When She Was Wicked

Chapter Twenty-nine

Stole: (1) A shawl, often of fur, worn loosely around the shoulders. (2) Past tense of the verb to steal, meaning to take something or someone—such as a suitor—rightfully belonging to another.

Birds chirped outside Anabelle’s window. Her hair, fanned out on the soft pillow beneath her head, smelled of mint and lavender. Inhaling deeply, she recalled her steaming bath the night before. She’d drifted off as the night breeze kissed her cheeks.

After a wonderful night’s sleep, she awoke relaxed and content.

Not at all the plan.

She was supposed to be angry and hurt. She was, dash it all. And quite determined to leave Huntford Manor.

She groped the bedside table until she found her spectacles and slid them on. Stretching, she padded to the window—horrified to find the sun already high in the sky.

Heavens, she’d slept the entire morning away.

She snatched a peach-colored morning gown from her satchel and quickly dressed. After coaxing her hair—still damp at the roots from last night’s washing—into a knot at the nape of her neck, she straightened the coverlet on the bed and stuffed the few personal items she’d brought into her bag.

How humiliating to have overslept when trying to make a dramatic exit, but there was nothing to be done for it. At least she was well-rested for the trip and could soon be on her way.

Using trial and error, she found her way around the enormous third floor and downstairs. The breakfast room had already been cleared, but Anabelle wasn’t looking for food. She merely needed to find Owen and demand one of his army of servants escort her home.

She found him in the drawing room, sitting with Rose and Olivia. From the broad smiles on their faces, one would have thought that the strife of the previous night had never occurred. “Good morning,” she said awkwardly.

Owen made a great show of looking at his pocket watch. “Good afternoon, Anabelle.”

She remained in the doorway, clutching the handle of her bag. His attempt to charm her wouldn’t distract her from her purpose, but Olivia’s and Rose’s disappointment might. How they must loathe her. Although they’d shown her nothing but kindness, she’d threatened and deceived them.

“Olivia and Rose,” she choked out, “I must apologize once again for writing the horrid extortion note. I didn’t deserve your friendship, but it meant the world to me. Olivia, you taught me to embrace every day. And Rose, you taught me true strength comes from inside.”

“What did I teach you?” Owen flashed a rakish grin.

Goodness. Nothing she could mention in front of his sisters. Actually, there was something. “The importance of family.”

He stood and walked toward her. “I think you already knew that.”

“I’m ready to go, Your Grace, but there’s one more thing I’d like to say.”

“Shall I sit down? Have a drink?”

“Suit yourself. I was simply going to say that I think you should respect Rose’s wishes.”

He planted his hands on his hips. “What wishes?”

“Regarding the duel. She doesn’t want you to challenge the earl.”

His jaw twitched. “As I’ve explained to Rose, this is a matter of honor. I’ll meet the earl… but will do my best not to kill him.”

“Will you aim for his shoulder?” Olivia inquired. “You could just graze it a bit.”

Rose made a face.

“I was thinking the knee, actually.”

Anabelle exhaled in frustration. “I think you’re missing the point, Your Grace. Rose is worried that you might get hurt.”

“Are you worried about me, Anabelle?”

She bared her teeth in a mockery of a smile. “I’m worried you might be carted off to Bedlam.”

He chuckled. “If my sisters don’t fall in line soon, that’s a distinct possibility. However, allow me to put your mind at ease with regard to Winthrope. Just yesterday, his seconds informed me that he’s confined to his bed due to a nasty illness. I may be ruthless, but even I know it’s not sporting to challenge an invalid in a duel.”

“So you’ll postpone it until he recovers?”

“If he recovers. He’s rumored to have… syphilis.”

Anabelle pondered this for a moment, and Rose and Olivia seemed to do the same.

“Well, that certainly seems fitting,” Olivia announced at last. Which was, of course, what each of them thought but hadn’t the audacity to say. Given the duchess’s relationship with the earl, she’d most likely suffer the same fate. A sobering thought.

“I must seem terribly callous,” Olivia continued. “But I’m not entirely heartless.” She strolled to the piano in the center of the room and began randomly pecking on the keys. “I want you to know, Anabelle, that I’ve forgiven you. For almost shredding my reputation, that is.”

Relief flooded Anabelle’s chest, making it hard to breathe, much less speak. “Thank you. It’s… it’s more than I dared to hope.”

Olivia plunked on the keys some more. Discordant notes rang out, surprising coming from a pianist as accomplished as she. “If it’s not too much to ask, though, there’s one little thing I’d like to ask of you in return.”

“Of course. Just name it.” She’d do anything to earn the sisters’ forgiveness.

“No, I cannot. It’s selfish of me to even ask.”

“It’s not. Please, I want to make this up to you and Rose somehow. I need to.”

“Well, we were hoping you’d stay until Rose’s ball this Saturday.”

“But… but, that’s six days away.”

“I knew it was too much. It’s just that there’s so much to do, and we would have dearly loved your help. Don’t worry yourself, however. We’ll still forgive you.”

Anabelle knew that she was being manipulated. And that she deserved it. “Very well,” she said, setting down her bag. “I’ll stay.”


Guests began arriving on Thursday. Much to Olivia’s delight, Mr. Averill came first; he’d barely dismounted before she boldly sought his opinion on the use of canopic jars for mummification. Lord and Lady Harsby, and Lady Danshire arrived shortly after, as did several of Owen’s friends from Town. On Friday, all fourteen great aunts made their appearances, each one more charming and gracious than the next. Anabelle was certain she’d never manage to tell them apart, but Olivia drew a helpful chart for her detailing each woman’s preference in hats—it proved indispensible.

Most of the ball guests, however, would come from the surrounding villages and nearby estates. Olivia assured Anabelle that the ball would be far less stuffy than those held in Town. A relief, even though she had no basis for comparison.

When she’d agreed to stay until the ball, she hadn’t thought she’d be attending the ball. But Olivia could be very persuasive.

All week long, they practiced dancing reels and quadrilles and experimented dressing their hair in fetching styles. Rose and Olivia insisted that Anabelle wear another of their mother’s old ballgowns. The girls claimed to have found the sea-foam green dress in an old armoire belonging to their mother, quite fortuitously, the day before the ball. After inspecting the flawless silk and the fashionable lines of the gown, however, Anabelle suspected someone had the dress made for her.

She didn’t venture to guess who that person might be.

Olivia and Rose insisted on shopping excursions to the village, purchasing pretty ribbons and new bonnets. Rose spoke a little more each day. Anabelle treasured the idyllic time spent with the girls—all the more so because it couldn’t last. Before long, she’d return to the dress shop where she’d toil over beautiful gowns for privileged ladies. Some of whom would, no doubt, wear her creations as they waltzed across ballroom floors… with Owen.

He left her to her own devices. Not that he behaved indifferently to her. The hot glances he shot over the rim of his wineglass and the wicked smiles he flashed across the chessboard suggested he still had feelings for her. Or rather, he still wanted her.

An emotion quite different from the real, all-the-days-of-your-life, sort of love.

Every distant, cordial word he spoke was a pinprick on her soul, but at least he respected her enough to honor her wishes. He kept his promise—and his distance.

When at last the day of the ball arrived, Anabelle’s melancholy was no match for Rose’s and Olivia’s excitement. Infected by their enthusiasm, Anabelle arranged flowers and draped silk swags, avoiding thoughts of the farewells she’d bid tomorrow.

After a two-hour private meeting, Owen and Charles emerged from the study looking like spelunkers exiting a cave—weary, disheveled, and relieved. Owen decreed that Charles could attend the ball—a concession to the part the stable master played in Rose’s breakthrough. Also, they were both keen on having her continue to eat. More importantly, Charles would keep his position, as long as there were no more unchaperoned meetings between him and Rose.

Charles swore on his life that he and Rose were nothing more than friends. Their unlikely relationship sparked from a mutual interest in animals—horses in particular. When Charles mentioned he’d been trying to teach himself to read, Rose brought him books on flora and fauna. If Rose had succumbed to a romantic infatuation, Charles was oblivious. He’d never heard her speak before the night Anabelle arrived.

But Rose grew more vocal each day. To Owen, she said, “Charles isn’t inclined to dance, but I assume you’d have no objection to us taking a stroll about the ballroom this evening?”

Charles paled; Olivia and Anabelle held their breath.

Owen was silent for several seconds; a muscle in his cheek twitched. “Minx. A brief stroll, with one of the great-aunts a few steps behind.”

Rose beamed.

“One more thing.” Owen tweaked her nose. “Save the first dance for me.”

Eyes glistening, Rose launched herself at Owen. “Of course I will,” she sniffled. “But you’d better not step on my new slippers.”

Shortly after tea, Anabelle began helping Rose and Olivia with their hair, corsets, and at last, their gowns—which were magnificent.

Rose wore white silk trimmed in delicate rosettes of pink. She looked so fresh and lovely that one of the greataunts—who probably needed new spectacles—bent over to smell the silk flowers at Rose’s shoulders. Instead of hiding Rose’s strawberry hair under a fussy cap, Anabelle wound pink ribbon through it and let a thick column of curls cascade down her back.

Olivia wore light blue silk trimmed in silver lace and crystals—a combination as striking as moonlight shimmering on a lake. Anabelle teased Olivia that with a quiver and bow she would have resembled Artemis; Olivia quipped that if she were going to carry arrows, one of Cupid’s would be helpful. Anabelle suspected that the beautiful gown Olivia wore would prove more effective than arrows.

As Anabelle curled a few tendrils that grazed Olivia’s bare shoulders, she realized dinner would be served in less than a half hour, and she still needed to dress herself.

“Come,” Olivia said, leading the way to Anabelle’s bedchamber. “Rose and I will help you.”

“No! You mustn’t do anything that will wrinkle your dresses or muss your hair.”

“Nonsense.” Olivia laid Anabelle’s gown across the bed. “I don’t wish to look too perfect. If I did, James would never recognize me.”

Rose giggled, and Anabelle savored the moment. It seemed the girls had truly forgiven her.

Trailing her fingers over the sumptuous fabric of her gown made her pleasantly light-headed. Never had she imagined she’d wear something so lovely. Well, perhaps she had, once or twice. The best bit was she hadn’t had to make it herself.

She quickly removed her day dress, slid into a fresh chemise, and rolled on the silk stockings that Rose lent her. Olivia carefully lifted the gown over Anabelle’s head, and as the soft waves of pale green silk billowed around her legs, her breath caught in her throat. A few months ago, she’d skulked through the streets of London wearing boy’s clothes; tonight she’d mingle at a duke’s ball wearing the finest of gowns. She blinked back tears as Olivia rummaged through the meager selection of ribbons and hairpins Anabelle had brought with her.

“These won’t do. I shall see what Rose and I have that will suit.” Olivia turned to leave, but Rose laid a hand on her arm.

“I have an idea.” She plucked a delicate white bloom from a vase on the dresser and tucked it into Anabelle’s hair, just above her left ear. Smiling, she said, “It’s perfect.”

“I feel like an impostor,” Anabelle admitted.

Olivia shrugged. “So do I. I’ve no business looking this pretty, but thanks to the gown you made, I do.”

“You do, indeed,” Anabelle said, chuckling. “To dinner!”

“To dinner!” Olivia and Rose chorused.

They made their way to the drawing room, where Anabelle endeavored not to stare at Owen. In his black jacket, waistcoat, and breeches, he cut a dashing figure. His crisp white shirt and cravat contrasted sharply with his tanned face. Although Olivia chided him about the complete lack of color, Anabelle thought the austere look suited him perfectly.

He, Lord Harsby, and Mr. Averill dutifully made two or three trips to the dining room each—just to escort all the aunts. Owen then returned for his sisters, smiling tightly at Anabelle. He whispered to Olivia and Rose as he guided them to their seats.

Taking Mr. Averill’s arm, Anabelle asked, “Is anything amiss?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just a feeling. Probably my own nerves,” she confessed.

“Understandable, but unwarranted. You look lovely, Miss Honeycote.”

Although Anabelle sampled the many delicacies that were paraded before them, she tasted little. Sitting at such a grand, long table made her feel small and anxious. Turning to Olivia, who was wedged between Aunt Constance of the purple feathers and Aunt Eustace of the azure turban, Anabelle inclined her head toward two empty place settings across the table from her. “Who are the extra seats for?”

Olivia’s gaze flew to Owen’s. “Who are the extra seats for?” she repeated. “Well, let me think. I believe they were meant for—”

“The parson and his wife,” Owen interjected. “They sent word that they were detained but will join us at the ball.”

“Oh,” Anabelle said. The aunts lining both sides of the table nodded, and the multitude of colorful feathers and bows waving—while dizzying—made her smile. But she couldn’t help feeling as though she were an outsider. Like everyone kept some sort of secret from her.

But the ball would soon be over, and when it was, she’d pack her bags and return to her real life. Although mundane and fraught with strife, it was her life.

At the conclusion of dessert, the ladies freshened up and drifted toward the ballroom in a silk pastel cloud. The enormous hall boasted a high, arched ceiling that looked like it had been lifted straight out of a cathedral. Hundreds of candles in five crystal chandeliers burned so brightly it hurt to look at them. Along one long wall, three sets of open French doors invited guests to wander out onto the terrace. A soft breeze carried the scent of the rose garden into the hall, a reminder that Town and all its trappings were miles away. A string quartet played softly as ladies and gentlemen, dressed in their finery, began to mill about the ballroom.

And so the night began.

Olivia and Rose comported themselves beautifully, accepting compliments graciously, and making every guest, be they marchioness or villager, feel truly welcome. Realizing she was rather extraneous, Anabelle retreated to the chairs situated among a dozen or so potted palms at the far end of the ballroom. The aunts clustered in that general area, so Anabelle busied herself fetching lemonade for some and champagne for the more adventurous among them.

When it was time for the first dance, she excused herself and joined Olivia at the edge of the dance floor. Owen led Rose to the center of the room, pride oozing out of him. When the orchestra played the beginning chords of a waltz, he whirled Rose up and down the length of the floor, much to the delight of the crowd.

Mesmerized by his athletic grace—and the love for his sister shining in his eyes—Anabelle sighed. How she longed to be in his arms.

She wasn’t the only one.

“You’re a bold little chit, do you know that?” The deceivingly sweet voice behind Anabelle made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. Miss Starling.

Anabelle glanced to her right, where Olivia had stood just moments before, but now she was several yards away, apparently deep in conversation with Mr. Averill.

“Lady Olivia cannot protect you.” Miss Starling’s hair was the color of golden wheat, and her blue eyes flashed dangerously. She was the most beautiful woman in the room by half. And the most spiteful. “I thought I’d made it clear that you were to stay away from the duke and his sisters. Have you forgotten that one whispered rumor from me could ruin you and Huntford’s sisters by association?”

“I’m leaving in the morning to return to my position at the dress shop.” Anabelle managed to keep the tremor out of her voice, but her knees shook.

“I’m sure you have all sorts of romantic notions about the duke, Miss Honeycote, but do not deceive yourself. You may scrub the working-class dirt from beneath your nails and wear an expensive gown, but you’re nothing more than a seamstress, and you’ll never be anything but. Except, possibly, a whore.”

Anabelle’s fear seeped out of her, making room for anger. A few weeks ago, she’d have believed every word Miss Starling said. She’d had the same thoughts herself. But now she knew who she really was—a seamstress, extortionist, daughter, sister, friend… and a woman in love.

“You’re entitled to your opinion of me, but please, don’t let your hatred for me spoil Rose’s debut. I’ll plead a headache, go to my room, and take the first coach headed to London tomorrow.”

“How noble.” Miss Starling affected a yawn. “Leave, before I tell the village’s biggest gossip that you seduced Huntford while you were supposed to be chaperoning his innocent sisters. Go!” She might have been shooing an annoying insect.

But just then, the first dance ended. Owen walked Rose to Charles. The stable master bowed deeply, his eyes full of wonder and gratitude at the public acknowledgement.

“That man looks familiar,” Miss Starling mumbled.

“Charles is in charge of the duke’s stables,” Anabelle said.

“The stable master? He and Rose must be the ones who—Good heavens, has the entire family gone mad? Consorting with servants is one thing. But in public? For shame.” She jabbed Anabelle with her elbow. Hard. “Leave now. Huntford is coming this way to ask me for a dance, no doubt. I should refuse him, but I’ve a soft spot for rich dukes.”

Anabelle looked up and saw he was, indeed, walking closer. Her traitorous stomach flipped at the sight of his half-cocked grin and confident stride. Just a couple more things she’d miss until her memories of him faded. After a while, the hurt would lessen.

But not anytime soon.

Thinking to blend into the crowd, she stepped back a few paces.

“Belle.”

She froze momentarily, certain she must be imagining things.

“Miss Anabelle Honeycote.”

His height allowed him to easily navigate the crowd. As he brushed past Miss Starling, her mouth fell open in horror.

And then he stood before Anabelle. “Come to the dance floor with me.”

Not a question, but a command—and still, she felt she should refuse. It was a spectacle in the making. Miss Starling hung behind him, shooting poisonous looks at Annabelle. The crowd gasped, captivated by the scene playing out before them.

She should have politely declined, or better yet, fled the room.

But Owen’s green eyes pleaded. Come with me.

So, taking the strong, warm hand he offered, she followed him onto the dance floor.