When She Was Wicked (Honeycote #1)

by Anne Barton

  During a recent visit, she’d overheard Mama talking to a neighbor in hushed tones about her plans to throw Daphne into the path of a dashing young viscount—proof Mama was on the mend. Anabelle was ecstatic, if nervous about Mama’s matchmaking tendencies. At least she focused the majority of her efforts on Daphne rather than on Anabelle, whom she no doubt recognized as a lost cause.

  Dr. Loxton, who now called to check on Mama only once a week, concluded that she had most likely suffered from a bad case of the croup, exacerbated by the near-fatal doses of opiates that Conwell had prescribed. Owen had notified the authorities and had gone so far as to search for Conwell himself, but the lout appeared to have left London. Anabelle was so incensed she often dreamt of subjecting the man to various forms of public humiliation. She imagined printing a large advertisement in the newspaper proclaiming him a fraud and requiring him to sell the paper on a street corner. Or, perhaps, he should have to eat the entire newspaper. Or parade down Bond Street wearing nothing but the newspaper.

  She could amuse herself thus all day.

  Devising means of torture for Conwell was vastly preferable to thinking of Owen. Ever since the night of their encounter in the workroom, he’d avoided her. He was rarely home, and when he was, he holed up in his study, working. He hadn’t escorted her to visit Mama and Daph again, leaving the job to one of the footmen. On the rare occasion when Anabelle saw Owen—at breakfast or in passing—he greeted her like a friend of his sisters, or perhaps a distant cousin.

  Each civil remark and polite comment about the weather was a little stab wound, killing her slowly and painfully. It would have been more humane had he told her outright that he never should have given in to the drunken urge to hold her, kiss her… and more.

  Only the hungry looks he sometimes cast her way gave her hope. One morning last week, she’d been in Olivia’s room, showing her how she could use a hot iron to curl a few tendrils around her face. A frisson of awareness skittered down Anabelle’s spine, making her tingle all over. She turned toward the door and saw Owen standing there, staring at her with undisguised longing. His heavy-lidded gaze almost made her lose her grip on the iron, and her heart leapt. He was not as unaffected by her as he pretended to be.

  He no doubt thought their relationship a mistake, and yet, he wanted her. It was some comfort.

  At least he was making an effort to converse more with Rose and Olivia. A few days ago, he’d taken them on a picnic—just the three of them—and Anabelle had never seen the girls so happy. They returned with flushed cheeks, eager to divulge the details of their outing. Owen had told them he wanted to have a come-out ball for Rose at the end of the summer. At first, Rose balked at the idea, but when she found out it would be held at their country estate, she agreed.

  Anabelle suspected she was more excited about the prospect of seeing her beau, the stable master, than in having a ball thrown in her honor.

  But Owen had finally realized that Rose should have the same opportunities as Olivia and the other young ladies of their station. Being shy shouldn’t destine her to the rank of social outcast. If Owen stood behind her, the rest of the ton would take their cue from him—hopefully.

  Six gowns. They were all Anabelle had left to make. In the last month, she’d worked from dawn to dusk and beyond in order to complete riding habits, day gowns, carriage dresses, and evening dresses. Rose and Olivia were so delighted with their garments, Anabelle didn’t mind the late nights in the least. She was especially looking forward to making the gowns Rose and Olivia would wear to the ball at Huntford Manor and decided to save them for her last two projects. They’d be the pièces de résistance of the girls’ wardrobes.

  And then, Anabelle would go home. She hadn’t yet figured out how to make ends meet once her assignment was over, but at least Mama was well. It was a chance for a fresh start.

  Anabelle sighed and blinked back the tears that constantly threatened of late. Like a teacup filled to the brim—the slightest rattling made her overflow. But she was determined to make the most of the day.

  The late July morning was warm and damp, the kind that made the little wisps of hair at the nape of one’s neck curl and stick to the skin. She’d opened wide the workroom window and left the door open to allow for a cross breeze, as if it were that easy to air out the anguish in her heart.

  Her next project would be a morning dress for Olivia, made of fine cambric muslin. After rolling out the smooth fabric, Anabelle carefully measured the length she’d need and picked up her scissors.

  The thumping of footsteps in the corridor, however, made her set them down to investigate. Before she’d taken two steps, Olivia appeared in the doorway with Rose right behind her. “Anabelle, we have news!” Olivia waved a large card in her hand and spun a pirouette across the room.

  Just seeing the girls cheered Anabelle. She placed a finger on her chin. “Let me guess,” she teased. “You’ve been invited to join the Royal Ballet Company.”

  “Oh, how I wish! But it’s almost as grand. We’ve been invited to a house party at Lord Harsby’s estate, and Owen said we could go.”

  “How wonderful!” Anabelle hoped she sounded sincere. She’d known her days with Owen and the girls were drawing to a close, but it seemed they would end more abruptly than she’d imagined. “When will you leave?”

  “In just a fortnight. This has been the best summer.” Olivia ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “First we met you. Then, Owen started to treat us like grown women. Next, we received an invitation to a fashionable house party. On top of that, we have Rose’s ball to look forward to.”

  Rose’s eyes shone with happiness, but she was not quite as exuberant as Olivia—no one ever was. The pretty redhead walked up to Olivia and whispered in her ear.

  “Oh, yes,” Olivia said. “We hoped you would come, too.”

  Heavens. The very idea was preposterous. “I’m certain that Lord Harsby’s invitation wasn’t extended to me.”

  Olivia studied the invitation as though perhaps she’d merely overlooked Anabelle’s name, and then frowned. “True. But Rose and I would enjoy the party so much more if you were there, and we thought—”

  “That no one would notice if you brought your seamstress along?”

  Rose’s mouth dropped open; Anabelle crossed her arms, daring her to say something.

  She didn’t.

  “You’re much more than a seamstress, Anabelle,” Olivia said.

  Odd; that’s what Owen had once told her. Recently though, he seemed to have forgotten. “That’s kind of you to say, but I doubt Lord Harsby and his wife would agree.”

  “That’s why we thought that you could accompany us. As our companion.”

  Anabelle blinked. “Do you mean, as your chaperone?”

  A flush crept up Olivia’s neck. “I know that you aren’t more than a few years older than Rose and me, but you’re very wise. And you’ve been working so hard. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a break from Town? The three of us would have such a grand time.”

  “Have you mentioned this to your brother?”

  “Not yet. But we feel sure we could convince him. We just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t mind the companion role. It would be for show only, of course. And you’d gain admittance to all the festivities.”

  Anabelle suppressed a shudder. A week or more exchanging meaningless pleasantries with the other ape leaders while a parade of young beauties flirted with Owen sounded torturous. However, Rose and Olivia were clearly excited at the prospect of having her along, and their thoughtfulness warmed her.

  Not in a million years would Owen agree to let her act as their chaperone. First off, he was much too protective of his sisters to entrust them to her care. Second, it seemed he could barely stand to be in the same room with her. Why would he unnecessarily subject himself to her company?

  Confident that he would veto the idea, she relented. “If your brother agrees, I have no objection.”

  Rose clapped and Olivia squealed. “
Hurrah! We shall go talk to him at once, then return directly to tell you the good news.” They each gave her a quick hug before scurrying from the room.

  The rustling of fabric made Owen glance up from the letter he was composing to his steward. His foolish heart beat faster on the off chance Belle had come to see him. She hadn’t, but he was pleased to see Olivia and Rose looking fresh and happy.

  Until he realized they must want something. Bracing himself, he set down his quill and narrowed his eyes at Olivia’s bare arms. Too much skin showed above the neckline of her dress. “Shouldn’t you be wearing a shawl?”

  “Heavens, no. It’s warm in here.”

  “For modesty’s sake. You too, Rose,” he said.

  Olivia huffed. “Anabelle made these dresses. They’re in the first stare of fashion.”

  “Oh, people will be staring all right.” He made a mental note to keep his friends away from his sisters.

  “We love the gowns. They’re nicer than anything we’ve ever owned.”

  “Does Miss Honeycote realize that she doesn’t have to scrimp on fabric? I can afford a complete dress.”

  Olivia laughed and plopped herself into a chair opposite his desk. “This is what all the young ladies are wearing.”

  “I don’t care what all the young ladies are wearing—just my sisters.”

  Rose glided into the chair next to Olivia, smiling innocently.

  A chill ran the length of his spine. “I assume that the two of you are here with a request of some sort.”

  “We are,” admitted Olivia. “We want Anabelle to go to Lord Harsby’s house party with us—as our companion.”

  He considered the idea for the space of a heartbeat.

  “No.” He picked up his pen to signify the conversation was over. No matter how appealing the idea, it wouldn’t be prudent. When he’d passed Anabelle in the corridor yesterday, it had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed not to press her against the wall with his hips and ravish her mouth with his. Out of respect for her, he had to avoid her.

  Olivia sighed. “That’s fine, then. I suppose you shall have the pleasure of escorting us to all the entertainments.”

  Dread perched on his shoulders like a vulture. “What kinds of entertainments?”

  She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, the usual—charades, whist, shopping excursions in the village, flower gathering—”

  “Flower gathering?”

  “Of course. We’ll pick them in the fields. You may carry the basket.” The imp smiled smugly.

  He knew what Olivia was trying to do, and he felt a stir of pride. She’d come a long way.

  But she was no match for him.

  “I’ll be pleased to spend so much time in the company of my sisters.”

  Rose tapped Olivia on the shoulder and leaned in to tell her something.

  Olivia nodded. “Not just our company. Lady Harsby and her mother shall be at all the festivities.”

  Nice move. Lady Harsby was a shrill harpie, and her mother had a habit of talking in long, winding sentences that never seemed to end. Still, he would not relent. “We shall never lack for conversation.”

  Olivia leaned back and crossed her ankles. “Are you aware that Lady Harsby’s sister has two daughters of marriageable age? I believe you have heard them sing and play the pianoforte together. Perhaps you could sing a duet with—”

  Damn it. “Fine.”

  Olivia tented her fingers. “Meaning what, precisely?”

  “Meaning I’ll talk to Miss Honeycote about acting as your chaperone.”

  “Oh, we’ve—”

  Rose placed a hand on Olivia’s arm, silencing her momentarily before she continued. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  Owen glared at the pair of them, debating whether it was worth his time to question them further. The housekeeper’s keys clinked as she walked down the corridor. “Mrs. Pottsbury,” he called.

  She teetered to the doorway of the study, the toes of her impossibly small feet touching the threshold. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Inform Miss Honeycote that I wish to see her at once.”

  She scurried off, and his sisters exchanged a look. “Excellent,” Olivia said. “We shall leave you to talk with Anabelle. Do try to ask nicely.”

  He grunted. Did she think him some sort of beast?

  The girls started to leave, but Olivia halted at the door and faced him. “This room is starting to feel right again. The whole time we were talking, I never once thought about him.”

  Owen swallowed past the knot in his throat. It had been ages since they’d spoken of their father. Guilt niggled between his shoulders. “Don’t forget him. Our father was weak, but he was a good man. And he loved the two of you more than anything.”

  Olivia pressed her lips tightly together, as though she were fighting back tears. “Don’t worry. I remember him well. I only meant that the image of him—here, at the end—that is fading.” Her eyes flicked to the spot behind the desk where a new carpet covered the bloodstained floor.

  “I’m glad.” Owen rose from his chair, walked to the other side of the desk, and put an arm around each sister. “Remember picnics by the river with him and the ponies he bought you. Forget the rest.”

  “What about Mama?” Olivia whispered.

  The pain in her voice made fury course through him—not hot, but ice cold. For all he cared, their mother could rot in hell. But that image wouldn’t comfort his sisters. “Our mother made choices that I don’t understand. I doubt I’ll ever forgive her for leaving the two of you. But you may choose to remember her as you wish.” He squeezed their slight shoulders and then held them at arm’s length so he could look into their brown eyes. “Know this. Mother may have abandoned you. In his own way, Father did too. But I never will. I’ll be here for you long after you’re married. Even after you have children and grandchildren. We’re family.”

  Both sisters launched themselves at him; he patted their backs awkwardly. If he’d known they were going to cry he would have changed the subject to bonnets or wallpaper or poetry, for God’s sake.

  Belle arrived at his study in the middle of the maudlin scene. Owen looked at her over the girls’ heads and shrugged helplessly. Anabelle would know what to do, thank God.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her face pale.

  Olivia turned toward her and sniffled. “We’re just happy.” She blew her nose loudly into the handkerchief she’d plucked from his pocket.

  Anabelle shot him a suspicious look. “Is this a bad time?”

  “Oh no,” Olivia answered for him. “Rose and I were about to leave.” She stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his cheek. Rose mirrored the action on the other cheek. Maybe—wonder of wonders—he’d finally done something right where his sisters were concerned. They linked arms and gave Anabelle a conspiratorial smile as they left.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes.” Several tendrils had slipped free of her normally unflinching knot, and they curled softly around her face—the face that filled his mind as he drifted off to sleep each night and countless times throughout the day. He could almost ignore the cap. Almost.

  Running his palms down the front of his tear-dampened jacket, he said, “I could use some fresh air.” And a drink. “Let’s go sit in the garden.”

  Although he tried to usher her out of the room, she remained frozen, her feet rooted to the rug. “Is that an order or a request?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter? There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

  She raised her chin a notch, every inch a viscount’s granddaughter. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  Her stiff manner seemed like a denial of everything they’d shared, and it hurt more than he cared to admit. But he couldn’t blame her for hating him. He’d been the one keeping his distance, and it was for her own good.

  She followed him through the library, onto the terrace, and beyond to the small, lush garden. He waved her to a bench in the shad
e of a dense canopy of leaves and sat beside her—at a respectful distance.

  He hadn’t been in the garden for months. Hadn’t appreciated the vibrant blossoms up close or inhaled the unmistakably sweet scent of summer. Now, he longed to race across a pasture on his horse, the warm wind whipping at his clothes.

  Although they were located in the middle of Town, he could almost imagine that Anabelle and he were in a country field surrounded by wildflowers and grass and sunshine. No one but the two of them for miles and miles.

  If only it were true, he’d pick a bright yellow flower and put it in her hair. Then, after removing every stitch of her clothing, he’d lay her back in the soft grass and pleasure her a dozen different ways before plunging into her and making her his. All his.

  “What would you like to discuss?” she asked, her spine as straight and unyielding as a rod. How could her poise and fine manners have escaped his notice? He should have known she was no ordinary seamstress. Had circumstances been different, she might have had her first Season a few years ago. Lovely as she was, many gentlemen—including some of his debauched friends—would have tripped over themselves to gain her favor and offer for her.

  He shook off the thought with distaste. “Do you want to go to Lord Harsby’s house party?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I assume my sisters have already told you their proposal.”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. “They have.”

  “Will you come? It was the girls’ idea, but I’ll admit that I like it, too.”

  Peering at him out of the corner of her eye, she asked, “You do?”

  “You make my sisters happy.”

  “Though I may look the part”—she pushed her spectacles onto the bridge of her nose—“I’m hardly a suitable companion.”

  He wanted to say that, as a viscount’s granddaughter, she was more than qualified. But since he suspected she didn’t want him knowing about her lineage, he said, “You’ll do.”