Twice as Wicked

by Elizabeth Bright

  Eliza’s eyes glinted. “Surely, you can manage a fortnight without compromising yourself? Lord Abingdon is not as alluring as all that. But I suppose you know best. If you truly believe you cannot be trusted within the same county as the tempting Lord Abingdon, then perhaps you better stay, after all.”

  Alice let out a huff. Well, when put thusly…

  Was she really such a weakling and a nitwit that she would allow history to repeat itself? Abingdon’s brother may have seduced her sister.

  But Alice would not follow in her footsteps.

  Soul-shattering kisses notwithstanding.

  Chapter Twenty

  Few people would disagree that Haverly was one of the more unique estates in Hampshire. The manor itself was an odd-looking thing, with three large wings, each of a very different style. The structure began as a beige, honeycomb color, moving on to pale-pink sandstone, and finally ending in a deep-red brick. Three turrets clustered against the right wing. It was not a balanced or remotely symmetrical design.

  Alice proclaimed it utterly charming.

  “After a twelve-hour carriage ride, anything that is not a carriage is positively delightful,” Aunt Bea said frankly.

  Eliza grinned. “It is lovely, is it not? The lady who becomes mistress of such a place will be fortunate, indeed.”

  Alice glared at her, but Eliza’s grin only widened.

  It was early morning when they arrived, having stopped the previous night in a town a mere hour away. Alice and Eliza would have preferred to finish the journey, as they were so close to Haverly, but Aunt Bea had insisted on stopping. Her body had endured enough, she’d declared, and demanded a rest.

  This morning the manor was silent and still. The servants saw to their bags, and the butler showed them to their rooms after informing them that the earl and countess, as well as the guests, had not come down yet.

  Aunt Bea promptly sat down to write her letters, a task she dearly loved.

  “Would you mind terribly if we parted?” Eliza whispered. “I crave a moment of solitude, and I have several letters I must write, as well.”

  Alice shook her head. “Say no more. I feel the same. Traveling is so very together, is it not? And I doubt a house party will offer much in the way of solitude for the next fortnight. I believe I shall take a walk.” Espionage and revenge could wait until after she had stretched her legs.

  Eliza squeezed her hand. “Thank you. If memory serves, there is a charming patch of daffodils that crops up every year. To the west of the lake, I believe.”

  Alice set off immediately in the direction of the lake. When she was clear of the manor, she removed her bonnet and breathed deeply. The air smelled of spring—of damp earth and new grass and ripe wildflowers. The Hampshire sky was a deeper, bluer blue than in London. Surely, it could not be the same sky, at all.

  She tramped along, arms swinging, turning this way and that to admire wild primrose and delicate blue damselflies flitting by. At last, she came to the daffodils, their golden trumpets lifting merrily to the sun. She unbuttoned her pelisse, spread it on the ground for a blanket, and sat. She closed her eyes and tilted her face skyward like the daffodils that surrounded her. She would get horribly brown, she supposed, but it was worth it for this single marvelous moment.

  She would have been happy to remain so for the rest of the day, had her eyes not been jerked open and assaulted by the vision of a man, bare chested, running through the field.

  No. Assaulted was the wrong word. Her eyes were blessed with the sight.

  He was a remarkable specimen, with his taught, well-muscled physique glistening from exertion. The distance was too great to see his face, but then he turned along a curve in the path, and she saw the queue of red-gold hair glinting in the morning sun.

  Good God.

  Lord Abingdon.

  She should return to the house immediately. At the very least, she should avert her eyes, for heaven’s sake.

  She did neither.

  Had she once thought him too thin? Had she thought him gangly and clumsy? He was none of those things. He was not too thin—he was lean and sleek, like a well-sprung lion. He was not clumsy—his arms and legs pumped with perfect grace.

  He was magnificent.

  The trick was that the current men’s fashion simply did not suit his figure. Or perhaps he needed to pay a visit to a better tailor. How was she to have guessed that under those excessive folds of fabric lurked such a marvelous body? It was to his advantage to wear as little as possible, that much was clear. Could anything be more glorious than his naked back? The muscles that rippled around his shoulders and along his spine were so virile, so male, that her breath caught.

  She watched as he rounded the far side of the lake. If she squinted and tried very, very hard, she could still make out his lithe form. Oh, dear. He was coming around the east side now, his long strides bringing him closer to her at a rapid pace.

  What on earth was he about? He was not running to something, and he did not appear to be running away from something. He was merely running…for the sake of running? Why ever would one do such a thing?

  As he neared her spot amongst the daffodils, his eyes suddenly darted in her direction. Horror filled his face and down he went, tumbling feet over head in the tall grass.

  “Lord Abingdon!” She sprang up and rushed to his side. She peered anxiously down at the man who lay sprawled at her feet. “Lord Abingdon?”

  He blinked up at her. “Miss Bursnell.” He blinked again. “Miss Bursnell, would you be so kind as to pretend this never happened?”

  Her gaze, which had been sneaking down the line of golden bronze hair over his stomach to his waistband, snapped back to his face. She choked on a giggle. “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you please, Miss Bursnell, you may return to the spot where I saw you. I will set myself to rights and come join you. We will speak of the lovely weather, and the daffodils, and everyone’s health, and not”—a laugh escaped her lips, and he looked at her sternly—“and not of this incident in which we find ourselves.”

  “Very well.” She covered her grin with a gloved hand and turned, marching purposefully to her pelisse on the grass.

  As she reclaimed her seat, she managed a quick, furtive glance back, just in time to see him scrub a towel over his stomach and arms. He pulled a shirt over his head and walked toward her, if not fully clothed then at least fully covered.

  She frowned at the daffodils.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said as he approached. And then, mindful of his request, she added, “What a surprise.”

  “A pleasant one, I hope.”

  She felt heat rise from the roots of her hair to the toes of her feet. Oh, yes, very pleasant.

  Her flaming face caught him off guard. “I did not mean— That is, I only meant— Oh, damn,” he muttered.

  She howled with laughter. “Oh, Lord Abingdon, I do not think I can pretend!” she gasped out. “I must tell Miss Benton. She will—”

  “You most certainly will not tell Miss Benton,” he broke in. “An unchaperoned lady with a half-naked man? You would be forced to marry me.”

  Her laughter died on her lips, and her eyes widened. Heaven forbid. “You are right. I will say nothing to Miss Benton.”

  He shot her an aggrieved look. “You needn’t look so frightened. I have no desire to trap you.”

  “Of course not, my lord,” she murmured. She fingered the ribbons of her bonnet and, with a sigh, placed it back on her head. They had dispensed with propriety enough for one day. “It is a fine morning, is it not?”

  He was still frowning. “What? Oh, yes. A very fine morning.”

  “I trust that your mother is in good health? We arrived so early she had not yet come down.”

  “My mother is quite well. Thank you.” He turned his gaze to the daffodils. “How was your journey?”

  “Uneventful. Thank you for inquiring, my lord.”

  “And your aunt and Miss Benton are well?” He
glanced around quickly. “They did not join you on your walk?”

  Alice shook her head, a smile lurking on her lips. What, she wondered, would Aunt Bea have said at the sight of Lord Abingdon stripped to the waist and running circles around the lake? “Aunt Bea is resting, as she never sleeps well when she travels. Miss Benton went to the library.”

  “I am happy to hear that.”

  He exhaled.

  She sighed.

  They looked at each other, then looked away again. The weather and everyone’s health were proper topics, but dreadfully dull. She ought to inquire after his brother. Would he withdraw as he had at the abbey? Or would he tell her something useful? But, somehow, she could not force the words through her lips. The day was too beautiful, and Lord Abingdon was…well, he was wonderful, too.

  “You know, I once saw a man running around a lake,” she said conversationally. She glanced at him sideways to see how he would react. He nodded slowly. Taking that as encouragement, she continued, “He did not seem to have a destination, nor was he being chased. At least, I do not believe so.”

  Lord Abingdon laughed softly. “Oh, you think not?”

  She whipped her head around. “He was being chased?”

  “Perhaps not in the sense you mean. Perhaps he was practicing.”

  She narrowed her eyes at that. “Practicing…being chased? Would that be a likely thing to happen to him, that he must practice and prepare for it?”

  “Perhaps.” The viscount shifted uncomfortably. “Or perhaps he runs because he loves the feel of the exercise?”

  “Ah.” It did look like glorious fun, to move one’s body as fast as one possibly could. “What does it feel like, I wonder?”

  “Like death. And then superb, once you get past that part.”

  She laughed, and he laughed with her. For a moment, it seemed to her that all was right with the world.

  “A man might run every morning to strengthen his heart and lungs, and quiet his mind,” he said. “When he is not in London, that is. It would not do to dodge hacks and ladies without one’s shirt on.”

  She laughed. “Heaven forbid.” She gazed out at the lake. Her legs ached with longing to try it for herself, to move until exhausted. “Blasted skirts,” she muttered.

  His eyes danced with laughter. “I daresay, I would feel the same.”

  “How lucky for you that you will never have to test that theory.”

  He smirked. “Indeed.”

  She looked at him and grinned, and felt the smile blooming all over her face. The look he gave her in return—a look of startled wonder—caused her breath to stutter in her throat. She was suddenly filled with an odd sensation—a feeling of fierce protectiveness. Why should he be so surprised by a smile?

  She longed to pull his head into her lap and stroke the burnished gold hair. She wanted to coax him, tease him, until he spilled all his stories of when he was wicked and when he was good. She knew instinctively he was a good man. His behavior toward her had never hinted at anything else.

  Well, other than when he’d kissed her. And that had been very good.

  But if he was good, then what was she?

  For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder if she was a good person. She had thought the issue of taking her revenge quite simple. A man had destroyed her sister and thus deserved to be punished. But Alice had not realized that the punishment would of necessity involve more than just the man himself. Of course, it would. He had a family, just as Adelaide had. Was Alice, herself, not here and involved because of his deed?

  The thought made her deeply troubled.

  Because was that, indeed, not why she had come here, intent on using a good man to help her exact revenge upon his brother?

  It was, and she was.

  She dipped her eyelashes down, obscuring the storm brewing in her eyes.

  Would a truly good person ever do such a ruthless thing? Probably not.

  And yet…and yet…

  Her sister was dead.

  How could she not?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Shall I accompany you back to the house, Miss Bursnell?” Nathaniel asked. “My mother will have come down by now. I am sure she is eager to meet the latest arrivals.” He stood and after a moment’s hesitation—he was sweaty and unkempt, after all—offered his hand.

  “Yes, thank you, my lord.” Miss Bursnell allowed him to assist her to her feet.

  He did not know what to do next. Her small hand was engulfed in his large one. He knew he should release her. They could not walk along, swinging their joined hands between them like schoolchildren.

  Could they?

  He would very much like to.

  How odd.

  Instead, he tucked her arm through his and freed her hand. He looked at her downcast lashes and felt a stirring of unease. He never knew what to expect from her. One moment they were laughing together, and the next she was quiet and withdrawn.

  But, oh, it was such a lovely feeling, laughing with someone. He could not remember the last time it had happened, other than with Wessex. Surely, that was merely a trick of his mind. It could not be that his life was so barren of joy that he did not laugh. Yet, try as he might, he could not recall the last time he had laughed with someone—not with the same camaraderie of spirit that he felt now with Miss Bursnell. Even with Wessex, it did not feel at all the same.

  He pushed the thought from his mind and turned his attention to the lady walking by his side. Remembering her desperation to escape the crowded confines of London, he said, “I hope you find Hampshire refreshing to your spirits, though it is not Northumberland. It is soggy and damp this time of year, but Haverly is full of good walks if you don’t mind the mud.”

  She tilted her head back and smiled. “I don’t mind, as you can tell.” She gave a comical grimace and lifted her skirt two inches to give him a glimpse of muddy petticoat and delicate ankle.

  Warmth spread through his belly. It was a truly delicious ankle.

  How did she always manage to make him feel like a ravenous beast? Yet, food could not fill his insatiable hunger. No, he needed…something else. He stared fixedly at the arm tucked neatly through his.

  As though sensing sudden peril, she tensed and turned startled eyes to meet his. “My lord?” she whispered. “Are you quite well?”

  Was he? He wasn’t altogether sure. His brain felt thick and slow, and the heat from his core was spreading through his entire body with alarming speed. “Yes, quite.”

  They were quickly nearing the house, but it was not close enough. He was in imminent danger of doing something regrettable and getting his ears boxed.

  “The daffodils were well worth a muddy petticoat,” Miss Bursnell said in a rush. “Is anything so joyous as those golden heads bobbing and dancing on a spring morning? Do you know they are also called narcissus? The name does not suit them, I think. They are flashy and showy, but not vain. Don’t you agree? Exuberance should not be mistaken for vanity.”

  He looked down at her face quizzically. Her cheeks were red with a blush.

  Catching his questioning glance, she looked at the ground and her color deepened. “Pardon me, my lord. I tend to babble when I’m nervous.”

  Her words brought him to a sudden halt. She could not be serious. Men like Wessex made women nervous. Nathaniel didn’t make women nervous. Uncomfortable, perhaps. Bored, most certainly. But never nervous.

  Again, warmth spread through his body. No, it wasn’t lust. Lust he was familiar with. This was something…different. It flowed through his veins, sweet and thick like honey. It was like standing close to a fire on a cold winter night.

  He cupped her chin and tilted her face back, forcing her to look at him. “Why do I make you nervous, Miss Bursnell?” he asked, his voice low.

  Her lips parted in a soft puff of air, but no sound came out.

  He lowered his head closer to that beguiling mouth and waited.

  Her breath hitched.

  He dipped his
head even lower, but still no reproof came. It would take nothing at all to close that last sliver of space separating her lips from his.

  Perhaps his ears were safe? Perhaps—

  The sound of voices startled him. Miss Bursnell jerked away and took several rapid steps backward. He reached out instinctively, mindlessly, to keep her close to him, but she eluded his grasp.

  “My lord, please.” She looked at him with wide, wary eyes.

  Remorse stabbed him in the gut. Again, he had misstepped. Again, he had misunderstood her.

  The voices came closer. He looked up to see his mother, Lady Shaw, and Miss Benton rounding the corner of the house. Ah, lovely. Just the ladies one wished to see when one was sweaty and inappropriately dressed.

  His bad luck never ceased to amaze and embarrass him.

  “Nathaniel! There you are!” his mother said. “I was showing our new guests the gardens.” She offered her cheek for him to kiss.

  “Mother, hello. May I introduce Miss Alice Bursnell?”

  “Ah, Baroness Shaw’s niece. I’m delighted to meet you.” His mother clasped her hands and beamed when Miss Bursnell bobbed a curtsy.

  “Thank you, Lady Wintham.” Miss Bursnell turned to her aunt. “Did you rest, Aunt Bea?”

  “I did, and I feel quite refreshed. Pray, don’t worry about me, my dear.” The baroness looked from her niece to Nathaniel and smiled again.

  It occurred to him, just then, that he probably stank.

  Miss Benton was standing very still, head tilted to the side, her eyes also darting from Miss Bursnell to himself and back again. He could practically see the wheels turning in her all-too-clever brain.

  His own mother was doing the same, her expression a mix of hope and curiosity. He knew her desire to see him wed and settled was even greater than his father’s—at least it had been before this pesky heart business. The Earl of Wintham merely wanted an heir. The countess wanted grandchildren. Nathaniel was sure she was imagining a good half dozen lads and lasses with Miss Bursnell’s dark hair at that very moment.

  Would they have blue eyes or brown? Some of each, he reckoned, if they managed six of them.