Tall Dark and Wicked: The Wickeds Book 5

by Ayers, Kathleen

  Even being rude to her wasn’t driving Petra away. She kept coming back for more of his ill-mannered behavior. Why she tolerated his insults, Brendan had no idea. And worse, she didn’t seem to be frightened by him.

  I want her.

  That was the rub. He didn’t wish to lust after Petra. Didn’t wish to dream of her beneath him moaning his name. His desire for her was unwelcome. Unwanted. The entire endeavor was fraught with disaster. Soon, she’d leave Somerton for Brushbriar and the comforting arms of Pendleton. After leaving Brushbriar, Petra would return to London and marry Pendleton. As she should.

  Brendan glanced at the stone he’d picked up earlier in the day, the one which reminded him of Petra’s hazel eyes. Grabbing up the stone, he threw open the drawer to his desk and tossed it into the depths to be lost amongst the collected junk of his wanderings, never to see the light of day again.

  7

  Brendan waved away his valet with an angry flip of his wrist. “I’m headed out to the moors, Woods. No need to dress me.” He scratched his chin. “And I’m in no need of a shave just yet. It can wait.”

  “You are in desperate need of a shave, as you are every morning. I beg you, my lord, either grow a beard and mustache and save us both this tedious conversation, or allow me to shave you.” Brendan’s much shorter valet brandished shaving soap and a razor in his gloved hands. A towel was flung over one forearm.

  “What difference could it possibly make whether I am clean shaven or not? I doubt anyone I might encounter on the moors will care what I look like. You’re being ridiculous. I order you to put that away.”

  Woods gave a long-suffering sigh of defeat, knowing he’d lost the current skirmish. Woods had been Brendan’s valet for nearly fifteen years and undoubtedly suffered quite a bit in his employ. Serving as Brendan’s valet had to be a thankless endeavor.

  “Lady Cupps-Foster will assume I’m not doing my job. At the very least allow me to help you dress.”

  Brendan threw up his hands. “Very well. Dress me as if I’m a doll.”

  He found the entire need for a valet to be silly. The thought a grown man couldn’t dress himself without assistance because he bore a title was ridiculous.

  Woods cocked a brow at him. “Yes, my lord. I’ve never known an earl as delicate and fine boned as you. Very much like a doll.”

  “I should send you packing for your insolence.” Brendan fired Woods on a near weekly basis, all well-deserved, of course.

  “Of course, my lord. I’ll gather my things as soon as you’re dressed.”

  “My buckskins and one of my old shirts. Something I can ruin without you feeling as if you need to mend it.”

  The valet strode to the armoire, bringing forth Brendan’s worn buckskins, holding them between his fingers as if the clothing were a poisonous snake. “Will I be leaving Somerton immediately, my lord? I do hope I’ll have an opportunity to pack.”

  “You are to leave this instant.” Brendan snapped back as the valet next produced one of Brendan’s oldest shirts.

  “May I at least inquire as to the direction you’ll be taking today, my lord, in case Lady Cupps-Foster wonders? She does worry.” He held up the shirt, his lips curled in distaste. “This will be cut into rags for the maids to use as soon as you return. I won’t waste soap to have this shirt laundered, let alone mended.”

  “You won’t be here; I’m sacking you.” Brendan allowed the valet to place the shirt over his shoulders. “The path from the gate and down to the moors. I’ll be back at tea-time. Can you ask Cook to make sure the sandwiches are a bit more substantial today? I don’t care for watercress and cucumber. I keep mentioning I would like something a bit heartier. Meat of some kind. No one seems to listen. And some berry tarts.”

  “Of course, though your mother adores watercress.” Woods made a small sniffling noise as he eyed the wild mane of Brendan’s hair. “Forgive me, my lord. Perhaps you’d allow me to trim your hair before I vacate the premises? Lady Cupps-Foster has expressed to me she’d prefer you not resemble a wild Celt as you roam around. You could frighten someone. And we have guests.”

  “I doubt Lady Marsh will have a fit of vapors should she spot an errant curl.”

  The ghost of a smile hovered over the valet’s lips. He looked incredibly smug. “I was thinking of Lady Petra.”

  Brendan had thought of nothing but Petra all night, and he didn’t need to be reminded of her presence by Woods. Naked Petra, crawling over him on all fours with her glorious hair draping over them both. He’d awoken in the middle of the night with a groan, his hand gripping his shaft.

  “My lord, if I may offer an opinion?” Woods took a look at Brendan’s attire and shook his head in disgust.

  “Do I have a choice?” Woods had an opinion on every aspect of Brendan’s life. He was worse than an elderly aunt. Brendan was convinced Woods and his mother were conspiring against him.

  “Lady Petra is quite lovely.”

  “I’ve not noticed her appearance.” I’m too busy imagining her naked. “Besides, the lady is on her way to Brushbriar at the invitation of Lord Pendleton. I expect an engagement announcement to follow Lady Petra back to London.”

  “Poor girl.” Woods snorted. “You tore her clothing like some barbarian.”

  “Is that the theme for today, Woods? I’m a barbarian? Or is it a savage Celt? Make up your mind.” At the valet’s pointed look, Brendan said, “She was stuck. What else was I to do?” He ran a hand through his hair, not meeting the valet’s eyes. “Who told you I tore her skirt?”

  The valet gave a mysterious shrug.

  “Timmons, I suppose?” Brendan asked.

  Somerton’s butler and Woods had a close relationship. Brendan suspected there was more to their friendship. Once, Brendan had awoken in the middle of the night, starving. Rather than rouse a servant, he’d gone down to see if there was any chicken in the larder left from dinner, and possibly some tarts. He’d seen Timmons and Woods sitting together before the fire in the kitchen, a single candle lit between them. Just as he was about to announce himself, Timmons had leaned over and kissed Woods rather passionately. Shocked though he was, Brendan had silently backed out of the kitchen, returning to his bedchamber, hunger forgotten. Even servants deserved their privacy and he didn’t particularly care who Woods tupped as long as the valet was discreet, which he was.

  “Possibly Timmons relayed the news to me.” Woods began putting away the unused shaving kit. “I’m not sure. The footmen like to gossip.”

  Brendan snorted, not believing it was one of the Somerton footmen for one moment. “All the footmen are afraid of me, as you well know. I suppose I’ll have to dismiss Timmons for his insolence as well. Gossiping about me like two old women. Besides, she’s utterly boring,” he lied.

  “Who?” Woods pretended ignorance.

  “Lady Petra. Talks of nothing but fripperies.”

  “Pendleton must not find her so,” Woods said smoothly. “I should point out, my lord, a tic appears in your cheek when you lie.” He carried the shaving kit into the dressing room and a flurry of noises commenced.

  “You are quite insolent, Woods.” Brendan headed to the door and lay his hand on the knob.

  “Yes, my lord. You’ve mentioned this to me many times.” Woods strode back out and bowed. “I’ll warn Timmons of your displeasure and we’ll collect our things.”

  Brendan sighed in frustration and left the room.

  8

  “The half-boots, Tessie,” Petra instructed her maid. She’d had enough of being inside and this may be her last chance to be free without being hovered over by her mother. Dr. Stubbins had pronounced Mother well enough for the ride to Brushbriar. They would leave Somerton in the morning.

  An unusual ache filled her heart at the thought of leaving Somerton. In the short time she’d been here, Petra had grown to love the sprawling, unwieldy mass of stone. Somerton was beautiful in a wild, unkept way, reminiscent of the estate’s owner. Petra liked the silence to be foun
d here, so different from the constant rattling of coaches and people on the streets outside her window in London. The only sound here was that of the wind crossing the moors.

  “My lady?” Tessie gave Petra a look. “Your mother said you were to rest today in preparation for your journey tomorrow to Brushbriar.”

  Petra shrugged. “I need fresh air and the sun is shining. I’m positive Dr. Stubbins mentioned something to that affect. I’m only going to take a turn about the gardens and then I promise to come rest. Goodness, I didn’t even go down to dinner last night.”

  She’d wanted to go down to dinner, but Mother, sitting up in bed and looking pale and tired, had begged Petra to dine with her. After a light supper, Petra had read out loud from a book of poetry at her mother’s request, her reading interrupted every few minutes as Mother reminded Petra of how she must comport herself with Lady Pendleton. Finally, Mother’s eyes had drooped, and Petra had been able to seek her own bed.

  She had dreamt of Morwick.

  They were once again in his study, but this time Petra had boldly pressed her lips to the tanned swathe of skin at the base of his throat. She’d reached up to allow the ebony locks to curl around her fingers. When she had awoken, her nightgown had been wrapped around her thighs, her body throbbing with the need for something she couldn’t describe.

  Simon never invaded her thoughts in such a way.

  “I’ll be back before tea,” she informed Tessie. “Best get us packed for Brushbriar.”

  After donning her boots and the oldest, plainest dress she had with her, Petra waved at Tessie and headed down the stairs, wondering exactly where she would go. The moors beckoned to Petra, as did the patch of trees visible from the window of her guest room. She was ready for an adventure.

  I don’t miss Simon.

  Shouldn’t she miss him? Not so much as a note had come to her from Brushbriar, nor had she felt compelled to send one herself. Mother, between retching into the chamber pot, had chastised Petra for her oversight and insisted she pen something to Simon immediately.

  Petra, defiance filling her, had not.

  A dapper, well-dressed servant passed the stairs as Petra reached the bottom step. He was no footman, for he wasn’t much taller than Petra and most of the Somerton footmen were burly looking lads. Tessie had mentioned she’d met Woods, Morwick’s valet, as she ate in the kitchen with the other servants the night before. Her description of the valet had been spot on, for surely this was he.

  “Excuse me.” She caught Woods as he was about to turn the corner. “Mr. Woods?”

  Woods bowed formally. “Just Woods, my lady.” The valet had a pencil thin mustache, neatly shaped above his upper lip, which wiggled as he spoke. His dark hair was styled to perfection and laced with silver. “How may I assist you? Should I fetch Timmons for you?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I was only wondering…do you know where Mam Tor is?” she asked, in a burst of inspiration. The drawing of the peak had stayed in her mind since seeing the charcoal drawing the day before in Morwick’s study. “I thought I’d walk in that direction. I fear I’m in need of some fresh air and exercise.”

  “Unfortunately, Mam Tor is some distance from here and can’t be reached easily on foot, my lady. But if you venture out through the gardens behind the house, there is a small gate leading to the moors beyond. A path leaving the gate will take you along the outer edge of a patch of gritstone, the dark rock. Once you cross the gritstone you’ll see the tree line, along with a lovely view of the moors and Mam Tor. The scenery is quite magnificent. But stay on the path, my lady,” he cautioned. “You don’t wish to get lost, especially since you are departing for Brushbriar tomorrow.”

  “No, of course not. If my mother —”

  “I shall make sure she is informed you are walking through the gardens.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  “Thank you, Woods.” She smiled gratefully. “And may I say,” Petra said a bit impishly, “I do not envy you your job.”

  “You may, my lady.” The valet bowed, his lips twitching.

  Leaving the house, Petra whistled as she strolled through the gardens and past the bench where she’d spent the day reading Lord Thurston yesterday. The gate soon came into view, rusted and hanging by the hinges. It swung open easily with a gentle push of her hand. Obviously, the gate was well-used and oiled, despite looking as if it were to fall apart.

  Keeping a brisk pace, Petra stayed on the path made up of a series of stones. The moors stretched out before her, covered with sprays of heather. Just as Woods had said, the path soon evolved into large patches of gritstone. Ahead was a patch of trees, where the moors ebbed away and forest took over. As she came closer to the tree line, Petra caught her first real glimpse of Mam Tor, rising to tower over the moors.

  “Oh, my.” She’d never seen anything half so beautiful, though the rise and dip of the land obscured her view.

  Every few steps Petra would jump, in an effort to catch a better glimpse. Petra had never given much thought to her smaller stature, but just now, wanting to see Mam Tor, she wished for longer legs. If only she was higher, she may be able to see better. The tip of her boot caught on something on the ground, tripping her, and Petra caught herself.

  A large tree root, twisted and rough, stuck out of the ground attached to a massive oak tree.

  “I’ve never seen one so large.”

  The oak towered above all the others, the gnarled bark and width of the immense trunk telling the story of a long life. The branches above her head created a thick canopy, stretching out as far as Petra could see. How old could an oak tree be? She made a mental note to find out. Surely Morwick had a book on trees in the chaos of his library.

  Then Petra remembered she was leaving early tomorrow for Brushbriar. She wouldn’t have time to seek out such a book.

  She glanced toward Mam Tor and then back at the tree, considering her options. Once upon a time, before Mother had decided to focus her energies on her daughter, Petra had been a bit of a tree climber. She had never been as quick as Rowan, but she had spent many summers at the Marsh family estate in Essex learning how to climb a tree in order to escape her governess. Miss Persimmon had been a dour spinster who, along with teaching proper French, a language Petra still hadn’t mastered, also sucked the joy out of any room she entered.

  Petra had climbed a lot of trees that summer.

  “I shouldn’t.” Her words fell into the summer breeze. A young lady, especially the daughter of an earl, didn’t climb trees.

  If she married Simon, there would likely be little time for such outlandish behavior. He did not strike her as the type of man who wished his wife to go round climbing trees in Hyde Park. Simon expected her to preside over his dinner table exchanging polite conversation with his political cronies and their wives, none of whom spent their time considering how best to scale an oak tree. This may be her last chance.

  “Just once more.” She ran her fingers over the bark, looking for natural footholds, trying to remember how it was done. A small limb hung over her head. If she could get herself up off the ground, she could take hold of the branch and pull herself up. At least, that’s what she surmised. She hadn’t actually done such a thing since she was ten. “All right then.”

  Lifting her skirts she tucked them up at the sides, which felt incredibly scandalous, though there wasn’t anyone around for miles. She raised her right leg, moving her ankle back and forth until she felt secure in putting her weight into it. Cautiously, she moved up into the canopy, the bark scraping and tearing at the front of her dress. Thank goodness the dress was old and beneath the notice of her mother. If Petra never wore the flowered muslin again, it was doubtful Mother would remark on it. Gritting her teeth, Petra managed to pull herself up and lodged her left foot into another groove in the trunk.

  Lightness filled Petra the further she climbed. There was something so incredibly…free about doing something purely because she wished to. A young lady’s life, and indeed
most women’s, was structured from start to finish. What to wear, how to behave. Decorum. Manners. Mother constantly hovering over her.

  Whom she should marry.

  It had all become exhausting. The last few months, even before Simon offered for her, Petra had started to feel as if she were drowning under the weight of her mother’s expectations.

  She’d always loved being outside, something she’d forgotten until this journey. Young ladies took quiet walks through gardens with their maids trailing behind, or carriage rides in Hyde Park to show off a new bonnet. When she was younger, Petra had run after frogs and collected twigs and sticks to make castles. She’d strung together daisies and worn them in her hair. Then she’d had to become a young lady. No longer could she roam about; instead she was confined to the schoolroom learning how to dance and embroider. Mother was a relentless taskmaster, demanding perfection from both Rowan and Petra.

  Good God; Mother has turned me into her version of me. An obedient, well-mannered dressmaker’s dummy she can trot out to ensnare a proper son-in-law.

  The bark bit into her fingers. Morwick was correct. Climbing did clear one’s mind.

  Petra reached for the low hanging branch and with much effort and straining of her arms, managed to pull herself up. Dr. Stubbins, she was certain, would not approve of tree climbing as a method of recuperation from her stomach ailment. Resting for a moment to catch her breath, Petra was filled with a sense of achievement. She’d done it. And she was free and unencumbered looking out at the beauty of Mam Tor.

  As Petra sat drinking in the color of the peak set against the moors, contentment filled her. There were no calls to pay. No guests for tea for whom she had to pretend interest. No need for her to sit demurely, hands firmly clasped in her lap, while Mother gossiped. No amount of lessons would teach her to speak French properly because she didn’t care to. Embroidery bored her. Her entire life was pretense. Petra grabbed tighter to the branch to keep from falling off.