When She Was Wicked

Chapter Five

Binding: (1) A long strip of fabric used to create a neat or decorative finish on an edge. (2) Chafing or restricting, as is often the case with tightly laced corsets.

After returning from Hyde Park that morning, Owen spent a few hours holed up in his study. He sent a message to Mrs. Smallwood, letting the proprietor of the dress shop know that her prized employee was on special assignment for a few months. She replied that she’d be happy to lend Miss Honeycote’s services and that the dress shop would supply all the fabric and trimmings.

It occurred to him that Miss Honeycote’s punishment was turning out to be a rather expensive prospect.

At breakfast he’d informed his sisters of the morning’s developments. He left out the bit about the bridge and the extortion.

They’d seemed delighted when he told them that Miss Honeycote would be making each of them several new gowns, and even more delighted when he mentioned that she’d be staying with them. As if it was a damned social visit.

A fly buzzing around Owen’s head distracted him from the papers that his steward had sent from Huntford Manor. He glanced at the clock on the mantel and realized that although it was almost two in the afternoon, he still hadn’t shaved or eaten lunch. Deciding he needed an excuse to stretch his legs, he walked upstairs to his bedchamber and, since his valet was not hovering about, saw to the task of lathering his face himself.

The cool blade scratched over his beard, and when the task was completed, he felt a tad more civilized. Now, if he could only locate a decent sandwich, he’d be a happy man. He strode down the corridor and turned toward the stairs, then stopped. Something at the other end of the hall looked odd. Different.

The door to the nursery. It was ajar.

He walked over and pushed it open. No one was there, but someone had been. The sheets covering the furniture were gone, and the shelves had been dusted and cleared. Four small desks were pushed together to make a table, and two other large tables had been placed against the wall opposite the windows. The center of the rug was worn thin from all the battles he’d reenacted with his wooden figures as a boy. But now, there was a full-length mirror propped against a chair. And baskets on the floor. Upon closer inspection, he could see that they held pins, scissors, buttons, and other things he would not venture to name.

Remnants of his boyhood remained. A globe in the corner. Slates on a shelf. A volume of Homer’s works, in Latin—the mere sight of which made him shudder. But it was clear that, at least for now, his old nursery would be used as a sewing room.

It was a good plan. No sense in keeping rooms closed off just because of an unpleasant memory or two when—

Interesting. The inside door that led to an adjoining guest room was open. He crossed the nursery and entered the bedchamber. Everything looked normal.

Except.

There, in the middle of the four-poster bed, a woman slept. He knew he should leave at once, before she awoke or someone saw him here. But he froze.

Her long hair flowed over the pillow in shiny, chestnut waves. Her smooth cheek was tinged with pink. As though she’d been dreaming of something wicked. Her slightly parted lips were the color of a lush peach and curled in the hint of a smile.

He moved toward the bed, pausing and holding his breath when she shifted in her sleep. When he reached her side, he realized the identity of the sleeping beauty.

Beautiful was not a word he would ever have imagined he’d apply to Miss Honeycote. Proud, devious, stubborn, and prickly—those words described her. But the evidence lay before him. Her features were almost perfect, save for the concave slope of her nose—the reason her spectacles never stayed put. Her body was lithe, and though he could not see her legs, he imagined they would be long.

The kind he liked to wrap around his waist. Or better yet, caress. Starting at an ankle, lingering behind a knee, grazing the skin on the inside of a thigh, and teasing the soft, swollen—

She bolted upright. “Your Grace?” It was a question and a scolding at the same time. She grabbed the pillow to her torso, as though attempting to cover her nakedness when, in fact, she was fully clothed.

A shame, that. “Good morning, Miss Honeycote.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she peered at the window. “I slept through the night?”

“No. I jest.”

She scowled.

“I was in the nursery, saw the door open, and wandered in here. I thought Mrs. Pottsbury planned to set you up in the attic.”

Blushing deeply, she said, “She insisted this room would be fine. But I would be happy in an attic room. Would prefer it, actually—”

“No. This is fine.”

“Well, then,” she said, still clutching the pillow to her chest, “perhaps you could give me some privacy?”

It would have been the gentlemanly, decent thing to do. “We still have a few matters to discuss.”

“Now?”

“I assumed you’d be eager to send word—and the necessary funds—to your mother and sister.” He was a true cad.

“I am,” she said quickly. “I’ve written a letter explaining my new circumstances.” Eying him warily, she eased herself off the bed and maneuvered around him toward the desk. The pillow was her shield, positioned between them at all times. She handed him the letter. “Here.”

He slapped the folded parchment against his palm. “How much did you tell them?”

“Just that you hired me for three months… and that the salary you offered was generous.”

“Indeed,” he said dryly. “I think we should settle your debts immediately. I’d like some level of confidence that you won’t be pocketing my priceless artifacts and hocking them at the nearest pawn shop. Who is your mother’s doctor, and how much do you owe him?”

“We owe Dr. Conwell fifteen pounds, and the apothecary, Mr. Vanders, two pounds.”

That must be a lot of money for someone like her. “My curiosity is piqued, Miss Honeycote. How much do seamstresses make?”

“Ten shillings a week.” She jerked her chin up, and her eyes flashed. “That’s why I’ve fallen so behind with payments.”

“What other debts do you have outstanding?”

She swallowed and gazed at the floor. “The rent. We owe Mrs. Bowman ten pounds.”

“Anyone else?”

“No… but my mother and sister have no money for food or any other basic things, like candles or oil for the lamps. If you could lend me a few extra shillings, I’d be grateful.”

Her lips were pressed together in a thin line as she awaited his response. Asking for help couldn’t be easy for her. He’d already planned to send her family spending money, but he guessed she would be uncomfortable receiving outright charity.

“I’m prepared to give you an advance on your salary. You’ll be earning it over the next three months.” He flicked his eyes to the mussed bedding. “Which, by the way, doesn’t begin until you actually start working.”

She threw the pillow on the bed and clenched her fists. She glanced at the dresser where her spectacles and cap lay, and then attempted to shoulder past him. But she stepped awkwardly on one of her slippers, and a leg buckled underneath her.

With a yelp, she started to fall, flailed her arms, and clipped him on the jaw.

He winced but caught her around her tiny waist. And steadied her against his body.

Her palms were pressed against his chest, where his heart beat faster than it should have. Her body felt right next to his. Surprisingly strong, yet soft. The silky ends of her hair brushed the back of his hand, and he inhaled the clean scents of soap and cotton.

When she gazed up at him, her gray eyes weren’t hard and stormy, as he’d expected. They were warm and sultry. She bit her lower lip, plump and moist. His cock went hard.

God, he wanted to kiss her—had to try. He leaned in, and she raised a hand to his face. With a smooth fingertip, she slowly traced a line on his chin. His skin tingled where she’d touched him.

“I scratched you,” she said.

He blinked and said nothing.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” His voice was more gruff than usual.

“You can, ah, release me now.”

Christ, he was still holding her as though they were about to dance a bloody waltz. “Of course.” Reluctantly, he let her go and attempted to smooth the crumpled letter in his hand. He held it up. “I will see that this is delivered to your residence along with enough money to last them several months. I don’t want you to worry about your family while you’re here. It would only distract you from your duties.”

She nodded soberly.

“Shall I have a footman bring your things here?”

“Oh yes, please. After my sister, Daphne, reads my letter, she’ll know what to pack for me.”

“Very well. I shall inform my sisters to meet you in the workroom”—he nodded toward the nursery—“after you’ve eaten your lunch, at say, three o’clock. They know nothing of your extortion scheme, by the way. I’d prefer to protect them from that bit of ugliness.”

She hung her head, her hair forming a lovely veil around her face. “I understand. I… I promise not to hurt them.”

“Rose, in particular, is fragile,” he said. He never knew how to explain her quirks. “She doesn’t speak to anyone but Olivia—and only rarely. But she’s very bright and communicates in other ways. Olivia understands her intuitively, but I…” He shook his head, unsure why he was telling all this to the seamstress. “I just want to see them happy.”

“Then that will be my goal,” she said, and he believed her. She’d been able to put Rose at ease at the dress shop; maybe she could work other small miracles.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Although he was a duke and she was an indentured servant, and there was a whole complicated social structure separating them, he felt an undeniable connection with her. She seemed to feel it, too.

He turned to leave through the nursery door so that no one who happened to be in the hallway would know he’d been in Miss Honeycote’s room. As he passed by the dresser where her broken spectacles lay, he slipped them into his palm and deposited them in his pocket. Fortunately, she didn’t notice.

He’d be damned if she was going to walk around his house wearing broken spectacles. It was the principle of the thing. She might sew a crooked seam on one of his sister’s dresses or miss a step and break her neck on the bloody stairs. There was enough drama in the household already.

He paused at the doorway. “I think this arrangement may work out better than either of us had hoped.”

She shot him a dubious look—he’d expect nothing less—and he shut the door behind him. When he heard the lock click, he smiled to himself.

Though he was uncharacteristically optimistic about the seamstress, he mustn’t forget what she’d done or why she was here.

And he definitely couldn’t kiss her. Or even have thoughts about kissing her.

Just two nights ago, he’d lectured Olivia on this very topic. Relationships between nobility and servants were forbidden—and with good reason. Those types of affairs were socially damaging for the lady or gentleman, true, but the servant had the most to lose. He would never be so callous—or desperate—as to use a member of his staff that way.

The problem was that he hadn’t expected Miss Honeycote to be so beautiful. If one could get past her blasted cap and spectacles and her perpetual scowl, she was nothing short of stunning.

Fortunately, he did not expect their paths to cross very often over the next three months. She’d likely spend her time in the nursery and with his sisters. He’d be busy running his damned dukedom and attending tedious social functions featuring pampered debutantes.

He withdrew the sorry spectacles from his pocket. Only someone as stubborn as Miss Honeycote would insist that she could see perfectly well through a cobweb of cracks.

No, there was no reason to think he would see her, except in passing. But then, one never knew.


Anabelle let out the breath she’d been holding.

What on earth was wrong with her?

She should never have fallen asleep. This assignment was her chance to prove to the duke that she wasn’t a lazy opportunist intent on taking advantage of others. She’d planned to impress him with her dedication and hard work but had, somehow, ended up napping.

But that wasn’t the only reason she deserved to be flogged. Instead of throwing him out of the room the moment he’d entered, she’d engaged in conversation with him. Worse, she’d been in complete dishabille, and that had put her at a distinct disadvantage during their exchange. While he’d worn an impeccably tailored jacket that showed his broad shoulders to advantage, she’d been caught—quite literally—with her hair down. It was humiliating.

The way the duke had looked at her was disturbing. And heady. During the few moments in his arms, she’d behaved like a complete wanton—sinking into him and touching his face—before managing to regain her common sense. Thank goodness she had, because, unlikely as it seemed, she suspected he’d been about to kiss her.

And she’d been about to let him.

Kissing was unquestionably prohibited by rule number five on her List of Nevers.

At least his unexpected visit had saved her from seeking him out. It was a huge relief to know that Mama and Daphne would have enough money to get them through the next few weeks. Perhaps a few good meals and additional visits from Dr. Conwell would help Mama improve. It wasn’t likely, but for the first time in a very long while she had a glimmer of hope.

Deciding it was high time she went to work, she buried her worries, straightened her spine, and went to the washbasin on the dresser. The fresh, cool water felt lovely against her skin, but when she looked up at the mirror she groaned. Her hair was loose and wild, and she resembled one of those naughty woodland nymphs who were forever flitting barefoot through the forest. The precise opposite of the impression she’d wished to make on the duke.

Well. She would rectify that now, brush or no brush. Grabbing the handful of pins she’d left on the dresser, she began to work her tresses back into a tight coil on the crown of her head. It took some doing and was not as smooth as she’d have liked, but she managed to pull every last wave into the knot.

Now, for her cap. She’d saved the last two pins to secure it. As she reached for it, she discovered that another cap had been left on top of it—Mrs. Pottsbury’s doing, no doubt. The new one was much smaller than her own, delicate, and edged in lace. Anabelle held it in her palm and admired it. It looked like a fancy little cake. The duke would find it much less offensive.

Pity, she had no intention of wearing it.

She shoved the pretty confection in a drawer and placed her own floppy cap on her head, making sure it covered as much of her hair as possible. There. She patted it down, not quite trusting the tightly coiled tresses beneath.

As soon as she put her spectacles on, she’d feel like she was back to her normal self. Only, she couldn’t find them. She was sure she’d left them on the dresser, but perhaps Mrs. Pottsbury had moved them when she’d left the cap. Anabelle searched on the floor in case they’d been knocked off and checked the desk where she’d written the letter. They were nowhere to be found. She tried not to let panic overwhelm her, but without them, any object farther away than her outstretched hand looked like it was under three feet of water.

It was very unlike her to misplace them; however, all sorts of things had gone amiss today.

She suspected this latest misfortune would not be the last.