Wicked Again (The Wickeds Book 7)

by Kathleen Ayers

  Releasing Marissa’s hand, Nighter turned to Adelia. “I’ll go fetch us some more wine, shall I?” He didn’t wait for her to answer before he headed out of the box.

  “Yes, Nighter,” she said to his retreating back. “Thank you.”

  Marissa turned to her friend, who was still staring in the direction the captain had gone. What on earth was Adelia thinking taking up with a man like Nighter? “Goodness, Adelia. He’s younger than both my sons.” And so very broken.

  “He’s twenty-six.” Adelia shrugged, fanning herself. “And he’s an old soul. Trust me.” She took Marissa’s hand. “Don’t pout, Marissa. You’ll get little lines around your mouth. Besides, I’m enjoying myself.”

  “I know . . . just be careful with him. At any rate, I only stopped by to say hello and ask you to join me for luncheon tomorrow.” She hadn’t intended on inviting Adelia over, but the excuse seemed as good as any. “Haddon’s daughter will be coming as well. I would love for you to meet her.”

  “Haddon’s daughter? She’s probably blessed with the same divine bone structure. I shall be there.” She kissed Marissa’s cheek. “But not too early, darling. Nighter is a demanding lover.”

  “You really are quite horrid, Adelia,” Marissa said, smiling at her.

  With a wave at Adelia, Marissa made her way out of the box, and toward the stairs. Spencer and Elizabeth would be wondering where she had gotten off to. The hallway was dim, the lights having been turned down in anticipation of the play resuming. Haddon was here, somewhere in this theater, with Lady Christina clawing at him with her perfect gloved hands.

  The thought did not improve her mood.

  “My lady.”

  A dark rasp came from the shadows at the very top of the stairs. The darkness moved, taking the shape of Captain Nighter.

  Lying in wait for me. Marissa’s pulse jumped at his sudden appearance.

  Bunched muscles tightened beneath the fabric of his evening clothes as he bowed to her. Nighter was a big man, much like Nick and Brendan, sucking up all the available air in the hall with his presence. There was a hint of well-bred snobbery in his manner—the sort a person possessed when they’d been born into wealth. Nighter, according to Tomkin, was the disgraced nephew of a wealthy marquess, though she’d neglected to ask which one. His familial ties were of no importance to Marissa. Only the fact that he was at loose ends and needed money mattered, though it had reassured her somewhat to know he’d been born a gentleman.

  “Captain Nighter.” The hall was empty save for her and Nighter, something which gave her pause. The play had started. She could already hear the screeching of the lead actress. Marissa lowered her voice to ensure anyone who might chance upon them couldn’t eavesdrop.

  “I assume you will be attending Lady Ralston’s ball,” she murmured.

  “If that is your pleasure, my lady.” The icy gaze traveled over her breasts.

  Marissa didn’t care for his chilly perusal of her bosom. Nighter was undoubtedly well-versed in the seduction of women, though it was unlikely he had to work very hard at the task. Any young lady would be grateful for his attention if one didn’t notice the absolute desolation in his eyes.

  “I will arrange for the two of you to be caught in an indiscretion at Lady Ralston’s. But you must seek her out prior to attending the event. Flirt with her. Garner her trust so that she will meet you without question in some darkened room at the ball. There will be no seduction of her person, only the appearance of one. The young lady in question is not to be physically harmed in any way,” she stressed.

  An odd look flitted through his ice-blue eyes, surprising Marissa before Nighter caught himself and placed his chilly mask firmly in place. But not quick enough.

  Sorrow. Grief.

  In that moment, Marissa caught a glimpse of the man Nighter must once have been. Before becoming this crueler, darker version of himself.

  “I would never harm a woman physically. You have my assurance.” The words hovered in the air like bits of snow and ice. “I won’t betray Mr. Tomkin’s trust in me nor would I ever be stupid enough to incur the interest of your family, my lady.”

  “Very good.”

  What happened to you, Captain Nighter?

  There had been no mistaking the absolute heartache shadowing his striking features, if only for a moment. She’d seen it in her own face often enough after Reggie’s death.

  “The lady in question,” he was careful not to mention Miss Higgins by name, “will have her reputation damaged only enough to break a betrothal and nothing more. I will seek her out in the park tomorrow. She always takes the path furthest from the river but closer to the woods.”

  Marissa nodded. Nighter had done his research on Miss Higgins. “I will find you at Lady Ralston’s.” She felt marginally better, assured Nighter wouldn’t harm Miss Higgins physically, although her stomach continued to pitch about at the thought of destroying her reputation.

  “Good evening, Captain Nighter.”

  “Until we meet again, Lady Cupps-Foster.” He bowed politely but made no attempt to take her hand before heading down the stairs.

  Marissa waited, counting to ten before placing a hand on the railing to assure Nighter had enough time to sneak away. Hand trembling against the iron, she made her way down the stairway, the implication of the series of events she’d just set in motion firmly fixed in her mind.

  The guilt was the worst of it.

  I’m doing what I must. For Reggie.

  No, this is not for me, Reggie’s voice whispered in her head.

  “Shush. It is for you,” she muttered under her breath. Good Lord, anyone coming upon her would think her addled, speaking to herself in such a way.

  As she took a step down, the heel of her slipper caught against the hem of her skirt. Swinging her foot in irritation she sought to dislodge her shoe from her skirts, but instead the velvet wrapped around her legs. Marissa’s knee buckled, trapped amid the layers of her skirts.

  Perhaps I won’t have a chance to avenge Reggie.

  Arms spinning like a small windmill, Marissa held out her hands in a futile attempt to avoid falling to her death and conveniently resolving her guilt at harming Miss Higgins.

  Of all the idiotic ways to break my neck. On a staircase. At the theater. And it isn’t even a good play.

  Marissa closed her eyes as the staircase spun, certain she was about to perish when she landed against a familiar, muscular chest that smelled of shaving soap and spice.

  Haddon.

  16

  Trent had taken the long way back to the Marquess of Stanton’s box after the intermission ended, using the excuse he wished to have a cheroot and take some air. What he’d really needed was a respite from the stifling atmosphere of Lord Stanton’s box and the gentleman’s quiet disapproval. Lord Stanton didn’t think Trent a good enough catch for his only daughter, which was fine with Trent since he’d no intention of marrying Lady Christina Sykes.

  He had enough on his mind tonight besides trying to garner the approval of his host, something Trent didn’t give a shit about anyway. Pendleton’s markers, consolidated into one giant, enormous sum, had been called due. As Pendleton said they would be.

  I have beggared myself.

  True to his word, Pendleton did have his solicitors draw up a document detailing the loan repayment. The documents had been delivered to Trent just this morning by special messenger. Of course, repayment was entirely contingent upon Pendleton marrying Miss Higgins.

  Pendleton had assured Trent that nothing would impede his marriage to the girl.

  Just as Pendleton had assumed before when Petra Grantly was ruined beneath his nose.

  Miss Higgins seemed a level-headed young lady. He’d met her only moments ago as Pendleton, escorting the highly reserved girl, had visited Stanton’s box. Though shy and soft-spoken, Miss Higgins appeared somewhat intelligent. Dutiful. She’d clung firmly to Pendleton’s arm as he’d paraded her about.

  Christ, let’s hope
so.

  If something were to halt Pendleton’s marriage to Miss Higgins, Trent would be returning to Derbyshire permanently. His home in London would have to be sold immediately. His daughters would be left with only small dowries if even that. And the quarries?

  A heavy weight settled in his stomach.

  Gone.

  The work of three generations would be foreclosed on by the banks and Trent would be reduced to sheep farming. Or raising pigs. He was equally terrible at both, so he supposed it didn’t matter. Trent and his daughters would become yet another ancient family with nothing to show for themselves but a bankrupt estate and good breeding. His girls would be raised in genteel poverty.

  Trent had lain awake several nights contemplating the sheer stupidity of helping Pendleton, but at the end of it, he always came to the same conclusion. Honor, a stupid overused sentiment, would nonetheless dictate his actions. He owed Pendleton. At least there was the promise of repayment in writing. And thinking of Pendleton and the loan had pushed Trent’s thoughts of Marissa aside for the better part of a week.

  He rounded the corner to go up the stairs, certain Lady Christina was pouting at his absence, when he heard the hum of a low-pitched conversation above him. The stairwell was dark, the lamps having been dimmed once the curtain went up and the play resumed. The quiet corner at the top of the stairs was the perfect place for an assignation since most of those in attendance had returned to their boxes.

  Trent paused, not wishing to interrupt the pair. He could take the stairs at the opposite side of the theater, but just as he turned to do so, a gentleman came down the steps. Tall, with the bearing those with military experience often displayed, he nodded politely, brushing past Trent before moving into the main hall.

  Resolved to return to Stanton’s box and endure the remainder of the evening, Trent had only placed his foot on the stair when a small cry met his ears. A flurry of burgundy velvet and a spray of feathers fell toward him; without thinking, he reached out his arms. He was either being accosted by a giant bird, or a lady had lost her footing on the stairs.

  Feathers tickled his nose as a soft, generous form fell into his arms with a whoosh. Trent recognized the luscious body pressed so delightfully against him immediately. He was intimately acquainted with every inch of her.

  “Oh, dear. Thank you,” Marissa said, breath uneven and lips parted. She clutched at his coat, as she struggled to regain her footing.

  Trent couldn’t take his eyes from her mouth. The luscious plum of her lips cried out to be claimed.

  One kiss.

  His head tilted and his mouth moved toward hers before their last conversation, her words ringing in his ears, rushed back at him. Stiffening, he took Marissa by the shoulders, and set her firmly back on her feet.

  Marissa stared up at Trent, blinking as if he were some sort of a hallucination. “Lord Haddon.”

  Trent raised a brow. “You look disappointed, Lady Cupps-Foster.”

  “No. I mean—I wasn’t expecting—thank you.” Her fingers were still curled into the lapels of his coat, seemingly reluctant to release him.

  God, she was beautiful. Her sapphire eyes were luminous as she looked up at him, the decorative spray of feathers fixed in her dark locks listing dangerously to one side. His entire body hummed at being near her, his heart throbbing painfully inside his chest. What was it about this one woman that made Trent lose every bit of sense he possessed?

  “Have a care, Marissa. You could have broken your neck.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended but only because jealousy, so thick he feared he’d choke on it, flooded up his throat.

  Marissa had been the woman at the top of the stairs.

  Her body arched, just enough to push her breasts, which were bloody magnificent, against his chest.

  Trent’s arousal was immediate. Painful. His cock didn’t seem to care he’d just caught her in an assignation with another man.

  “Perhaps you should have your dalliances in an area with better lighting lest you injure yourself.” Trent disengaged her fingers from his coat, ignoring her small sound of surprise at his actions. Anger and jealousy were mixing together, fueling the temper he so often kept under control. He didn’t trust himself to speak or be so near her. Trent took a pointed step back.

  Marissa’s mouth popped open. “No. He’s not—that is to say—”

  “You owe me no explanation, my lady,” he bit out. “Excuse me.” He brushed past her to move up the stairs. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “My hem,” Marissa said stupidly to his retreating back, hoping he wouldn’t leave just yet. “I fear it caught in my heel. I should lodge a complaint. The stairs aren’t lit properly.”

  Haddon looked down on her, the dim glow of the lamps glancing off his sharp cheekbones. “A fine idea.”

  Her breath paused, eyes greedily soaking up every inch of him. She made a great show of brushing a bit of feather which had come loose from her styled hair, off the sleeve of her dress. Everything caught on velvet; she wasn’t sure she’d have another gown made from the fabric.

  Terribly inconvenient.

  As inconvenient as Haddon seeing her with Nighter and assuming the worst.

  What else would he think?

  “I’m glad I could be of service. Again.”

  Marissa looked away. There was so much acrimony in those few words and all of it directed at her. All of it deserved. Did he really believe she’d only used him?

  I called him meaningless.

  “It was fortuitous you were here to catch me.” She looked up at Haddon, speaking to stop him from dashing up the stairs and away from her. Wanting his forgiveness but too afraid to ask for it.

  “Next time, I won’t be,” he said flatly.

  “No, I don’t suppose you will.” Marissa lifted her chin, hating everything about this conversation though loath to end it. “He isn’t my lover if that is what you are assuming.” She couldn’t tell him the truth. “Captain Nighter is involved with my friend, Lady Waterstone. I was just visiting her and—”

  “I don’t care, Marissa.”

  Her heart fluttered madly. He clearly did care.

  “I only find it ironic. He’s far younger than I.”

  Marissa looked up at the face of the man she’d carried with her from the Peak District to London. A man she dreamed of nearly every night. Desolation filled her at the thought of Haddon being forever gone from her life. The last few weeks with Jordana, the only remaining reminder of him, had left Marissa feeling torn and ragged. Her eyes took in the sheer masculine beauty of Haddon, tracing the lines of his shoulders to his face and the magnificent slash of his cheekbones—dark smudges beneath quicksilver eyes.

  Worry filled her the more Marissa studied Haddon. He looked leaner, as if he hadn’t been eating properly in addition to not sleeping. Jordana had certainly not volunteered any information that would cause Haddon to be in such a state.

  “Haddon, is everything all right? Are the girls all well?”

  Did I do this?

  His expression was cool. Unfathomable. Politely reserved. Effectively closing himself off from her. A chilly block of ice looked back down on her. “Good evening, Lady Cupps-Foster.”

  Not only did Haddon not wish to disclose whatever troubled him, he was violently opposed to discussing it with Marissa.

  She came forward before he could take another step. “Haddon.” Marissa placed a hand on his sleeve to stop him, ignoring the hostile look he gave her.

  “Is there something more? Lady Christina will be expecting my return to her father’s box.”

  Marissa flinched. “Yes, there is something. I’d nearly forgotten. I meant to send you a note.” She gave him a smile.

  It was not returned.

  “But now that we’ve run into each other,” she said in a rush, “I wished to let you know I’ll be taking Jordana to Madame Fontaine’s later this week. To fit her for a new wardrobe.”

  “I’m aware. Have a lovely
time on Bond Street. My sister will arrive in a few weeks and will relieve you of your duty to Jordana.”

  He was so bloody angry. “She isn’t a duty,” she snapped, suddenly comprehending how unbearable being separated from Haddon had become. Marissa bit her lip, struggling to find a way to make him understand. He wasn’t meaningless. All she managed was his name.

  “Trent.”

  Haddon brought his jaw up sharply, eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t bear the sight of Marissa a moment longer. “Good evening, Lady Cupps-Foster,” he repeated, this time with even more hostility than before. He turned his back on her, jogging up the stairs, clearly unwilling to be in her presence a moment longer.

  Marissa blinked back the tears filling her eyes. She reminded herself of all the reasons she and Haddon could not be together. His age. His need for a wife who could provide an heir. His friendship with Pendleton.

  Her bloody heart which couldn’t stand to be broken again.

  Except it already was.

  17

  “Come, Jordana. Madame Fontaine is just down the street.” Marissa waved a gloved hand at her charge. “We don’t want to be late. Madame”—she affected a slight accent—“doesn’t care for clients who aren’t prompt. Lateness sets her off. She’s temperamental. And French.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing, my lady?” Jordana stomped beside her, steadfastly refusing to be hurried no matter how Marissa prodded her. They’d gotten a late start today, mainly due to Marissa rising at an exceptionally late hour. She hadn’t slept much last night, tossing and turning in her bed until the wee hours of the morning. Between the ache in her heart over Haddon and her guilt over Miss Higgins, Marissa wasn’t getting a lot of rest.

  Only Haddon made her weep, though.

  Felice had put cold compresses on her eyes this morning while Marissa had tried to convince her maid the excessive dust in the bedroom had caused the redness and swelling.

  “Is your father enjoying London?” Marissa bit her lip. What a question to ask Jordana, who she suspected knew much more than she let on.