When She Was Wicked (Honeycote #1)

by Anne Barton

  She gently pushed the gown away. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but it wouldn’t be right for me to accept these.”

  “Nonsense. They were collecting dust, and they’re much too small for Rose and me.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  Olivia and Rose exchanged a furtive glance. “They belonged to our mother,” Olivia said. “She left suddenly, and much of her wardrobe remained in her armoire. The gowns are three or four years old, but Mama always had a wonderful sense of style.”

  The way Olivia spoke—as if their mother were dead—was chilling. And the idea that a lowly seamstress would wear gowns designed for a duchess was ludicrous. Utterly preposterous.

  “The dresses are beautiful but much too fine for me. Thank you for your thoughtfulness, though. I’m touched that you would think to do this for me.” To show the matter was settled, she set down her own bag and squeezed past the sisters as she walked to the washstand. As she tipped the pitcher, cool water splashed into the basin. Though she wasn’t quite sure what companions did, she needed to begin acting like one. “Would you care to wash up before dinner?”

  Rose’s brow creased and Olivia quickly extracted another gown from the bag as though she hadn’t heard Anabelle’s question. “They’re not all so impractical,” she said. “This walking gown is modest and rather understated, don’t you think?”

  Full of skepticism, Anabelle turned to look at the dress. The light yellow sprigged muslin was pretty but not ostentatious, and the low neckline could be remedied with a fichu or a shawl. It was ten times nicer than her nicest dress. But the gowns were not Olivia’s and Rose’s to give away. “What if… that is, your mother could…”

  “Mama’s not coming back, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Olivia said. “And believe us, if she did, she’d never deign to wear gowns a few seasons old.”

  Anabelle swallowed. She had one other reservation. “What about the duke?”

  “Owen?”

  “He might not like you giving away your mother’s things.”

  Rose bit her lip, and Olivia huffed. “He doesn’t care in the slightest. For him, Mama ceased to exist the moment she left us.”

  Anabelle swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  Olivia wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It would make Rose and me happy to see you making use of these dresses. But it’s your choice.”

  Anabelle considered this. “Perhaps I could use a couple.”

  Rose clapped her hands, and Olivia said, “Excellent. Now that we have that settled, I intend to wash off this road dust.” She tried to maneuver past the bed on her way to the washstand and bumped her hip on the footboard. “Gads, this room is dreadfully small.”

  “Here,” said Anabelle, “I’ll move the bags to the other room.”

  Olivia shook her head. “Later. Let’s take a look through the rest of the dresses before dinner.”

  The girls took turns washing up, and were ready—and hungry—by the time Owen came to retrieve them. When they went downstairs, the innkeeper ushered them past the taproom to a private dining area. The cozy room was so dark that it was difficult to see the oil landscapes hung three high on the walls. A lantern in the center of a rustic square table set for four flickered invitingly. Owen held out a chair for each of his sisters in turn and scowled at Anabelle when she seated herself. She ignored him. Heavens, she’d been pulling out her own chair for as long as she could remember.

  Once they were seated, the innkeeper’s wife carried in a savory cottage pie and warm, crusty bread with butter. Owen grumbled to himself about the beef being practically nonexistent, but Anabelle relished every bite of the crispy potato crust. After a glass or two of ale, everyone was full and content.

  Rose yawned and Olivia followed suit. “I don’t know how sitting all day can be so exhausting, but I vow my head is about to hit my plate. Are you tired as well, Anabelle?”

  Too excited to be sleepy, she forced a yawn. “Quite.”

  Owen shot her a skeptical glance. “I’ll take you to your rooms. Room. Whichever.”

  “Will you turn in as well?” asked Olivia.

  “Ah… eventually. I think I’ll find a card game. And something stronger than ale to drink.”

  He walked them upstairs and bid them good night with a stern warning to lock their doors the moment he left. “You needn’t fuss over us so,” teased Olivia. “We have a companion now.”

  He shot her a long-suffering look before closing the door.

  Rose and Olivia prepared for bed. They donned their nightgowns and brushed out their hair. Anabelle tried to make herself useful by folding their traveling gowns.

  As Olivia began twisting her thick brown locks into a braid, she said to Anabelle, “Go, make yourself comfortable in the other room. Rose and I shall be fine.”

  “I’d like to be near in case either of you needs me.”

  “You will be near. And in the unlikely event that Rose and I are mauled by randy tavern patrons, I shall knock on the adjoining wall.”

  Rose slapped a hand over her open mouth.

  Anabelle laughed. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m certain. I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. If I know my brother, he’ll have us jostling down the road at the crack of dawn.”

  “Very well,” Anabelle said. But she’d slept several hours in the coach today and was in the habit of working into the wee hours of the morning. Sleep didn’t interest her in the least. “Might I take one of the gowns you showed me earlier?”

  “Of course,” Olivia said, pointing to the bag. “Take them all. Rose and I can’t wait to see you in them.”

  “Thank you. You’re better friends than I deserve.”

  “Nonsense. Rose and I are an odd pair, and yet, you’ve never judged us. We’re very grateful for whatever… circumstances brought you into our lives.”

  Anabelle suppressed a shiver. Olivia and Rose must have suspected there was more to the story they’d been told about her. But they were willing to trust her—and give her a chance. “Sleep well,” she said, smiling. “You don’t want dark smudges beneath your eyes when you see Mr. Averill tomorrow evening.”

  “Heaven forfend!” cried Olivia, and Rose pulled the sheet up over her head.

  Anabelle picked up her bags. “Lock the door after I leave, and knock if you need me.” She paused in the hallway, waited for the click of the lock, and walked a few yards down the dark corridor. The room was even tinier than the girls’. A narrow bed was pushed into the corner, which just allowed the door to clear the foot of it. Anabelle walked to the nightstand, nothing more than a crate standing on end, and lit the lantern atop it. A tiny washstand was the only other piece of furniture, and the room’s solitary window was small and round, like a porthole. Hinged at the top and pushed open, it let in a refreshing breeze.

  The idea of making over a dress—for herself—filled her with trepidation and glee.

  She plucked the copious pins from her hair and rubbed her scalp until the pinching sensation faded. Too excited to take time to brush, she merely ran her fingers through the strands.

  After laying the duchess’s yellow gown on the bed, she shed the practical—and admittedly ugly—dress she’d worn that day. Boldly, she slipped the smooth, light fabric over her head and let it cascade down her legs.

  Even without a mirror, she could tell.

  It was perfect.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Owen lost a few pounds playing vingt-et-un in the smoky taproom to a blacksmith with either incredibly good luck or an incredibly slick hand. He didn’t care much. He just wanted to sit on something other than a saddle, have a drink… and think about anything other than Anabelle.

  She’d avoided him all day. Not that they’d had much chance for conversation, but it wouldn’t have killed her to smile at him once in a while.

  When the bleary-eyed innkeeper finally announced he was closing the bar, Owen trudged up the stairs, cursing under his breath at the bed awai
ting him. It was so short that when he’d lain on it this afternoon, his feet hung over the end. He already missed his massive four-poster bed at home, which had plenty of room for him and Belle.

  He stopped in the middle of the stairway and blinked.

  What was wrong with him? He should not be thinking of Anabelle in his bed.

  He was supposed to find himself a wife. Maybe if he accepted his fate and did his duty, Olivia and Rose would have a role model for ladylike behavior.

  Miss Starling was the logical choice. Their families had always been close. As a schoolboy, Owen had ice-skated with her on the frozen lake at her father’s country estate. Olivia seemed fond of Miss Starling, and marriage to her could only enhance his sisters’ social status. Since she was widely regarded as the most beautiful woman on the marriage mart, and Owen’s title made him the most sought-after gentleman, half the ton already assumed they were engaged. The problem was, each time he thought about her in his house, in his bed, he felt empty, and worse, indifferent.

  As he walked down the corridor, he paused outside his sisters’ room. Olivia had a tendency to forget things like extinguishing candles and locking doors. To put his mind at ease, he tested the doorknob. It didn’t budge.

  Satisfied, he proceeded farther down the hall only to discover a light shining beneath the door of the second room he’d secured. Odd at this hour of the night.

  He checked the knob and it turned, damn it. Any rogue could have walked in and robbed them—or worse. And why was the lantern still lit? He pushed open the door, prepared to lecture anyone who was awake, but before he could say a word, his head exploded in pain. He fell to the floor, heard the clinking of glass around him, and then…

  Numbing blackness.

  “Owen?”

  Cool hands smoothed his hair away from his face. It felt good. If he focused on the gentle brush of those fingers across his skin, he could almost ignore the intense throbbing that radiated from a spot at the back of his head. Almost.

  “Owen, can you hear me? I’m so sorry. I thought you were an intruder.”

  Belle.

  Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The light sharpened the pain, so he shut them again. “For the love of—What did you do to me?”

  She moaned in embarrassment. “I bashed you with a pitcher. Can you roll toward me a little? But be careful of the sharp pieces. I want to close the door before anyone comes.”

  He did as she asked, and she quickly shut the door. They remained still and silent for a few moments as they waited to see if anyone would come to investigate the thud Owen had made when he hit the floor. Apparently, no one awake at that late hour was concerned enough to get out of bed.

  Owen groped the back of his skull, felt a knot budding, and groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t realize it was me.”

  “Of course I didn’t,” she hissed. “I never imagined you’d barge into my room at two o’clock in the morning.”

  “You don’t know me very well.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Your injury cannot be that serious if you’re blithely tossing around innuendos.”

  “I beg to differ. It hurts like hell.” He opened his eyes a slit and tried to make her face come into focus. Her hair formed a cloud of chestnut waves around her head, and behind her spectacles, her delicate brows furrowed in concern. She wore a sleeveless white garment—a chemise, if he wasn’t mistaken. A chemise, of all things. Unless he was hallucinating, that was all she wore. He swallowed, wondering if the blow to his head was more serious than he’d initially thought.

  “Do you think you can sit up?”

  He grunted. “Of course I can.” And he could. He did. Only, it hurt so much that he immediately lay back down. His head landed in Anabelle’s lap. Which was… nice.

  “Goodness,” she said. “I think you need to rest for a while.”

  Stretching out his legs and adjusting his head to a more comfortable position on her thighs, he sighed. “Definitely.”

  She shot him a mildly scolding glance. “I could have killed you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “What possessed you to sneak into my room?”

  “I wasn’t sneaking.” It was damned difficult to hold up his end of the conversation when the swell of her breasts rose above the low neckline of her chemise. “I was checking that you’d locked the door. I thought you’d fallen asleep with the lantern on.” He congratulated himself on sounding coherent.

  “You could have knocked.”

  “You could have locked the door.”

  She frowned. “I thought I had, but perhaps I was distracted by a… project. I need to look at the back of your head. I don’t think you’re bleeding, but you might have a shard of the pitcher stuck in your scalp.”

  Her graphic description made his stomach clench. “Fine. But be gentle.”

  Chuckling, she said, “I promise.”

  He turned his head away from her and held his breath as she carefully probed. When she found the lump, he flinched.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s bigger than a quail’s egg but smaller than a chicken’s. No blood, but it’s warm to the touch. What can I do to make you feel better?”

  As he thought of all the things she might do, he grinned, and Belle blushed bright red from the lobes of her pretty ears to the hollow of her lovely throat. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d like to lie still for a few minutes.”

  “Certainly.” While she seemed eager to oblige him, her leg muscles tensed as though she found their current position awkward.

  Maybe it was—for her. He was enjoying every moment.

  As he inhaled the scents of clean cotton and citrusy soap and nestled into her soft lap, he decided he could be content right there for a very long time. If he didn’t move, the pain remained at bay. And other than the sounds of insects chirping outside the open window, the room was blissfully quiet.

  After several minutes, he said, “Have you lost feeling in your legs yet?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  “Liar.” He slowly sat up and cursed.

  “Maybe you should lie down on the bed.”

  He didn’t argue.

  Pushing aside a yellow garment, she fluffed a pillow and helped him ease his head down onto it. From his comfortable vantage point, he watched with amusement as she briskly picked up the broken pieces of pottery from the floor and deposited them on the washstand. The picture of efficiency, she dipped a cloth into the basin, wrung it out, and returned to his side. The mattress sank as she sat beside him. “Let me hold this to your head.”

  She pursed her lips as she leaned over him and tenderly checked the bump again. Her manner was exactly like that of a nursemaid, or a kindly nanny. The only difference was she was young, beautiful… and scantily clad. A circumstance that could only serve to hasten his healing.

  Her shoulders and arms were so inviting that he had to check the impulse to lift his head and kiss her smooth skin. Her chemise, too loose for her thin frame, gaped between her breasts and beneath her arms. Using self-control he hadn’t known he possessed, he refrained from staring. The last thing he wanted was to send her fleeing for her robe.

  He risked a small peek. The sight of her high, softly rounded breasts made his mouth go dry.

  “How does that feel?”

  “I think it’s helping.”

  She smiled and, with her free hand, pulled up the thin straps of her chemise. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

  “You did the right thing. Well, it would have been the right thing if it were anyone other than me. I’m glad you defended yourself.”

  “After Papa died, Daphne and I quickly learned to do what we must.”

  “How did he die?” It was a brutally forward question, but he’d always hated it when well-meaning acquaintances tried to couch their inquiries.

  Belle didn’t seem offended, just unbearably sad. “He suffered from a wasting disease. We lost him little by little over the course of several months. He knew he was dying
and we knew it too. There was nothing we could do to help him or even ease his suffering in the end.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “When Mama became sick, I couldn’t let the same fate befall her.”

  “Didn’t you have any other family you could turn to?” Why the hell hadn’t her grandfather—a viscount, according to Anabelle’s landlady—helped them?

  She stiffened. “No. Believe me. Extortion was my last resort.”

  “Would you have done it?”

  “Done what?”

  “Printed the gossip about Olivia in The Tattler. If I hadn’t caught you, or paid the forty pounds, would you have destroyed her?”

  She swallowed. “That was all before I really knew her—or you.”

  “So, you would have.” His head began to throb again.

  “I can’t honestly say what I would have done. There would have been nothing for me to gain at that point, so maybe not. I only know I was desperate.” She placed her palm on his cheek and turned his head until they looked into each other’s eyes. “And I’m truly sorry. I pray they never learn of my wickedness.”

  “As do I.” Deciding the mood was too somber, he changed the subject. “Are you trained in the use of other weapons? Besides a pitcher, I mean?”

  She pressed a finger to her chin. “I’m quite skilled with a parasol, but my weapon of choice would have to be… a candlestick.”

  He winced. “I should count myself lucky.”

  “Perhaps you should,” she agreed. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before she stifled a yawn and gazed longingly at the pillow.

  Although he hated to leave, she needed her sleep. He sat up and swung his legs to the floor, pleased to find that the room had stopped spinning. “What were you doing up so late?”

  She blushed. “Working on a dress.”