reach for the briefest of moments, had been snatched away.

Oh, Miss Starling was a wretched person, but her words only pricked because they held a painful kernel of truth.

Although seemingly unfair, the ultimatum—leave, or have her affair exposed—was a fitting if ironic form of justice.

Everything had come full circle.

Anabelle had started out as the extortionist—and had become the victim.