Wicked Again (The Wickeds Book 7)

by Kathleen Ayers

  Marissa laughed at that. “I am a respected widow. He’ll eventually suspect me, though I doubt he would consider me a threat. Simon doesn’t have a high opinion of a woman’s intellect.”

  “It will prove his undoing. My point is that no one outside of our family knows what really happened to Reggie. Brendan never even had the lease agreement drawn up properly by a solicitor.”

  “It would have raised questions. And he expected Simon to honor the bargain, which was naïve.”

  “Money isn’t important to Brendan. You know that, Aunt. He has his rocks and fossils along with Petra. He’s perfectly content. And he gave his word. My cousin expects everyone to be as honorable as he is.”

  Simon had not a principled bone in his body. Nor had his father, John. It was a pity John wasn’t still alive. Had he been, Marissa would have cheerfully shot him herself and left him in a hole to die.

  The great Viscount Pendleton. Who knew all about his parent’s sins and did nothing. Treating Brendan with disdain while stealing from him. Marissa would enjoy destroying Simon’s brilliant political career and making him the most impoverished politician in Parliament. The shock of being poor might even kill Lydia. Or she’d become an even bigger sot than she already was.

  I am remarkably bloodthirsty.

  “Pendleton will need to marry an heiress if he wishes to dig himself out of debt,” Arabella mused. “One who is a paragon of virtue with not so much as a whiff of scandal attached to her skirts, and whose connections can help him politically. There’s a limited supply of such girls circulating about.” Arabella bit into another biscuit. “Of course, we cannot allow such a marriage to happen.”

  “Absolutely not. Lydia needs to be reduced to someone’s poor relation living in a mud cottage somewhere.” Arabella would be an asset to Marissa’s plans. “If you are determined to help me, you must not allow Rowan to know. Or any of them.” She waved her hand. “Nick, Spencer or Brendan.” She named her sons and nephew. “I do not want or need their help.” Marissa reached for her cup again. “My father taught me well enough.”

  Arabella’s dark eyes flashed at Marissa in triumph. “I won’t. I promise.”

  A sharp rap at the door interrupted any further discussion. Her butler, Greenhouse, stiff and priggish, marched in bearing an embossed card upon a silver platter. “My lady.” He lowered the tray so she could read her caller’s card.

  The cup of tea paused on its way to Marissa’s lips.

  Haddon.

  He had said he wanted to speak to her and had asked to call, but that had been over a week ago. She’d assumed he’d changed his mind. Marissa cast a look at her niece. It was bloody inconvenient he’d decided on today to visit. Her niece was far too intuitive for Marissa’s tastes.

  Pulse fluttering madly at the knowledge Haddon lay right outside the drawing room door, she gave a subtle nod to Greenhouse.

  Arabella gave her a curious glance. “Aunt Maisy?”

  Her niece waved Greenhouse over to her before Marissa could stop her. She picked up the card, eyes widening.

  Apparently, Brendan had disclosed other, far more personal things to Arabella, if her niece’s reaction was any indication.

  “Please show in Lord Haddon,” Marissa managed to say.

  Greenhouse bowed and left the room.

  “He’s the gentleman from the Peak District,” Arabella said in a low tone. “The one who you had—”

  Marissa shot her a firm look, cutting off the rest of Arabella's sentence. A word would be needed with Brendan. He didn’t need to go about telling everyone of her personal business or, in this case, gossiping about such things with Arabella. She was entitled to some privacy in regard to her personal life, as sparse as it was, though her niece didn’t appear to be especially horrified at the thought of Marissa having had a lover.

  Dalliance, she corrected herself.

  Inclining her head in Arabella’s direction, Marissa said, “Not another word, or I shan’t allow you to help me.”

  Her niece sat back, lips tightly shut.

  “Lord Haddon,” Greenhouse announced, swinging open the door.

  The air shifted in the drawing room as it does during a storm, just before lightning strikes.

  Haddon stepped inside, his male presence immediately at odds with the delicate feminine décor of Marissa’s drawing room. A wicked half-smile tilted his lips as he paused at the doorway, completely assured of his welcome. Dark hair lay tousled about his ears and a touch of pink lit his high cheekbones from the cooler air outside.

  How dare he appear before her looking so . . . delicious.

  “Oh, Auntie,” Arabella said under her breath as she took in Haddon. “Good Lord.”

  “Lady Cupps-Foster.” Haddon’s gaze was focused on her mouth as he greeted her. “I hope I haven’t interrupted anything important.” A thick wave of hair fell against his forehead as he came forward to take her hand.

  “Not at all.” The light brush of his lips against her knuckles was enough to turn the entire lower half of her body to jelly. “I hadn’t expected you to appear today.”

  “My apologies. And here I thought you’d take me to task for my delay in calling upon you.”

  Arabella watched the exchange with interest, pretending to nibble at her biscuit.

  "My niece, Lady Malden,” Marissa said crisply.

  Haddon greeted Arabella politely before settling himself in a chair just to Marissa’s left, much too close for her comfort if the rippling of her skin was any indication. He leaned back, stretching out his long legs until the toe of his boot nearly touched her skirts.

  Impudent rake. Awareness of him swirled, making her insides clench. I should have informed him I was not receiving.

  “What a pleasure to meet a . . . friend of my aunt’s.” Arabella smiled, clearly enjoying Marissa’s discomfort.

  “Lord Haddon and I met during my visit with Brendan,” Marissa said.

  “At a house party, of all things.” Haddon didn’t look at Arabella as he answered, his attention entirely on Marissa. “Your charming aunt helped relieve some of the tedium.”

  Arabella took a large swallow of tea, hiding the smile tugging at her lips.

  Marissa gritted her teeth at the innuendo behind his words. “Haddon and your cousin are friends.”

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t seen Morwick in some time. A disagreement of a very ancient nature has put us at odds.” The silver eyes twinkled with amusement at Marissa, daring her to contradict him.

  She coughed delicately, wanted to hurl her teacup at him. “I've so enjoyed your visit, my dear,” Marissa said, turning to Arabella. “I know you must be on your way. Give my love to Rowan and darling Lily."

  Arabella stood immediately, wisely taking the hint. “My, I fear I have lost track of the time. I’ll take my leave, Aunt Maisy. My husband will wonder where I’ve gotten off to.”

  Haddon stood. “Pray don’t leave on my account, Lady Malden.”

  “Not at all.” Arabella leaned forward to press a kiss to Marissa’s cheek. “He’s quite something,” she whispered in Marissa’s ear before straightening. “I’ll bring Lily next time,” she assured Marissa. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Haddon.”

  “And you, Lady Malden.”

  Arabella took her sweet time leaving the room, perhaps hoping to overhear something salacious.

  Marissa would need to have a very pointed discussion with her niece.

  Haddon regarded her in silence until the door of the drawing room shut behind Arabella with a soft click. Removing his gloves, he laid them on the arm of the chair and crossed his legs at the ankle. His trousers pulled sharply against his heavily muscled thighs.

  Drat.

  It was a struggle for her not to look, which Marissa was certain was Haddon’s intent. She had wondered during their previous dalliance what he did with himself which resulted in such a lean, powerful form. Her eyes were drawn to the large hands with their calloused blunt-tipped fingers, and she remembered t
he way he’d caressed her skin. Not with the hands of a gentleman, which were often as soft and pliant as her own and certainly—

  “Marissa?” He watched her intently, one forefinger absently drawing a circle on the arm of the chair. “I see my appearance has surprised you. Are you well? You seem . . . distracted.”

  No, she wasn’t well. If she was any closer to Haddon, she might burst into flames. “Perfectly fine, thank you.” It was one thing to decide not to involve herself with Haddon. Quite another for her body to comprehend what that meant.

  “Difficult,” he murmured under his breath, almost too quiet for her to hear. His fingers started drumming.

  Marissa was certain he meant her. She hadn’t been called difficult by a man in quite some time. “If you are referring to me, I am well aware of my character deficits.”

  “I didn’t say it was a deficit.” He looked away for a moment before turning back to her. “I find it makes you more interesting. But then, I’ve told you such before.”

  While holding my hand as we lay beside each other after he ravished me at Brushbriar. I thought he would leave and return to his own rooms, but instead he held my hand and whispered to me in the dark.

  “I would like to explain . . . after I found out about Reggie—”

  “There’s no need, Marissa.” Haddon watched her with an odd expression.

  Somewhat flustered, she lifted her chin. “I don’t think it would be wise to continue our previous association. If you have come here to persuade me to continue our—”

  “Affair?” he said in a helpful tone.

  “Dalliance,” she corrected. “And my answer is no.” She nodded her head slightly and clasped her hands. He would not talk her out of her decision, despite his . . . annoying magnificence.

  “I wasn’t aware I’d asked you to dally with me again.” A wrinkle appeared between the dark brows as his fingers continued to drum on the chair. “As alluring as I find you to be.” His gaze briefly dropped to her breasts.

  Marissa opened her mouth and then closed it, unsure how to respond.

  “Your objections to continuing our dalliance, for your own reasons,” he waved his hand, “are exhausting. I will bow to your superior wisdom in these matters.”

  “You will?” It appeared the pretty speech she’d prepared to refuse him wouldn’t be needed.

  “Of course, Marissa. Forgive me for being blunt, but I’ve no desire to pursue a dalliance with a woman who has been clear she doesn’t want one. I didn’t come here today to talk you into bed with me again.” He shrugged. “Ancient history, as I said.” His silver eyes gleamed.

  Well, that stung a bit. More than she’d thought it would.

  Haddon smiled at her, the small grooves around his eyes crinkling, making him even more handsome, if that were possible. “Perhaps I merely require your decorating acumen.” He looked around the drawing room. “You’ve amazing taste. This room is beautiful and a lovely color. I like the floral arrangements.” A large hand waved casually at a vase full of artfully arranged fresh flowers. “Your butler or a maid must be very talented.”

  “I arrange my own vases. A hobby of mine. But I doubt you are here to ask me about flowers or draperies.”

  “No, indeed. I find I am in need of your expertise in another area.”

  “My expertise?” She reached for her cup of tea. It had gone cold, but she needed to do something with her hands.

  “While I was relieving your boredom at Pendleton’s house party,” his lips twisted into a mischievous smile, “you mentioned you might help Jordana one day if I brought her to London. I’m here to see if your offer is still good. I find myself in rather dire straits in regard to my daughter.”

  Marissa’s hand froze, her teacup hovering just inches from her lips. She had offered to help with Jordana, though to be fair, he’d been kissing his way across her breasts at the time. “I must have forgotten.”

  Haddon cast a lingering gaze at her bosom before his eyes returned to her face. There was no doubt he remembered the moment as well. “Forgetfulness is often a sign of advanced age.”

  Marissa sipped at the tepid tea, determined to ignore his baiting.

  “An experienced woman, such as yourself, could help prepare Jordana to make her debut. She’s awkward in society as unaccustomed as she is to it. Mrs. Divet has done her best, but I fear Jordana is in need of a firmer hand. And it would only be until my sister arrives.”

  Mrs. Divet and her husband were close friends of Haddon’s and Mrs. Divet had taken over the role of aunt to his four girls. The woman was lovely, but Mrs. Divet was not out in society herself. She and her husband traveled much of the time.

  “I see.”

  Helping Jordana would mean Marissa would be in Haddon’s orbit for the better part of several months, being tempted by him.

  It wasn’t a good idea. Not in the least. And she already had several projects to keep her busy.

  Haddon’s fingers drummed again. “I would be deeply grateful.”

  Marissa’s eyes followed the movement of his fingers. He’d moved them along her skin in the same way as they lay naked together, speaking quietly of their lives. Haddon had told her of his late wife. His daughters. He’d praised her for not only raising her two sons alone, but also her niece and nephew. None of her other lovers had ever expressed the slightest interest in Marissa’s family or the struggles she’d endured. It was unusual for a gentleman to notice such a thing.

  Yet, Haddon, casual dalliance that he was, had.

  Her heart contracted, then stretched in his direction. Damn it. She wasn’t going to be able to refuse him. Not with Jordana. Possibly not in anything. It was very worrisome.

  “What is wrong with you, Marissa? I grow concerned that you are ill. You behaved oddly at the Cambourne ball as well.”

  “Headaches,” she announced. “I’ve been cursed with them.”

  “Ah, that explains the flush to your cheeks.” She doubted Haddon was fooled. She suspected he was well aware of his effect on her despite her attempts to keep her feelings hidden. “It means so much to me, Marissa. Your help with Jordana.”

  A light exotic aroma reminiscent of a bag of spices her nephew had once gifted her drifted into her nostrils as Haddon leaned toward Marissa, taking her hand in his larger one. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, her pulse jumping at his touch.

  Why must he smell so luscious? Why couldn’t he smell of pomade and talc? It would make things so much easier.

  One finger trailed along the inside of her palm.

  “Haddon—”

  If he asked her again to dally with him, or better still, pushed her back on the sofa and lifted her skirts, Marissa would be hard pressed to refuse him.

  “I’ll take my leave.” He dropped her hand gently then stood, grabbing his gloves.

  As he made his way around the sofa where Marissa sat, Haddon paused, leaning down until his breath caressed her neck. “It was lovely to see you today, Marissa.”

  If she turned her head, their lips would meet.

  This wasn’t fair. Not at all. Her eyes fluttered closed. Perhaps the scandal of involving herself with Haddon wouldn’t be that terrible. Adelia could certainly guide her. Maybe he’d never find out she was destroying his friend, Pendleton.

  Maybe he is worth the risk to my heart.

  Before she could stop him, Haddon reached the door.

  “I bid you good day, Lady Cupps-Foster.”

  5

  Enderly guided Marissa into the drawing room of Lord Duckworth’s London mansion, his gloved hand hovering lightly against her back. Her heels clicked on the marble floor beneath her feet as she surveyed the immense space Duckworth had converted into both a speaking area and a place to discuss politics. The walls were burgundy, the windows outlined with gold cornices from which curtains a shade darker than the walls were hung. Duckworth’s illustrious ancestors hung from the walls, their staid expressions looking down on the proceedings with
mild censure.

  Gentlemen stood clustered, their heated voices echoing as views were challenged, each interrupting the other as one opinion took precedence over another. A small group of well-dressed ladies whispered in one corner, like a flock of wrens who dared not make a sound lest the household cat should spot them.

  They paused every few feet, their progress stopped by someone who wished for an introduction or desired to ask Enderly for his support. He greeted each request graciously, all the while puffing out his chest, filled with his own importance.

  “Thank you for allowing me to escort you this evening, my lady. I realize much of tonight’s conversation may not be of interest,” he cautioned with an annoying paternal look. “The intricacies and politics involved in Parliament can be a bit complicated to follow. Ask me anything, and I will try to answer.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be able to follow along,” Marissa replied. When had Enderly become so patronizing? Perhaps he’d always been so, and she’d failed to notice.

  Enderly’s mouth tightened just a bit. “Even so, my dear, I am happy to share my knowledge should you have questions.”

  Pompous. Enderly was pompous. “I find my interests lean in the direction of the reforms affecting workers in textile mills, factories and mines.”

  “An unusual interest for a lady of your stature.”

  “My niece, Lady Malden, supports a variety of charities whose aims are to improve the lives of the widows and children of those working in the mines and textile mills. Often, if a worker is injured, the family has no recourse and is left penniless with no means of support.”

  “There’s workhouses for such folk,” Enderly said with the superiority of a gentleman who’d never set foot in such an establishment.

  Sanctimonious. A better word for Enderly. “Have you been to a workhouse, Mr. Enderly? I assure you, it is not as charitable a foundation as you would think. Workhouses are only a way to punish an individual for being poor.”

  Marissa feared Enderly’s indulgence toward her was rapidly turning to irritation. He generally behaved as if he adored Marissa’s intelligence, until he found her opinions to be more than a woman should possess or worse, that they conflicted with his own.