Wicked Again (The Wickeds Book 7)
Page 6
“I think you’ve been misinformed, my dear. At any rate, you should enjoy the speech of my friend and your former neighbor, Viscount Pendleton. He is arguing that children under the age of eight shouldn’t be subjected to working in mills or factories. Or mines. He wishes the age to be raised to at least ten.”
How lovely of Simon. As if any ten-year-old child, no matter how poor, should spend his life below ground digging for copper or tin. Or in Simon’s case, Blue John. She’d already informed her solicitors that one of the tenets to her ownership of the mine would be no children. If a child was thrust into the role of providing a living for his family, a position would have to be found above ground.
“How progressive of Lord Pendleton.”
Enderly’s nostrils flared slightly at the sarcasm tinging her words. He didn’t care to have her disparaging a gentleman he supported and idolized. “He’s wise in not offending his peers with his views,” Enderly gave her a pointed look, “though you don’t seem to find them progressive enough. By walking a fine line, he has managed to gain support in both houses.” He took Marissa’s arm, more reluctantly now, she thought. “Some are saying he could even be Prime Minister one day.”
Not if I can help it.
How was it that Simon could fool everyone into thinking he was so bloody decent? She knew differently though. Even Haddon, whom she considered more perceptive than most, was friends with Simon. He’d even said he admired him. How could he not see through Simon’s veneer of respectability?
And why had she not even had so much as a note from Haddon?
After leaving Marissa in a confused, slightly aroused puddle while securing her agreement to help with Jordana, Haddon seemed to have disappeared. One would think he’d want her to start guiding his daughter immediately given Jordana’s awkwardness.
Perhaps he’d changed his mind about asking her assistance. Maybe he regretted doing so in the first place.
Enderly was looking at her in expectation, awaiting a reply. He must have asked her something and she’d failed to respond.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Enderly. Woolgathering, I’m afraid. What did you say?”
Enderly proceeded to pontificate on some obscure banking issue Marissa didn’t find the least bit interesting. Her niece would have, had she been there. Marissa nodded, pretending rapt interest. When Enderly began to gush over Simon, Marissa had to forcibly swallow down the bitterness filling her mouth. How he adored the great Lord Pendleton in all of his pretentious glory.
Enderly’s hand fell down Marissa’s spine, fingers caressing the lower portion of her back.
She casually stepped to the side, allowing his hand to fall away. Enderly had been hinting at his desire to be invited to her bed, but unbeknownst to the older man, he’d already outlived his usefulness. She’d found out nothing of interest about Simon from him. And the thought of actually having an affair with Enderly no longer held any appeal. She’d thought to put him off before tonight but reconsidered. Once Marissa’s escort saw the mutual hostility between herself and Simon, Enderly would naturally cease in his pursuit.
“I’m quite parched.” Marissa wet her lips and leaned over just enough for Enderly to catch a glimpse of the hollow between her breasts. She was not above such a thing when it was necessary.
The action had the desired effect.
“Of course, my dear.” Enderly’s pale gaze roamed over her neckline in appraisal. “How remiss I am. Would you care for something to drink? Sherry? Ratafia?”
Why did gentlemen always assume a lady wouldn’t want something stronger? It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Enderly to bring her a whisky, but she thought better of it. His illusions of her would be shattered soon enough.
“You choose for me.” She smiled. He looked so hopeful.
Poor Enderly. You are bound to be disappointed.
“I’ll return in a moment.” His fingers trailed along her waist before he moved off, his cloud of white hair disappearing into the well-heeled crowd. He’d probably bring her ratafia, which she detested.
Tonight, Simon would seek to gain traction for his bill among the titles gathered here, hopefully garnering the support he needed. His reforms, which Marissa didn’t think went far enough, were still considered wildly progressive for many of his peers. Simon was building a reputation as something of a firebrand, arguing fervently for his opinions.
It was probably the only bit of passion Simon possessed.
Marissa had to admit most of his ideas had merit, though she didn’t think he was helping the lower classes because he empathized with their plight. Ambition was what mattered most to Simon. Power. Prestige.
The buzzing in the room grew louder as heads turned in the direction of the door. Simon arrived, entering the room as if he were a conquering hero. His progress in her direction was halted by the throng of admirers who sought to shake his hand or offer their support. Marissa observed him dispassionately.
He hasn’t done anything but hide murder and thievery.
Amid the hearty congratulations and pleasant conversation, Simon lifted his head ever so slightly in her direction. His lips parted, obviously shocked to see her in attendance. The lady at his side was speaking, her gloved hand hovering over his arm, though Simon ignored her. The brackets around his mouth tightened before he recovered from finding Marissa in Lord Duckworth’s drawing room. A perfect mask of snobby politeness fell over his patrician features in a matter of seconds, the superior smile he bestowed on lesser mortals firmly back in place.
A portly man with a ginger mustache stepped forward, intent on gaining Simon’s attention and momentarily blocking Marissa’s view.
I hope I’ve ruined Simon’s evening.
Enderly, white hair floating around his head like the puff of a dandelion, returned to her side, the offensive ratafia clutched in his hand.
“Here you are, my dear.” He handed Marissa her glass. “The man of the hour has just arrived.” He nodded in Simon’s direction. “Shall we go and reacquaint you with Lord Pendleton?”
Marissa sipped her ratafia without wincing at the taste. “Yes, of course.”
Enderly took her arm and led her to where Simon held court, subtly pushing aside the crowd. He introduced her to several people, one of whom was the ginger-haired man she’d seen earlier.
“Ho there, Enderly.” The gentleman was barely Marissa’s height, which put his eyes nearly on level with the tops of her breasts which swelled above her neckline. “You must introduce me to your lovely companion.”
“Phineas, good to see you. May I introduce Lady Cupps-Foster. My lady, Mr. Phineas, an old school chum of mine.”
Marissa inclined her head politely. “Mr. Phineas, a pleasure.”
“I assure you,” he took her hand in one beefy paw, “the pleasure is all mine.” His gaze was anything but polite, though his smile was genuine. Despite looking like a plump elf, Marissa thought Mr. Phineas considered himself a bit of a rake. At least in his own mind.
Enderly wasn’t paying the least attention to Phineas. He nodded to his friend, pulling Marissa along in his wake while trying to catch the eye of his idol, Viscount Pendleton.
Simon was watching them approach, his nostrils flaring slightly, as if Marissa were the Thames reeking in the middle of summer.
It was very difficult not to smile at his discomfort.
“Lord Pendleton.” Enderly bowed. “Thank you for your kind invitation this evening. I look forward to your speech later.”
“Enderly.” Simon inclined his head. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. Your guidance in crafting some of these proposed reforms, as a fellow mine owner—”
Marissa made a small sound of derision.
“— has helped me to understand all viewpoints, especially those in the opposition. Your support has been instrumental.”
Enderly preened under Pendleton’s regard. “You are too kind, my lord.”
“Not at all.” Simon’s unwelcoming gaze settled on Marissa. “L
ady Cupps-Foster. How surprising to see you here this evening,” he said, failing to take her hand in greeting. “I didn’t realize you followed politics or were acquainted with Enderly.”
“Lord Pendleton.” Marissa nodded politely. “I couldn’t resist coming tonight, especially after Mr. Enderly’s kind invitation. It gives me an opportunity to apologize for leaving your house party so abruptly this past summer. I regret I could not thank you and your mother properly for your hospitality. But I’m sure it was understandable given the circumstances.”
A tic appeared below Simon’s left eye. “Of course.”
“My son wanted me to send his regards. He especially enjoyed his stay at Brushbriar as you know. Why, if not for your house party, Morwick never would have met his lovely wife.” A delicate laugh bubbled up. “He and Lady Morwick wanted me to express their congratulations on your success.”
Simon’s cheeks reddened, mouth thinning until his lips had nearly disappeared. The resemblance to his mother, Lydia, was notable though not especially favorable.
Enderly cleared his throat, gaze darting between Simon and Marissa. Her escort for this evening couldn’t fail to notice the tension hovering in the air, though Enderly could be a bit unobservant. He’d failed to notice Marissa’s lukewarm interest in him, for instance.
“A word, if I might, Mr. Enderly?” Simon dismissed her with a flick of his chin.
Marissa didn’t mind his rudeness. She’d expected no less.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Enderly nodded to her and moved away, not waiting for her to answer as he followed Simon, his horror at discovering she and Simon weren’t cordial shadowing his craggy features.
Simon and Enderly had wandered to an area at the far end of the room. Every so often, Enderly would cast a glance in her direction. He didn’t look pleased.
Good. It appeared she’d been right in her assumption that Enderly would leave her be with little effort on her part. Thankfully, she’d had the foresight to order her driver to meet her at Duckworth’s. Her carriage was likely already outside.
Marissa intentionally moved in the opposite direction of Enderly and Simon, stopping only to study a portrait of a severe looking woman who very much resembled Duckworth, down to the matching moles they both bore on their chin. She pretended to sip her ratafia and finally gave up, setting the glass down on a nearby table.
Disgusting. Ratafia should be banned from being served in polite society.
Once Simon began what was bound to be a boring speech, Marissa planned to take her leave discreetly.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
A delicious ripple rolled up from the base of her spine at the words coming from the darkened alcove to her left. Marissa immediately smoothed the velvet skirts of her gown as she turned, a nervous habit she’d had since she was a girl.
How long had he been watching her?
Haddon’s lean form stepped out of the shadows, a glass of wine hanging from his fingers. His silver gaze flickered over her as he sipped the ruby-colored contents of his glass. When his eyes finally met hers, a lazy grin crossed his lips in greeting.
The pulse in her throat fluttered at the sight of him. “Lord Haddon.”
“Hello, Lady Cupps-Foster. Imagine my shock at finding you lurking about a dull political gathering. Though perhaps not so strange given your familial connections.”
The observation, coming from Haddon, didn’t surprise Marissa in the least. He paid attention, to a great many things. Enderly had never asked Marissa about her father, the late Duke of Dunbar, nor the power he’d wielded, assuming, incorrectly, that as a woman, Marissa was oblivious to the workings of her family. As her niece had inferred, Marissa was just very good at hiding her true nature.
“Did you know my father, the duke?”
“I met him only once. I found him terrifying, especially when a gentleman referred to His Grace as the ‘Old Spider.’ The duke’s eyes were so blue one could see them across the room.” His voice lowered. “Yours are the same color.”
Another flutter started in the space above her heart.
“Thankfully, I was well beneath his notice.”
“Don’t be too sure.” Marissa laughed softly. “My father noticed everything about everyone. He believed that knowledge was power. Even more so than great wealth. My nephew is cut from the same cloth.”
“The pairing of both is a dangerous combination.” Haddon stepped closer.
Marissa’s skin immediately prickled in awareness of him, lifting the fine hair of her arms.
“I will make sure to never underestimate you, as your friend, Enderly, no doubt does.” Haddon tipped his glass in Enderly’s direction.
He was so near her, if Marissa leaned just an inch forward, her breasts would catch against his chest. Just the mere thought tightened her nipples into peaks. Heat flooded up her chest and the column of her neck.
“I grow concerned for your welfare, Marissa.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“Why? I’m perfectly fine as you can see and—”
“You look flushed much of the time. Overheated, perhaps.”
Drat.
“I would think you were blushing except a woman of your advanced years . . .” the broad shoulders rolled into a careless shrug. “Well, such a thing is usually reserved for prim young misses.”
Wretch. “Perhaps it is the ratafia.” She nodded to her discarded glass. “It is not a favorite of mine.”
“Then one wonders why you allowed your friend to bring it to you. I’m sure you’d find mine more enjoyable. Something French, I think.” Haddon brought his glass to her lips before she could stop him.
The image of Haddon doing the same thing during their night together flashed before her. He’d brought a bottle of wine to her room, but only one glass. After each sip she’d taken, he had kissed her, eventually dribbling the wine across her naked breasts and—
“Good Lord, Marissa.” His gaze was fixed on her mouth. “I grow ever concerned for your health. I’ll search the room for a physician, shall I?” But he didn’t move, instead he brought the glass to his own lips, tongue running across the rim as he did so. “Delicious,” he said, but Haddon was looking at her.
Desire for him coiled tightly around her.
She took a step back, self-preservation screaming for her to place some distance between them. It was very difficult to think, her usual self-composure deserting her with Haddon so near.
“How is Jordana?” she said, shocked at the husky quality of her own voice. If this interlude continued, Marissa would find herself begging Enderly to rescue her before she made an idiot out of herself. “Have you decided you no longer need my assistance?”
“On the contrary, I seek your guidance now more than ever. Our delay in calling on you is the misfortune of a bad cold that has kept Jordana in bed the past few days. She is finally recovering. I’d thought to bring her to your home for tea this week, if that is convenient.”
“Wonderful,” Marissa lied. Part of her had hoped Haddon would decide he didn’t want her to help with Jordana. If her reaction to him tonight was any indication, Marissa couldn’t trust herself to be in his presence.
A loud clapping interrupted their conversation, breaking the soft bubble of intimacy surrounding them. Lord Duckworth was extolling the virtues of Simon and calling him to the podium.
Haddon looked toward the other side of the room. “Pendleton is about to speak.”
“Then I won’t keep you. I assume you’ve come to listen. You are friends, after all.” Marissa meant to dash away the moment Haddon’s back was turned.
“Oh, I wouldn’t call us friends, exactly,” Haddon said. “More wine?” The glass hovered near her lips.
“No, thank you. I was under the impression the two of you were quite close, and you held him in admiration.”
“Were you? I admire his ambition, I suppose. I am a supporter of his reforms and what he hopes to accomplish as I have a vested interest in his proposals.”
As he’d been when I called him a dalliance.
“You own mines.” Marissa had never asked Haddon, assuming him to be involved somehow in tin, copper or lead. Most of the families in Derbyshire held some sort of interests below ground.
“Quarries. Are you sure you don’t want another sip? You look thirsty.”
“Quarries? You mean . . . rocks?” She allowed him to press the glass to her lips, moderately concerned someone might notice them tucked away at the edge of Duckworth’s drawing room. Like Enderly. But everyone’s attention was taken by Simon who was rousing those gathered with his fiery speech.
A low chuckle came from him. “You don’t have to sound so appalled, Marissa. I don’t do the digging myself, at least not anymore. I suppose stone isn’t glamorous in the least. Not like Pendleton’s Blue John.”
“No.” Marissa tensed at the mention of Blue John. “I suppose not.”
“Or the tin mines your friend,” he emphasized the word in an icy tone, “Enderly owns in Cornwall. I quarry limestone, granite, gritstone and the like. Someone has to provide building material for,” he gave a negligent wave, “all these fine houses. For streets, garden walls and the like.”
Stone had to come from somewhere, but she’d never given it much thought.
“I have two quarries which provide employment for most of the men in the small villages surrounding Buxton. I never have to despair I’m poisoning the water with lead, so I can sleep at night. I’ll never be ridiculously wealthy on the level of Pendleton or your family, for instance, but I have more than enough for myself and the girls. And a wife.” He winked at her.
“It sounds like a lucrative enterprise.” The last thing she wanted to do was discuss Haddon’s plans to take a wife, especially since the mere thought soured her stomach. Nor did she wish to debate the merits of Lady Christina Sykes who was probably the frontrunner in his quest for the new Lady Haddon. If only Marissa had not refused him—