When She Was Wicked (Honeycote #1)

by Anne Barton

“The yellow one that was on the bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t be working this late, no matter how eager you are to fulfill your end of our bargain.”

  “This one isn’t for Rose or Olivia,” she admitted shyly. “It’s for me.”

  He blinked. “That’s wonderful,” he said, meaning it. He was so used to seeing Anabelle in dark colors it was hard to imagine her wearing sunny yellow. “May I see it?”

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she slowly walked to the foot of the bed and held the garment beneath her chin.

  It was familiar. Pretty. And yet something about it felt oddly… sinister. He must be drunk and dazed. “Did you make it?”

  “No. Olivia and Rose gave it to me.” She cast him a wary look, as though he were a lion about to pounce.

  “My sisters haven’t been that small since they were twelve. Where did they get it?”

  “Actually,” she said, her voice tremulous, “this gown used to be… your mother’s.”

  He remembered. His mother had breezed into the nursery during his lessons like a bright butterfly and inquired about his progress. His Latin tutor had looked more than a little lovestruck as he gave a glowing report. Mother announced that learning a dead language seemed a terrible waste of time, slammed shut the book of Ovid’s poems, and left.

  He remembered the dress well.

  And he didn’t want Anabelle wearing it.

  The edge of the mattress bowed under Owen’s weight; he rested his hands on his knees as he grappled with the fact that Anabelle had pilfered his mother’s dress. His dark brows slashed across his unusually pale face. Though injured, he still exuded power and vitality, and the room seemed infinitely smaller with him in it. With a scowl he said, “Why would my sisters think it appropriate to give you our mother’s dress?”

  Before now, she’d been too concerned he might keel over and die to give much thought to her state of undress. But his brooding stare made her drop the dress and cross her arms in front of her chest. She’d been afraid he’d react this way. She never should have accepted his sisters’ gift.

  “Don’t blame Olivia and Rose. I mentioned that I’d like to become more fashionable.” It was lowering to admit.

  He lifted an eyebrow and then winced as though the tiny movement had caused him pain. “I see. You want to make a good impression at the house party.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose I do.”

  “In order to catch the eyes of the eligible men there?”

  Nothing could have been further from her mind. “Perhaps.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he sat up straighter. “You’ll have many admirers.”

  With a sigh, she said, “Actually, my primary motivation was to avoid embarrassing your sisters. As their companion, my appearance reflects on them.” Of course, she’d also hoped Owen would notice her, but she’d cut her tongue out before telling him.

  He seemed to ponder what she’d said. “Whatever your reasons, I think it’s high time you stopped hiding your beauty. But you should not be wearing my mother’s dress.”

  Anabelle sank to the corner of the bed farthest from him. “Fine. I’ll tell your sisters I can’t accept them.”

  “There are more?”

  “They brought a bag full of gowns. Most of them were entirely too elegant for me, but I thought I might make use of a few.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Yes, you made that clear.” She felt hollow inside, like all the hope in her chest had rushed out. She didn’t know why, when Owen only confirmed what she already knew in her heart. She didn’t belong in his world.

  He slowly turned to her, reached out, and laid his hand over hers. “I don’t think you understand.”

  She yanked her hand away. “Oh, but I do.” Anger and despair battled for the top spot in her whirling, tangled emotions. “I’m good enough to amuse you. Not good enough to wear your mother’s cast-offs.”

  “No,” he said adamantly. “That’s not it at all. You’re too good to wear her cast-offs, Belle. You’re everything she wasn’t. Loyal, warm, sincere.”

  Oh. Her eyes grew moist. “They’re just dresses, Owen. Fabric held together with thread. Wearing them wouldn’t change who I am.”

  “Promise?”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Promise.”

  After taking a deep breath, he said, “Then I won’t forbid you to wear them. I still don’t like the idea, though.”

  “How about if I just wear them during the house party? Nothing else I have is appropriate.”

  “That seems reasonable.” He paused and then tilted his head. “I don’t suppose you’d let me buy you new dresses?”

  “I would not.”

  “Damn.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Could I convince you to forego dresses altogether? You look very fetching in your chemise.”

  His smooth words rolled over her, soothing the hurt. She looked into his eyes and saw not the arrogant duke, but him. Heat flared between them, and like a fool, she walked into the fire.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said.

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  Leaning across the bed, he carefully removed her spectacles and placed them on the bedside crate. In one swift motion, he captured her cheek in his palm, drew her face toward his, and gently kissed her lips. Desire coursed through her body, tingling her scalp, tightening her nipples, curling her toes. She kissed him back, reveling in the perfect melding of his lips to hers. Whatever their differences—and there were many—their connection felt right and true.

  She pulled back slightly. “Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

  “Improving by the second.” He grinned and leaned in for another searing kiss. With each thrust of his tongue, each touch of his hand, he brought her further under his spell. She wanted to stay like this, cocooned in their private, simple world forever.

  This time, however, she was determined to give pleasure as well as take it.

  Brushing a few stray locks away from his face, she said, “Remove your jacket.”

  The corner of his mouth curled in a heart-stopping smile as he shrugged off the jacket and handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” With relish, she tossed it over her shoulder. Then she loosened his cravat, tugged it off, and sent it sailing across the room as well. “Lie back.”

  Green eyes full of anticipation, he did as she asked. When he placed his hands behind his head, the muscles in his arms flexed, making her mouth go dry.

  “What next?” he challenged.

  “I shall attempt to remove your boots.” Although difficult, she managed the task with a minimal amount of grunting.

  “I have to confess I found that oddly arousing,” he said.

  “That’s good,” she said, feeling quite the seductress. “We’re just getting started.” She turned the lantern down low and stretched out beside him on the soft mattress. The hunger that shone in his eyes was so fierce she could see it even without her spectacles. She could feel it. Taste it.

  She needed to tell him how she felt about him, needed to know if he felt the same. “Owen, when I first met you, I thought you were arrogant and stubborn. But now I see a different side of you, and I… I care for you. Deeply. I love the way I feel when I’m with you.”

  There. She’d said it. And now she held her breath.

  He cursed softly—not the reaction she’d hoped for.

  Picking up a tendril of her hair and winding it around his fingers, he said, “You are amazing. But despite our connection, I don’t know what the future holds for us. You deserve marriage, which I can’t promise.”

  Anabelle already knew this, but hearing him say the words aloud was rather crushing. She leaned over him, placing a palm on his chest. “I’m not seeking marriage. I just want to feel that there’s something real between us.”

  “There is, Belle.” He dragged her head down and kissed her until she was dazed with longing. “Don’t doubt it. I care
a great deal for you.”

  As declarations went, it wasn’t the grandest. But for him, she suspected it was extraordinary. With her index finger, she traced small circles on the hard planes of his chest. “When I’m not with you, I start to wonder if this is all a figment of my imagination. If it only exists in the dark, when we’re alone.”

  “It’s always there. I’ll show you that what we have is very real… and erase the doubts from your mind.”

  He flipped her over so she was beneath him and kissed her hard, proving his point with every thrust of his tongue. And it was convincing.

  As though removing the bow from a long-awaited present, he slipped the straps of her chemise off one shoulder, then the other. He lowered his head to suckle her breasts and kiss her belly, dragging her chemise lower and lower, until she wore nothing. He gazed at her with unabashed appreciation, and her body tingled in response.

  Eager to see more of him, Anabelle lifted his shirt over his head. His chest and abdomen were so sculpted and hard they could have been made from marble. But unlike stone, his skin was warm and smelled faintly of brandy, cheroot smoke, the starch of his shirt, and him. She explored the cords of his neck, the expanse of his shoulders, and the ridges of muscle beneath his skin. When she touched his flat nipples, he kissed her even more deeply. She moaned from sheer pleasure.

  Curious to know how his naked body would feel against hers, she pulled him closer. How different they were, and yet, they fit perfectly together. His arms felt strong and secure around her; the light sprinkling of hair on his chest tickled the sensitive skin of her breasts, teasing the tips to rigid peaks.

  “Do you believe yet?” he asked.

  “Hmmm?” Her head spun with desire.

  “Do you believe in us?” He sucked lightly on her neck. “Do you believe in this?”

  “I believe that you make me feel very good.”

  He went still for a moment. “You may be even more of a cynic than I am.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Just close your eyes and enjoy. We have a few hours before dawn—I don’t intend to waste a minute of it.”

  True to his word, Owen made excellent use of his time. He didn’t make love to her but taught her new things about her body—what felt good, what felt amazing, and what felt utterly divine. He talked to her about his sisters and his vast assortment of great aunts and asked about her family and her childhood. She almost told him about her grandfather, the viscount, but couldn’t choke out the words. Instead, she tried to explain that dressmaking was more than a profession to her; it was also her passion. They shared their silliest secret fears—hers was spiders and his was Latin translations.

  Sated, she snuggled into the crook of his arm. Almost instantly, sleep began to descend upon her. Valiantly, she fought it, knowing it would end her time with Owen. But she was too content and comfortable to resist closing her eyes for a few moments. She drifted off in his arms.

  Some time later, the sun’s golden rays, refracted by the porthole window, warmed her cheek in a celestial kiss, and she awoke. Alone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fleece: (1) The wool coat of a sheep, which is useful for lining items. (2) To swindle persons out of their money through dishonorable means such as extortion.

  With every jarring step his gelding took, Owen’s head throbbed. The coach carrying the women rumbled along beside him, creating a ruckus that set his teeth on edge. His headache was on par with the worst hangover he’d ever had. Times two.

  And yet, the night he’d spent with Anabelle—everything after the conk on the head—made him smile like a sotted fool. Which, he supposed, he was.

  He’d left Belle’s room as soon as he heard the birds chirping outside her window. After covering her with the blanket she seemed determined to kick off, he picked up his clothes and boots from the floor where she’d flung them—God, he’d loved that—shoved his arms into his shirt, and snuck down the hall to his own room.

  At breakfast, she sat quietly, but her skin was rosy and she looked… happy. Best of all, she’d traded her usual cap for a simple bonnet that tied beneath her chin. A few wisps of hair grazed the lovely column of her neck. Though the shapeless gray dress she wore hid most of her charms, he’d committed her sweet curves and long limbs to memory. All the dismal gray fabric in London wasn’t going to make him forget.

  Owen insisted that his sisters and Anabelle get an early start, in spite of the girls’ grumbling. After spending five hours on the road, they were almost to Lord Harsby’s estate and would arrive in plenty of time for dinner.

  The shade inside the coach had been drawn most of the day, leading him to wonder what the women—and Belle in particular—were doing. Sleeping, probably.

  Each time he recalled the previous night—how he’d claimed every inch of her with his mouth, her hands exploring every part of him, the soft moaning sounds she made as she came—his blood heated. Resisting temptation and refusing to make love to her had required willpower he hadn’t known he possessed.

  Being honorable was damned difficult. qct

  Over the last five hours he’d examined the problem from every angle. No matter how much he cared for Anabelle, there was no bridging the difference in their stations.

  He needed a duchess. Though Belle was the granddaughter of viscount, she hadn’t been raised as one. She’d never been to Court, Almack’s, or the opera.

  No woman had ever challenged him the way she did or made him feel as complete, but with his title came responsibility. His future wife needed the upbringing, social standing, and the experience necessary for the role of duchess.

  Anabelle had never attended a ball—how could she be expected to host one?

  From the time he was in leading strings, he’d been primed to be a duke. Before he’d even learned his sums, he understood the importance of the title he’d one day hold. And everyone in his family, his circle of acquaintances, and London society understood it, too. It was a foregone conclusion that he’d take his seat in the House of Lords and run the Huntford estates. Most importantly, however, he’d ensure the well-being of a multitude of people, including everyone from family members to tenants.

  Honor and duty trumped everything.

  Three years ago, marriage to Anabelle may not have been impossible. But then his mother had had an affair and deserted her family, giving the Huntford name a black eye. And his father had committed suicide—although no one outside of his household could confirm the fact, it was widely suspected by the ton—leaving the family name further bloodied and battered.

  If he were to marry a seamstress, it would be the knock-out punch.

  And he couldn’t do that to his sisters. Couldn’t do it to the title.

  A lonely cloud drifted in front of the sun, casting long shadows beside him, and he clenched the reins in his fists. They’d enjoy a few weeks of stolen moments, clandestine meetings. After that, they’d say good-bye, and he’d pretend she wasn’t the best thing to ever happen to him. He’d make sure she and her family never wanted for anything, if her stubborn pride would let him. And in time, she’d meet a kind man, get married, have children, and forget him.

  But never, ever, would Owen forget her.

  For his sisters’ sakes, he’d marry someone with an impeccable lineage and the finest reputation—probably a pampered, delicate hothouse flower who knew nothing of life’s struggles and accepted every bit of drivel he spouted like it was divine truth. The prospect left him unenthused.

  Harsby’s manor house came into view at last. The late afternoon sun glinted off the windows as though the stone structure were winking, aware of some private joke. A large fountain in the center of the circular drive shot foaming mist several feet into the air, creating a gauzy veil in front of the stately red brick home. Copses of birch trees dotted the gently rolling lawn surrounding the manor, which was shaped like a giant “T.”

  Although impressive, it had but a fraction of the grandeur of Huntford Manor. What
would Belle think of this house—or of his, if she ever saw it? He shrugged off the thought. Chances were, she’d never lay eyes on his beloved estate. The golden afternoon lost some of its shine.

  The coach pulled up the gravel drive and his horse trotted alongside. Owen couldn’t wait to dismount, help the women out of the coach… and see Belle.

  A stable boy raced across the lawn to meet him, and Owen hopped off his horse, grateful to hand over the reins. He strode to the coach, waved the footman away, and opened the door himself. Olivia bounded out almost before he could lower the stairs; being trapped in a coach for most of the day must have driven her mad.

  “Thank goodness we’re here,” she cried. “I felt like I was in a crypt.”

  Owen raised a brow. Coaches didn’t come any more luxurious or spacious than his. “You look none the worse for wear.”

  She sucked in her cheeks. “You are ever charming, dear brother.”

  Rose emerged next, her blue eyes twinkling and full of trepidation.

  Owen helped her alight. “You needn’t worry about meeting everyone. Olivia, Miss Honeycote, or I will be with you at all times.”

  She seemed to release a breath she’d been holding. Attending this house party was marked progress for Rose. She’d made her presentation to the Queen a few months ago, at his insistence. But she’d yet to obtain vouchers from the patronesses at Almack’s or attend a ball. She rarely left the house—when she did, it was to run quick errands or to pay calls with Olivia, only to close friends. However, Rose enjoyed visiting the tenants who lived near Huntford Manor, taking food to the sick and gifts to the children. While she normally avoided social functions, here, at the house party, there’d be no escaping them.

  She glided to Olivia’s side and linked an arm through hers. Both girls looked expectantly at the coach. Like they knew a secret he didn’t. Minxes.

  He peered inside. “Are you coming, Miss Honeycote?” The sun behind the coach momentarily blinded him, but at last Anabelle emerged.

  At least he thought it was Anabelle.

  She looked vastly different from the woman he’d seen when they stopped briefly for lunch. Gone was the gray, shapeless dress. In its place was a gown the color of daffodils and full of the same promise—warmer, brighter days ahead. It was the dress she’d been working on last night. His mother’s dress, only different. Green ribbon sewn around the sleeves and neck matched the green trim on her new bonnet. She’d added lace above the neckline, covering much of the soft, sweet skin he’d kissed last night. Given that there’d be other men at this house party, he approved of the alteration.