Wicked Again (The Wickeds Book 7)

by Kathleen Ayers

  “Don’t you dare leave me with Christina as a stepmother. I shall never forgive you.”

  The words were so quiet, Marissa wasn’t certain she’d heard Jordana correctly. “What, dear?”

  “I said don’t you dare leave Mr. Coventry’s without your special order.” Jordana looked straight ahead, stomping in the direction of the apothecary. “The one for—” She tipped her chin to Marissa’s hair.

  “I shan’t. Nor do I need you to remind me.” Seeing Lady Christina had rattled her, which was ridiculous since the girl was an overindulged twit. Would Haddon really marry her? Jordana seemed to think so. The very thought caused an unpleasant roll of her stomach.

  I just need some tea. Perhaps a biscuit.

  The night before, she’d wept as she hadn’t since Reggie’s death—painful sobs which had torn at her and threatened to break her heart. Over Haddon. The man she’d driven away.

  I never thought you a coward, Marissa.

  Marissa stiffened her shoulders and strode in the direction of Mr. Coventry’s, waving furiously at the footman to keep up.

  She wasn’t a coward.

  18

  The visit to Mr. Coventry’s apothecary shop was far lengthier than Marissa had anticipated.

  Jordana had peppered the elderly man with questions, barely pausing to take a breath much less allow Mr. Coventry to speak. Marissa watched in utter horror as Jordana, a young girl from good family—and a virgin—asked Mr. Coventry to explain to her the various ways in which a woman could prevent a child.

  Mortified, her cheeks burning, Marissa had hurriedly explained Jordana’s interest in medicinals as Mr. Coventry had tried to hide his amusement. Changing the subject to something safe, namely the bottles of hair dye Marissa had ordered, she’d made the mistake of turning her back on Jordana, who had immediately begun to inquire after remedies for Marissa’s frequent ‘female-related’ headaches.

  Marissa had never been so embarrassed. She thought it would not be the last time she would feel so with Jordana.

  Mr. Coventry, bless him, assured Marissa of his utter discretion.

  After leaving the apothecary, Marissa and Jordana visited several other establishments, loading their purchases into the waiting arms of the footman whose name Marissa still could not remember and, since he’d been with them all day, didn’t wish to ask.

  Finally reaching the coffeehouse Jordana had first seen when they had arrived on Bond Street, Marissa ushered her inside to a small table by the window. Ordering hot chocolate for Jordana and tea for herself, Marissa nodded her head at various intervals as Jordana chattered with enthusiasm over their visit to the apothecary. The chatter quickly evolved into an improper recitation of how all women should be educated on the benefits of preventing a child.

  “Jordana,” Marissa said firmly, looking into the shocked face of an older lady seated at the table next to them. “Please keep your voice down. While I tend to agree with you—”

  “I knew you did.” Jordana nodded, opening her mouth to continue.

  “But,” Marissa placed a hand on Jordana’s arm, “we do not speak of such things in public. In a coffeehouse. Not everyone is as . . . openminded as I.” She removed her hand and sat back, smiling at the older woman who was observing Jordana as if she were a wild animal who’d invaded Bond Street.

  Jordana shut her mouth and nodded, deflating like a ruined soufflé that the entire world didn’t agree with her assumptions on the care of women. “I just want to help. It is so important.”

  Marissa’s heart went out to her. “I know it is, Jordana. But you must be careful with such talk. Promise me?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I will support you whenever I can, be assured. And I am thrilled, dear, you enjoyed the visit.” Marissa smiled to take the sting out of her chastisement. “We will go again. I promise.”

  “You’ll take me? Even after Aunt Flora comes to stay?” Jordana shook her head. “She won’t understand how important it is to me. But you do, don’t you, Marissa?”

  “Yes.” And she meant it. No matter what happened with Haddon, and at the moment things didn’t look promising, Marissa refused to leave Jordana floundering about. She couldn’t.

  But yet you will sacrifice Miss Higgins.

  Reggie again, whispering in her ear, reminding Marissa of what she meant to do. Her hand trembled as she pushed away the half-eaten biscuit on her plate.

  “Marissa?” Jordana leaned close. “You are very pale. Do you have one of your headaches?”

  “No, dear. I’m only just realizing how tired I am. Shall we head home now?”

  They left the coffee shop, arms linked, and walked in the direction of Marissa’s waiting carriage. The footman, arms full, followed closely behind. The poor lad was loaded down with an assortment of boxes, his head barely visible over the top.

  I should have sent him back to the carriage earlier. He’s bound to drop something.

  The hour had grown late, the day beginning to wane by the time the carriage came into sight. She had underestimated Jordana’s fascination with the apothecary shop.

  “I can’t wait to return to visit Mr. Coventry.” There was a tiny dot of chocolate above Jordana’s upper lip as she grinned, blissfully happy, Marissa was sure, to have spent at least part of her day discussing the ingredients for a childbirth poultice. “You may even have to return next week for your special dye.”

  “Jordana, I thought we discussed the need for discretion.”

  “Mr. Coventry wrote down the name of a book he consults when mixing various medicinals and the like. But it’s in French. I suppose I should have paid more attention to my governess.” She gave Marissa a rueful look. “But truly, I’d no idea I would ever need to know French.”

  “Possibly you should have made more of an effort to know Madame Fontaine or one of her assistants.” Marissa laughed. “As it appears now you will have use for them.” She looked up as the carriage came into view. “Finally.”

  Spending the entire day on Bond Street had been wonderful but exhausting. She wanted nothing more than to sink into a hot bath with a glass of whisky and think of Haddon.

  Marissa was at war with herself. She had no idea how to proceed.

  Glancing down the street, Lady Stanton and her daughter appeared, weaving through the well-dressed ladies and the few gentlemen clogging the sidewalk. The pair paused, admiring something in a shop window before Lady Christina turned with an exclamation of surprise on her pretty face. She began to wave her gloved hands in an excited greeting to someone further down the street that Marissa couldn’t quite see.

  A flash of evergreen moved in the direction of Lady Christina and her mother. A gentleman, tall and lithe, appeared. There was no mistaking the magnificent bone structure of his handsome face nor the way his beautiful mouth formed a devastating smile as he greeted the pair.

  Damn it.

  Lady Christina giggled, placing a hand over her lips as if suddenly shy, batting her lashes flirtatiously at the gentleman, doing everything but leaping into his arms.

  That girl needs a lesson in comportment.

  Marissa had little experience with envy, so it took her a moment to recognize the twist of her heart. As the daughter of a wealthy and powerful duke, Marissa was envied. But seeing Haddon’s attention on that little puff of a girl in peach stole the breath from her chest.

  She glared at Haddon, willing him to look her way.

  Her young footman struggled mightily, with the help of Marissa’s driver, to secure the packages she and Jordana had accumulated today on the top of the carriage.

  Jordana, oblivious to the fact Marissa was distracted and her father was just down the street, leapt into the carriage without an ounce of decorum.

  How many times must I remind her that ladies do not jump?

  The carriage rocked, jostling the idiot footman, who was doing his best to lash the packages to the top.

  Marissa’s driver jumped nimbly aside, catching one of the boxes
before it could slide from the lad’s hands.

  Marissa stepped away, stumbling a bit, to avoid both of the men. She would need to speak to Greenhouse. The lad was clearly not ready to advance to the position of footman as evidenced by his inability to complete a simple task. She turned to admonish Jordana, who was hanging out the carriage window, watching the young footman’s efforts with a dubious look on her face, when Marissa realized she couldn’t lift her leg. She pulled back her skirts.

  Of all the rotten luck.

  Her left foot was lodged into a small hole. A wiggle of her ankle did not produce the desired result of freeing herself.

  “Drat.” Turning back to Haddon and the fawning Lady Christina, Marissa struggled to free herself, unwilling to be caught in such a ridiculous predicament.

  Eyes narrowing, she took in the giggling Lady Christina as she tugged at her leg. How could Lady Stanton allow her daughter to throw herself at Haddon in such a way? It was shameful behavior. Sparing a glance at her trapped foot, Marissa tried to be discreet. She didn’t wish to attract attention nor distract the bumbling footman and her driver. Imagine the fun the gossips would have if Marissa’s hair dye flew from the top to splatter against the cobblestones.

  I should have insisted on a more seasoned footman.

  The entire day was bound to end in disaster if she didn’t manage to get herself out of the present situation.

  Good Lord. Lady Stanton must take hold of her daughter. There is not an inch between the girl and Haddon.

  “My lady!”

  Marissa looked up at the footman’s horrified exclamation. The stack of boxes he’d been trying to lash down burst free because he wasn’t securing them correctly. Her eyes remained fixed on the box from Mr. Coventry’s, praying the glass containers inside wouldn’t break, shocked when it flew right at her. The rest of the boxes followed, knocking her to the ground.

  Death by hair dye. I should never have listened to Adelia.

  Then everything went dark.

  19

  “Marissa.”

  Haddon whispered her name as he lay next to her, naked, his large hand drawing circles against the bare skin of her stomach. He smelled so good. Like the spices her cook used when making those small cakes Marissa liked with her tea. Was it ginger?

  She giggled at the thought of Haddon smelling like a cookie one had with tea.

  Wanting to touch him, Marissa found it a struggle to lift even so much as her finger. Her entire body felt boneless. Sated. Haddon must have made love to her, but she couldn’t remember. Not that it mattered. It was just as pleasurable having him beside her, speaking of nothing yet everything.

  “She’s twisted her ankle a bit, but it isn’t serious and there’s a small bump on her head. A little rest and her ladyship should recover. I gave her something for the pain.”

  Marissa pushed aside the authoritative voice. She was stroking the side of Haddon’s cheek wanting to tell him how he filled her heart. How stupid she’d been to send him away after they’d made love in her parlor. What lay between them wasn’t meaningless. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. And it was exhausting pretending she didn’t want him. Marissa didn’t want to do it anymore. She wasn’t a coward. Taking his hand, she pressed it to her breast. “You are not a dalliance.”

  “I know.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  “We are not a dalliance.” It was very important he understand.

  “My lady, can you open your eyes?”

  No. Her eyelids were weighed down. Heavy. It would be an enormous effort to open her eyes or move at all. She was so comfortable. Warm. Almost like floating in a bath. Besides, if she opened her eyes, Haddon might disappear.

  “I’m not a coward.”

  “I know. Wake up, Marissa.” Haddon sounded very insistent.

  Finally, she managed to push her eyelids open.

  Marissa was in a bed, with Haddon sitting next to her, far too close for propriety’s sake, and holding her hand but thankfully not her breast.

  I was dreaming.

  Haddon’s silver eyes were filled with worry. What was he concerned about?

  Me. “Are you worried about me?” a raspy whisper asked as her heart fluttered in her chest. She would do anything to have him keep looking at her in such a way.

  “Yes.” His voice sounded strained but she saw a hint of the mischievous smile he so often wore tugging at his lips.

  Marissa struggled against the pillows, trying to sit up, but the pain in her temple made her fall back. “My ankle hurts.” She blinked at Haddon as her fingers curled more firmly around his. “I’m thirsty.”

  “If you’ve no further need of me, my lord—”

  Marissa glanced at the foot of the bed where an older gentleman with snow-white hair stood. Good Lord, is that Enderly?

  “Thank you, Dr. Steward, for arriving so quickly. I think my staff and I can take things from here.”

  Marissa blew out a puff of air relieved. Not Enderly. But a physician.

  “Send for me if you need anything. I’ll see myself out, Lord Haddon.”

  She tried to focus on the departing Dr. Steward, but her eyes refused to look at anything but Haddon. Her fingers tightened on his, afraid he would leave with the physician.

  I don’t want to run away from him anymore.

  He cast a bemused look at their clasped hands but didn’t try to pull away.

  “Don’t leave,” she whispered.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” His voice was soft. “You’ve a little bump on your head and you twisted your ankle. But you’ll live.” A squeeze to her fingers.

  Marissa squeezed back.

  “I’m not certain how you managed to wedge your foot into the only hole on the entire street—”

  “I’m sure it isn’t the only one.” She wanted to touch Haddon’s face. Press a kiss to his brow. He looked so worried about her.

  “I managed to save your shoe. Considering how attached you were to that little hat, I thought I’d do my best to salvage it. Weren’t you watching where you stepped? You could have been seriously injured.”

  “No, I—” She bit her lip, not wishing to admit she’d been too preoccupied watching him fawn all over a girl barely out of the nursery. “I’m very thirsty.”

  “Ah, yes.” He stood, reluctantly releasing her hand, and moved to the small side table where a carafe sat. He poured out a glass of water and returned to sit at her side; he held the glass to her lips, watching her mouth as she drank.

  “Better?” He took her hand again.

  She relaxed immediately, feeling the warmth of his fingers entwined around hers. “Where am I?” Her eyes ran down the hideous coverlet of the bed she lay in before turning her head ever so slightly to take in the room.

  “Good God,” she whispered.

  A ghastly blue paisley motif with gold thread surrounded her, contributing to the pitching of her stomach. No one had used that particular design for at least twenty years. Even then it had not been one of Marissa’s favorites. She couldn’t possibly be in her own home. The décor was one she never would have approved.

  “A guest room in my house. Your assessment of the room décor isn’t flattering in the least.”

  When Haddon smiled at her, as he was doing now, he was so . . . blinding he took her breath away. The first time he’d smiled at her in such a way had been across the dinner table at Pendleton’s house party during the fish course. She’d had a bit of trout drenched in an overpowering sauce on the end of her fork and was about to take a bite when she’d noticed him watching her. His silver eyes had glinted in the candlelight as he had followed the movement of her fork, watching her mouth the entire time.

  I nearly dropped my fork.

  She’d forgotten all about the terrible sauce and overcooked trout. At the time, she could only think about how bloody beautiful Haddon was with his dark hair and glorious cheekbones.

  The bed jiggled as he moved, his fingers releasing hers.

  “No,” she whisper
ed, suddenly terrified he’d leave her alone with the atrocious paisley. Her fingers wiggled toward him.

  The bed dipped as Haddon sat back down. “I’m not leaving you, Marissa. Just setting down the glass on the nightstand.”

  Marissa’s chest tightened in the most wonderful way even though she was sure Haddon only meant he wasn’t leaving her at that moment. Perhaps having her day’s purchases knock her unconscious had been for the best, for she’d awoken with her thoughts firmly in place in regard to Haddon. An epiphany of sorts. He was the only man who’d made Marissa feel . . . anything in over twenty years. The next thought wasn’t nearly as welcome, causing her to wince at the pain it brought to her temple, and she shut her eyes.

  How can I avoid telling him what I’ve done to Pendleton?

  He and Pendleton were friends though based on the comments he’d made at Lord Duckworth’s, she no longer thought them close. But still. Haddon wouldn’t want to believe Pendleton’s father had committed murder. Or that Marissa’s actions toward the family were justified.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “No. I only have a slight headache. And the curtains are not helping. I fear you weren’t exaggerating when you claimed I could assist you with your decorating. I thought, Haddon, you were joking. But now,” her eyes opened to see him watching her, not the least concerned she found his decorating atrocious, “I can see the situation is far more serious than you led me to believe.”

  “There I was on Bond Street thinking to catch up with you and Jordana—” he started in a quiet voice.

  “You were?” Maybe he hadn’t seen her watching him.

  Haddon’s lips twitched. “I was right down the street, as you well know.”

  Drat.

  Marissa pursed her lips. “I don’t know what you mean. Certainly, if I had seen you, I would have flagged you down to ask your assistance. In doing so, I might have avoided being hit by a flood of boxes.”

  “Of course.” His forefinger began to stroke a line against her palm. “Saved from having your junior footman—”