Wickedly Yours (The Wickeds Book 4)

by Kathleen Ayers

  ‘I did not come for you for Nick’s sake.’

  Heat rippled down her body to her core as she remembered his words and her eyes fluttered closed. A strange yearning for Malden struck her.

  “I wondered if I’d ever find you alone, Lady Arabella.”

  Shocked, her eyes snapped open at the familiar voice.

  Barker stood, not two feet away, his bulk hidden in a tangle of flowering vines. As he stepped closer, she hastily pressed her gloves to her nose. Barker was in dire need of a bath.

  “Do I offend your precious sensibilities?” A sneer accompanied his words. His eyes were stony and full of dislike even as they ran knowingly over her body.

  Arabella took a step backwards. “What do you want?” She glanced towards Miranda, but her friend was engaged in an animated conversation with Miss Lainscott and paying Arabella no mind. The groom who’d accompanied she and Miranda wasn’t looking her way, his attention taken by two young maids who spoke to him while their mistresses gossiped several feet away. Surely if she screamed, someone would hear her. “If you are found in London—”

  “You’re the reason Corbett’s dead and I haven’t been paid.” Barker cleared his throat and spit near her feet.

  Arabella felt the blood drain from her face. “How dare you. You took me from my coach by force. You helped Corbett kidnap me.” She turned to wave at the young footman. “One scream from me and you’ll be arrested.”

  Barker gave an ugly laugh. “That’s rich. You weren’t screaming when I drove the coach away. Didn’t even try to escape, did you?”

  “I was concerned you would harm my aunt.” Every fiber in her body urged her to flee. How had Barker found her?

  “You agreed to marry Corbett and when that toff showed up, you changed your mind, so you stabbed him. Killed him dead. Probably pushed him out the bloody window.”

  Arabella shook her head viciously. Her hand began to twitch against her skirts. “He tripped and fell out the window and broke his neck. I wasn’t anywhere near him at the time. He died from the fall.” How could Barker know she stabbed Corbett? Rowan had taken responsibility. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Barker gave her a speculative look. “That’s where you’re wrong, Lady Arabella. I wasn’t paid for services rendered.”

  “I hardly see how that is my problem.” But she could see it was going to become her problem. And Barker wanted money to go away.

  “I’m sure your brother, the duke, won’t see it that way. Nor that fancy toff.”

  Arabella swallowed. Her brother would never forgive another deception. And Malden? He would hate her and break the betrothal. Did she want Malden to view her with disgust? Or have her brother banish her to parts unknown?

  Resigned, Arabella reached into her reticule, pulling out what funds she carried. “This is all I have.” Allowing herself to be blackmailed went against everything Arabella believed in but what other choice did she have?

  Barker chuckled and snatched the coins from her hand. “I knew you’d see reason, Lady Arabella.”

  21

  Rowan told himself, as he sat discussing his acquisition of a textile mill with the Duke of Dunbar, that he wouldn’t attempt to see Arabella today. Twice before he’d tried to call on her only to have Peabody politely, but firmly, rebut him. Such a show of cowardice was unlike Arabella. Surely, she had something to say about their betrothal and approaching marriage. Even if she didn’t, Rowan had quite a lot to say to her.

  “How precipitous that you are to become my brother-in-law, as it seems you will need my ships. Cotton, I assume, from America. Wool perhaps? You know, I’ve heard an interesting story as to how you came into possession of the textile mills.”

  The Duke of Dunbar was one of the few noblemen in England who openly engaged in trade. The family had become enormously wealthy as a result of their shipping empire and brought goods to England from all over the world. They hired only the best captains, paid the crews well and sailed to faraway places few others would attempt. Luxury goods, especially things not available anywhere else were brought by the duke’s ships to London. Even if Arabella hadn’t entered the equation, Rowan would have approached Nick.

  “Have you?” Rowan gave his friend a bored look.

  “Ah, Malden. You know that I have.”

  Rowan didn’t doubt it. The Dunbars not only dealt in shipping but also in information. “The fool should not have gambled what he could not afford to lose,” Rowan bit out, then he smiled. “He was fortunate that it was I who he negotiated with and not another who would not have been so kind. Besides, I’m not sure I’ve gotten the better part of the bargain. The Newsome properties are in poor shape and will take a great deal of investment to modernize.”

  Nick shot him a veiled glance, the pewter ring he always wore on his thumb, dull and pitted with age, caught the light. “You have become more interesting over time, Malden.”

  A great bubble of laughter erupted from inside his chest, as he wondered how much he should confide to his future brother-in-law. “I am glad you think so, Your Grace.”

  A flash of gray outside the window caught Rowan’s eye, appearing as it did amongst the brilliant red of the rose bushes. Either the Dunbar residence was home to an enormous mourning dove or Arabella, dressed in her usual staid garments was walking about the gardens.

  The duke’s lips twisted in a smile. “I fear your attention has wandered, Malden, and is no longer on our conversation. I did so wish to ask you about your winnings of the other night.”

  Rowan didn’t so much as widen his eyes at the comment. He had found, over time, that it was best to keep a poker face when dealing with His Grace. The man had an uncanny ability to decipher a person’s thoughts.

  When he didn’t answer, the man across from him turned and looked out the window. “Is there something in the garden that interests you? Perhaps my collection of topiaries?”

  “Possibly.” He saw the knowing look on the duke’s face. “Would you excuse me, Your Grace?”

  “She likes to take the path around the weeping willow. Watch your step as that part of the garden is murky and a bit ferocious, much like my sister. Be careful, Malden. Arabella has been known to bite.”

  Rowan stood. “Like most wild things, Your Grace. Give Jemma my love.”

  * * *

  The dull gray of Arabella’s dress wasn’t difficult to make out amongst the riot of color in the garden. Flashes of gray popped in and out of the brilliant spray of red roses and the deep green of the trees and grass. As he followed the path, Rowan came up behind her, enjoying the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. Her dress was devoid of any decoration, as he expected, and more appropriate for a governess than the sister of a duke. Her glorious hair was once again brutally tortured into a fat braid that was then curled at the base of her slender neck.

  Rowan’s fingers itched at the thought of taking apart that braid.

  “Hello, Bella.” He used the shortened version of her name purposefully. Doing so annoyed her and he did so delight in annoying Arabella. “I am relieved to see you’ve survived your illness.”

  She turned and for a moment, he saw a flicker of joy at the sight of him in the depths of her dark eyes. Recovering quickly, her lips curled into a frown. “I’ve not been ill.”

  Rowan imagined the red chemise covering her generous curves beneath the staid dress she wore. He’d thought of little else since leaving her with her brother a fortnight ago. He craved Arabella as a thirsty man craves water. “How odd. I’ve called twice this week and in both instances Peabody assured me that you were unwell.”

  “I don’t suppose you considered I’d no wish to see you, Lord Malden.” She was so stiff from displeasure Rowan thought her neck would likely snap from the effort of holding herself like a pike.

  “Of course you wish to see me.” He ignored the small hiss of irritation she made. “And I thought we agreed that I was to be called Rowan. My reward for riding all over England searching for you.�
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  “You decided. I did not. Riding all over England is a bit of an exaggeration don’t you think? There is truly only one main road to Scotland.” Her lashes lowered to fan the pale skin of her cheeks before raising her chin to glare at him.

  Rowan wanted to laugh at her waspish retort but instead he deliberately rested his gaze on the rise of her bosom. “I detest you in gray. Brown is barely tolerable.”

  Arabella sucked in her breath, which only served to push her ample breasts forward, straining the fabric. Even though the dress was ridiculously high-necked, Rowan still felt the sting of arousal. She could be dressed in a nun’s habit and he’d still want her.

  “What is it you wish to speak to me about? I’m sure you didn’t seek me out just to attack the color of my clothing. Perhaps you’ve reconsidered?” She turned from him as the words tapered off and she pretended to study one overlarge bloom.

  “No. I’ve not reconsidered. Do you want your reputation ruined?”

  “Miranda has survived a blow to her reputation,” she countered.

  “True. But she had the Dowager at her side and even then,” he shrugged, “Miranda often found herself a wallflower. You would not be admitted anywhere in London.”

  She spun about to face him. “I’ve a mind to visit Italy. Or perhaps I’ll travel to India.” Her eyes narrowed. “No one in London truly believes the story of our mutual affection which resulted in our being spotted at the inn. Not even Lavinia Woodstock who actually saw us.” Arabella shook her head.

  Rowan couldn’t take his eyes from her lips. Lush and full, Arabella’s mouth was the color of ripe berries. He wanted to kiss her senseless and run his hands over the curves of her body. He had no intention of breaking off their betrothal.

  “There is also the past to contend with,” she sputtered.

  “Oh dear, shall we revisit that again, Bella? Ancient history.” He knew Arabella would come back around to Uncle William, Jemma’s father. The man had committed treason. And he’d framed Arabella’s father for the deed. They had all suffered enough for the sins of his uncle, but that was in the past.

  “I do not think your family is quite so cavalier and will welcome me with open arms. I—” She cleared her throat as if the words were painful. “Wronged your cousin.”

  “You did. And that’s a rather polite way to admit to being an accomplice to kidnapping.” There was no point in denying it. Arabella had done a bloody terrible thing. The only difference between then and today was Rowan now understood why she’d done it.

  Her dark eyes flashed with anger at his quick agreement. “Think about it, Malden. You said you wished to punish me. What better way than to discard me and have me branded a ruined woman?” A harsh laugh left her. “Surely that is what your family would want rather than have you marry me out of some sense of misplaced honor. You should marry whom you wish.”

  Difficult, contrary Arabella. She was right of course, on all points. He should leave her to flail in the wind and salvage what she could of her reputation before disappearing into obscurity. But he couldn’t. “How do you know I am not marrying whom I wish?”

  She turned from him, whipping her head around abruptly. The look of fear and horror on her features had been so comical Rowan smiled to himself.

  “I wish you to leave.” Her fists clenched at her sides as she kept her gaze focused on the garden.

  “You are not fleeing to the continent.” He walked closer, sniffing at the bergamot scent she wore. No rose water or scent of lilies for Arabella.

  Leaning forward, he brushed his lips across the back of her neck. His hand trailed slowly down her spine to the base of her back, watching in fascination as Arabella’s body arched against his touch. Unwillingly, he guessed. He’d been aching to touch her since the night at the inn.

  “Your behavior is unwelcome, much as it was before. Stop.”

  “Never.” His mouth moved along the slope of her neck, grazing his teeth against her skin. Unfortunately, the high neck of the gown didn’t allow him to explore further. “I don’t wish you to think my attentions before were merely the result of eating too much roast and enjoying the wine.”

  “I refuse to marry you.” Her voice lowered, a throaty seductive sound. “You come from a nest of traitors.” She shivered slightly. “It shall never—”

  “Enough, Bella.” He nipped the sensitive skin beneath his lips. Bending her head back toward him, his mouth fell on hers, ravenous and hot. One hand circled her waist, the other cupped her face, pulling her back tightly against the length of him.

  Arabella whimpered and her free hand pulled at his hair, drawing him closer to her until they were melded together.

  Rowan wished to devour her. Lay Arabella down in the grass and take her beneath the willow tree. Lift the drab dress to her hips and taste her. He wondered if Nick could see them from the library and found he didn’t care.

  “I’m not marrying you for honor or your brother’s bloody ships, Arabella.” His voice was rough and hard against her mouth. “Nor am I so honorable to marry you to salvage your reputation.”

  She pushed away from him, eyes slightly dazed and reached up to touch her swollen lips. “Then why?”

  “I want you.”

  Her eyes widened and she took a step back, shocked at his confession. A bit of sable hair slid free from its braided restraint and fell upon her cheek.

  “It’s insanity, I know.”

  But as he looked in her eyes, dark pools of ebony that shone like brushed velvet, a rush of intense longing crept across his heart, a sensation no other woman had ever invoked in him.

  She felt it too. He could see it in the way her body leaned towards him, lips parted.

  Jesus.

  “The opera,” he whispered across the small distance between them not trusting himself to touch her again. She was still close enough that he could smell the bergamot that hovered in the air around her. “Tomorrow night. My family’s box. Your brother and Jemma will also be in attendance.”

  “I will not.” The words trembled from her lips. “I detest the opera. All that warbling in a foreign language gives me a headache and sours the stomach. And I refuse to be paraded around for the ton’s amusement. You cannot command me to do your bidding. I—”

  Rowan’s arm snaked out to wrap around her waist. Arabella’s eyes were nearly black, the pupils barely discernable. Gently this time, his lips pressed to the corner of her mouth.

  “Do not be late.” He hesitated. “And do not dress like an elderly matron.”

  22

  Malden had a horrible affect upon her. Her breath would seize up whenever he neared. Her heart would race and her hands would tremble. And his arrogance was not to be born. Dictating she attend the opera, an event she had little interest in? Who did he think he was?

  As he stalked away from her, his boots churning up the granite path, Arabella’s hands curled into fists. She wanted to shriek out her dislike of this whole situation. The only thing that kept her silent was her refusal to give Malden the satisfaction of seeing her ruffled by his presence.

  Slowly she turned back to the roses overflowing from the carefully manicured beds. The warmth licking up her body was not caused by the small patch of sunlight she stood in. Even now her legs were still unsteady, and her breasts ached from his visit.

  Her wanton nature, bestowed upon her by the illustrious Charlotte, had been brought to the surface. By Malden, of all people. His kiss made her want to press her bare skin to his and wrap her body around him like a vine. It took all her strength to pull away for she hadn’t any real desire to do so.

  He’s to be my husband.

  Taking a deep breath to still her beating heart, Arabella turned and walked deeper into the garden. In some odd way, she felt connected to Malden. Perhaps it was the shared experience of Corbett, or possibly that kiss at the inn. Whatever pulled her towards him unnerved her. Unsettled her. As did the constant urge to yield to him. The worst was the fear. Not of him, but of the way
he made her feel. What had happened to her?

  Malden. Malden happened to me.

  Arabella sat down on a curved stone bench beneath the large weeping willow. This was her thinking spot, a place she retreated when bothered or distressed. Something about the tree comforted her. She proceeded to draw a pattern in the crushed stones of the path with the toe of her shoe, musing over her present situation and wondering if she should just flee to Italy. As she was planning her escape a large shadow appeared, blocking the rays of the sun.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Her brother looked down at her from his great height, his mis-matched eyes, one blue and one brown, twinkling in the light filtering through the trees. She knew most of London feared her Nick and indeed her entire family. All those old stories of witchcraft and selling one’s soul to the devil. The mis-matched eyes were considered the mark of Old Scratch himself. Once she’d even seen an elderly woman make the sign of the cross when he approached, declaring him the devil. But to Arabella, Nick was her adored older brother. The only person in the world who truly knew who she was and still loved her. Protected her.

  My brother deserves to be happy.

  And Nick had found happiness, despite her attempts to ruin that joy because she didn’t understand it. Or wish to share him. The Duke of Dunbar’s honor had only been part of why she’d acted so horribly.

  What a terrible person I am.

  The thought stung. How could anyone want her? Especially Malden?

  When Arabella didn’t answer, Nick frowned and plopped down next to her, sliding up and butting against her shoulder as he had when they were children. Nick was in a good mood. Cheerful. A mischievous smile cut across his face. Perhaps he was beginning to forgive her.

  “I’ve received the bad news that I’m to attend the opera tomorrow night. Doesn’t anyone realize I detest the opera? Reminds me of a bunch of cats wailing. Jem must be put out with me to demand such a thing.”