When She Was Wicked (Honeycote #1)

by Anne Barton

  Unfortunately, it would take more than a bit of lace to keep men from noticing Anabelle.

  The dress showcased her high breasts and her long, kissable neck. What was more, she no longer looked like a lower servant. She could easily pass for a governess or a companion. Even a lady.

  She licked her lips nervously, awaiting his reaction.

  He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was and that he’d been wrong about the blasted dress, and that, of course she should take all the dresses and wear them, his issues with his mother be damned.

  Moreover, he longed to haul her into his arms and kiss her senseless.

  He almost did, before recalling that his sisters stood just behind him.

  “You’re looking very well.” He hoped his eyes said everything he couldn’t.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  It occurred to him that she must have changed her clothes during the ride. The thought of her undressing in his coach made his whole body thrum.

  “Doesn’t she look positively lovely?” Olivia cried.

  “I believe I just said something to that effect,” he said dryly.

  Olivia grunted. “Men can be so vexing, can they not, Anabelle?”

  She smiled shyly. “On occasion.” Quickly, she added, “I don’t mean to imply that the duke is vexing.”

  “I’m not implying,” said Olivia. “I’m stating. I do believe—”

  He was spared from having to hear his sister’s beliefs when Lord Harsby opened the front door of the manor house. “Huntford! So glad your party has arrived. My wife is anxious to see these sisters of yours—grand plans and all that.” Harsby had the stocky build of an avid sportsman who’d enjoyed too many rich dinners. He eyed the stone steps leading to the gravel driveway with distaste, placed his fists on his hips, and remained by the front door.

  Owen waved. Their trunks hadn’t even been unloaded, and already Harsby was hinting that his wife intended to play matchmaker for Olivia and Rose. Anabelle had better be up to the task of chaperone—he’d need all the help he could get. “I look forward to seeing Lady Harsby.” He guided all three women up the gleaming white steps leading to the house. “I believe you know my sisters, Lady Olivia and Lady Rose.” The girls curtseyed prettily. “And this is their companion, Miss Honeycote.”

  Harsby bowed and searched Anabelle’s face. “Honeycote,” he mused. “The name’s quite familiar.”

  “It’s a common family name,” she said smoothly. “Hundreds of us Honeycotes are scattered across England, but I’ve lived most of my life in London. It’s a treat to visit such a grand estate—your home is most impressive.”

  Owen had to give Anabelle credit. She’d effectively but politely evaded Harsby’s unspoken question about her family background and, in the same breath, issued a compliment. She’d topped off the whole exchange with a demure smile, and Harsby was halfway to charmed.

  “Do come in,” he said. “Lady Harsby will want to see the lot of you with her own eyes before we get you settled in your rooms. Won’t take long, but she’d skewer me if I sent you up without letting her greet you.” He closed the front door behind them and bellowed, “Neville!” His voice echoed off the high ceilings and marble floors. Even the crystal chandelier above them trembled.

  A butler emerged from a doorway below a sweeping staircase.

  “Tell Lady Harsby more guests have arrived.”

  “Here I am,” came a sing-song voice, and their hostess glided into the foyer, high-heeled slippers clicking. Lady Harsby was a sparkly, rotund woman. Jewels glittered on her fingers, neck, and ears. Her dress had gold ribbon all over it, and even her hair was silver. “At last, you are here! Neville, have the footmen bring in their things.”

  Introductions were followed by a great deal of chatter, which caused the bump on Owen’s head to throb even more than it already did.

  As if he sensed the effect of his wife’s voice, Lord Harsby said, “My dear, our guests will want to rest before dinner. Shall we show them to their rooms?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. That’s where everyone is, you know—resting in their rooms. You’ll see them all at dinner.”

  “Has Miss Starling arrived yet?” Olivia asked. Owen had forgotten that the debutante would be there. With any luck, he could convince Averill to occupy her for the duration of their visit.

  “Oh, yes. She and her mother arrived this morning. The marchioness and her two handsome sons”—she gave a not-so-subtle wink to Olivia and Rose—“came shortly after. Mr. Averill arrived last night, as did the earl and his wife and daughter.”

  “The earl?” asked Olivia.

  “Winthrope,” Lord Harsby said. “If you don’t know him, you’ll meet him at dinner. Good chap. Knows his horses. And a few other things.” He jabbed Owen with a meaty elbow, in case there were any doubt as to what the other things were. Owen didn’t know Winthrope well, but the old earl had a reputation for womanizing and drinking.

  Rose must have known something about him, too, because her face paled and she swayed on her feet. He immediately moved to her side to steady her; Anabelle shored up her other side. Owen didn’t give a damn what entertainments the earl enjoyed, as long as they didn’t involve his sisters. At least with his wife and daughter in tow, the old earl would have to behave himself.

  Lord Harsby slapped Owen on the back. “Care to stop in my study for a glass of brandy?”

  Tempting as a drink sounded, he didn’t want to leave Rose just yet. “Thank you, but I want to make sure my sisters are settled.”

  “We’ll be fine,” said Olivia. “Won’t we, Rose?”

  She nodded, encouraging him with her eyes.

  “Yes,” Anabelle chimed in. “I’ll be with them.”

  Feeling extraneous, Owen capitulated. “Very well. Brandy is an excellent idea.” Maybe it would help him relax. Ever since he’d stepped foot in the marquess’s house—and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain—he had the feeling that he was going to regret bringing his sisters and Anabelle to this house party.

  Anabelle grappled with the news that the Earl of Winthrope was also a guest. Although her heart thundered in her chest, she managed to keep her composure while Lady Harsby showed Olivia, Rose, and her to their rooms. They were in the west wing of the manor, as were Miss Starling and her mother, Lady Harsby informed them. She had prepared three separate bedchambers. Each appeared small, but lovely, and was accessed through a larger, common sitting room.

  “When I heard you were bringing a companion, I knew this suite would be perfect,” Lady Harsby declared. “You have your own bedchambers but can chat to your heart’s content out here in the sitting area.”

  “How thoughtful,” Olivia said sincerely, and Anabelle smiled to herself. Lady Harsby needn’t have bothered with separate rooms; Rose would probably curl up in bed next to Olivia, as she did most nights.

  “Pshaw. It’s nothing.” Their hostess beamed. “I’ll have a maid bring up some light refreshments. Dinner shall be served at eight. You’ll want to rest your eyes so you look your best for the gentlemen.” With a girlish giggle and a waggle of her jeweled fingers, Lady Harsby left.

  Anabelle guided a pale-faced Rose to the blue settee. She was clearly distressed at the news that Lord Winthrope was here, probably reliving the day she’d walked into her mother’s bedchamber to find her frolicking with the earl and his mistress. But Anabelle only knew about the incident because she’d extorted money from the earl—and Rose didn’t know she knew. And Olivia, who was normally completely in tune with her sister, was oblivious.

  The situation was so confusing.

  As were Anabelle’s emotions. The heat in Owen’s gaze as she’d exited the coach had made her stomach flip. The gleam in his eyes said he approved of her new gown. And that he’d take immense pleasure in removing it from her person.

  The moment she’d put on the altered dress—quite a feat in the rocking coach—she’d felt infused with confidence. Ridiculous, but it almost seemed as though the dr
ess had absorbed the duchess’s poise and transferred it to Anabelle.

  If no one at the house party had ever met her, she might have felt comfortable acting as the girls’ chaperone and even mingling with the other guests, when necessary. But Miss Starling and her mother did know Anabelle. And they knew she was no companion.

  “Look,” said Olivia, wandering into one of the bedchambers. “Our bags are already here. And from our windows, we can see miles and miles of green forests. How wonderful it is to be away from Town!” She rushed back into the sitting room and planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t the two of you want to see?”

  Rose shook her head and wrung her hands. Anabelle sat beside her and Olivia rushed to her other side. “What’s wrong?”

  Although Anabelle knew the cause of Rose’s distress, she couldn’t say so. “You seemed fine in the coach. Was it something Lady Harsby said?”

  Olivia waved a hand in the air. “Don’t fret over the countess’s matchmaking efforts. I assume you noticed she’s trying to pair us up with Lord Danshire and his younger brother. If she’s going to expend her energy pushing a gentleman my way, why can’t it be the right gentleman?”

  Rose gave a weak smile, and Anabelle endeavored to reel Olivia back to her sister’s problem. To Rose, she said, “Is there a particular guest she mentioned that you wish to avoid?”

  Rose’s head snapped up.

  “I don’t understand,” Olivia said. “You knew everyone who would be here, except for… Lord Winthrope?”

  After several moments, Rose gave a slow nod.

  “Winthrope is a harmless old codger,” Olivia said dismissively. “Why, we barely know him. I’ve seen him at the occasional ball, but you couldn’t have seen him since…” Understanding dawned. “Oh.”

  Anabelle took Rose’s trembling hand in hers. “Would it help if I promised to go with you whenever you leave our rooms? Between Olivia, your brother, and me, we can make sure you’re spared the earl’s company as much as possible.”

  Rose pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of her pinafore, dabbed her nose, and nodded.

  “There,” Olivia said. “That was easy enough. Now, come have a look at the view.”

  Rose and Anabelle joined her, and Olivia was correct—the view of the landscape from the second-story room drew a collective sigh. The air was so clear and the sky so blue, even Anabelle’s poor vision seemed acute. If not for all the trees, she fancied she’d see all the way to the English Channel.

  A knock on the sitting room door drew them away from the window. Anabelle admitted a maid carrying a tray of tea and pastries. “Where would you like this, ma’am?”

  Anabelle blinked. Ma’am? Her new dress must have elevated her status in the eyes of servants. “The table next to the settee, if you please.”

  “It’s been hours since we ate lunch.” Olivia poured tea into dainty cups and passed them to Anabelle and her sister. “I intend to eat a scone—or two—and close my eyes for a bit. I suggest you ladies do the same.”

  “I have a few things to do,” Anabelle said. A glance at the clock on the escritoire tucked in the corner of the room showed she had barely three hours until dinner.

  Three hours to unpack all of their things, begin embellishing one of the dresses she was making for Olivia, help the girls dress for dinner, style their hair, and make herself presentable.

  Most importantly, however, she had to figure out how on earth she’d manage to watch Miss Starling flirt outrageously with Owen and refrain from ripping her eyes out. It would require a bit of thought.

  Chapter Twenty

  Owen rubbed his freshly shaven chin and glanced toward the door of Harsby’s drawing room.

  James Averill tipped his glass and drank. His friend was a chameleon, equally at ease chatting in an opulent drawing room, fighting in a gritty boxing ring, or digging at an exotic archeological site. “Relax, Huntford. Your sisters will be here soon. And so will their companion. I confess I cannot wait to meet her for myself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so—” He gave his cocky smile, the same bloody one that made debutantes fan themselves.

  “Watch yourself, Averill.”

  “—distracted.”

  An apt description—and not the worst his friend could have used. “Rose seemed troubled when we got here. I just want to see whether she is recovered.”

  “Well then,” James said, raising his glass toward the door, “you can put your mind at ease.”

  Rose and Olivia walked into the room, turning heads in pale green and pale pink gowns, respectively. They wore their hair pinned up, with loose curls around their foreheads and faces, just like the Season’s beauties did.

  “Your sisters look so…”

  Owen growled but didn’t wait for Averill to finish his thought. He strode to his sisters and Belle and bowed deeply. “Pardon me, ladies,” he began with uncharacteristic formality, “I wonder if any of you has seen my sisters and their companion.”

  Olivia grinned. “Can you describe the young ladies in question?”

  “They’re remarkably like yourselves, only not as well-dressed. And I’m accustomed to seeing them in braids and”—he turned to Anabelle and swallowed—“caps.”

  Tonight, Anabelle’s honey-streaked brown curls were bound with a pretty green ribbon. Her yellow dress—the same one she’d worn this afternoon—was the plainest in the room, and yet, she stood out like a pretty wildflower in an otherwise predictable garden.

  Dragging his gaze away from her, he said to Rose, “Are you feeling better?”

  She nodded bravely.

  “Good. Take my arm. We’ll make our way around the room, and I’ll show you off to everyone.”

  Although Rose kept her expression serene and her steps graceful, she clutched his forearm as if he stood between her and a colosseum full of lions. Olivia, on the other hand, seemed eager to meet all the other guests. Her gaze darted around the room, landing on each guest in turn like a fickle butterfly. She was looking for someone. When she sucked in her breath and fluttered her lashes, Owen knew she’d found whomever it was. He looked over his shoulder and saw the rogue. Averill.

  Olivia fancied him? Better than being in love with a servant, true, but Averill? The man was Owen’s best friend, for God’s sake. Correction. He had been.

  Averill bowed smoothly. “Good evening, ladies.”

  Olivia blushed three shades of red. “How lovely to see you, James.”

  When they were lads and Olivia little more than a toddler, “James” had sounded charming coming from her lips. Now it set Owen’s teeth on edge like a screeching violin.

  He placed Olivia’s hand firmly on his free arm and glared at Averill. Hard. “I’m about to take my sisters and Miss Honeycote to meet everyone.”

  “Excellent. I’m honored to be the first.” He leaned over Olivia’s hand and then Rose’s. “You’re a far cry from the little urchins who carried frogs in the pockets of their frocks.”

  Olivia blanched. “Er, that must have been Rose. She’s much fonder of animals than I. Not that I dislike animals. Just the kind that hop or slither. And beetles. Anything with more than four legs, now that I think on it.”

  “Have you no mercy for the octopus?” Averill’s damned eyes twinkled. At his sister.

  Owen cleared his throat. He might as well get the next part over with. “Averill, this is Miss Honeycote. She is a companion to my sisters.”

  Olivia scowled. “Anabelle is much more than a companion. She’s a dear friend.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Averill.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. It seems unjust that Huntford has a beautiful woman on each arm while both of mine are empty. Would you allow me to escort you around the room, Miss Honeycote?”

  Owen clenched his fists, wishing they weren’t in a genteel drawing room where brawling would be frowned upon. “She doesn’t need an escort.”

  “Unless you’ve sprouted a third arm, I believe she does.”

/>   Anabelle pushed her spectacles higher up on her sloped nose and shot Owen a pointed look. “Thank you, Mr. Averill. I’ll happily avail myself of your kind offer.”

  Hanging on to his temper by the thinnest of threads, Owen led the way around the room, stopping first to greet Lady Danshire, an elderly widow with a penchant for purple, and her irresponsible sons, Danshire and Sandleigh. Both gentlemen sported bloodshot eyes and rumpled cravats—and reeked of brandy. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Owen steered his sisters toward Mrs. Starling and her daughter.

  Olivia and Rose were at ease in Miss Starling’s company, but he was not. During their brief conversation, Mrs. Starling managed to mention no less than five different virtues her daughter possessed. Miss Starling said little but gazed at Owen with an expression that was both demure and expectant. It made him want to saddle a horse and ride hard in the opposite direction.

  He contented himself with crossing the room to where the Earl of Winthrope, his wife, and their daughter sat in a group of chairs beside the dormant fireplace. Rose clutched his arm harder when they approached the earl. Odd; nothing about the man struck Owen as intimidating. A few greasy strands of hair covered his shiny head, and he was thin if one discounted the paunch that looked like he’d hidden a cat in his waistcoat.

  The old earl stood and smiled broadly, showing teeth tinged from tobacco. “Good to see you, Huntford, and your lovely sisters, too.”

  “Winthrope.” Owen nodded congenially. “Lady Winthrope and Lady Margaret, you’re both looking well.”