Wicked Again (The Wickeds Book 7)

by Kathleen Ayers

  “Are you still well?” he said softly, his breath fanning her cheek.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Those things I said, Marissa, how I mean to debauch you—”

  “Yes.” She held her breath.

  “I meant every one.”

  22

  The bed dipped as Haddon’s warmth left her side. She’d been dozing, lulled into that wonderful place between sleep and wakefulness by the sound of his heart beneath her ear. The need to keep Haddon close caused her to stretch her fingers out, not wanting him to leave and return to his own bed.

  “Shush, my love. I’m only going to stoke the fire.” He tucked the blankets around her securely and pressed a kiss to her temple.

  Marissa opened her eyes a slit, admiring Haddon’s movements as he brought the fire back to life. He was lovely to watch, the lean muscle of his body moving gracefully as he bent to the task. Satisfied, he stood and walked back to her, the flames outlining him with a soft, amber light.

  He's so bloody beautiful. And mine.

  Tonight had been an exercise in demonstrating the fact.

  She flapped open the blankets to allow him to slide back beside her. Curling her body next to his warmth, Marissa waited as his heat seeped deep into her skin. He’d been gone only a moment, but she’d been so cold without him.

  That is what my life would be like if Haddon were gone. I would be forever chilled.

  He ran a finger over her cheek, tracing the outline of her jaw. “Have we reached an understanding then, Marissa? I’ve caught you. I mean to keep you.”

  A sob stuck in her throat at his words. She’d been alone for so bloody long. Most of it by choice, her heart closed off. It was terrifying to realize, after all these years, that she needed someone. Particularly when that someone would tire of her in time and end things between them.

  Or worse. She had been widowed three times.

  “You worry that I will leave. Whether by dying or tiring of you.”

  Marissa shut her eyes. It was unsettling how well he seemed to know her, guessing at her thoughts before she herself knew them. “Is it so far-fetched? I am tragically unlucky in love.” Her head fell to his chest.

  “Your luck has changed.” Haddon grinned, pleased with himself. “There are barely nine years between us.”

  “Nine years?” Marissa’s mouth parted in horror. This was terrible news. How could Haddon smile at such a pronouncement? “Nearly a decade?” She would be laughed out of London. “An older woman casually taking a younger lover, like my friend Lady Waterstone, is mildly acceptable but—”

  “You may dispel casual from your vocabulary in regard to us,” he stated, his arms tightening sharply around her.

  Us. She’d assumed as much. Haddon had behaved rather possessively with her from the moment they’d met, and Marissa doubted he would look kindly on any other man’s interest in her.

  I adore that about Haddon, but I won’t tell him so.

  “Can you not see, Marissa?” he said calmly, in a voice she thought he used with his daughters when trying to explain a crucial point. “My age is an advantage. I am unlikely to die before you.” Haddon gave her one of his impish grins. “That should please you. Given previous circumstances.”

  Marissa swatted him. “None of my husbands died because they were old. And we’ll be the scandal of the ton.” She’d never wanted to invite such attention again. When Kelso had ruined her, it was all London had spoken of for months.

  “You are missing the most important part.” He nibbled on her ear. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

  “Besides your being nearly a decade younger than I?” How could he be so blasé about their age difference?

  He cupped her face in his hands. “I won’t leave you, Marissa,” he whispered pressing a kiss to her lips. “Ever.”

  Marissa stilled, not daring to breathe at his declaration. Haddon wasn’t speaking of a short-term affair. Her heart thumped in disarray for a moment. “I—”

  “I won’t leave you,” he said again. He took her hand, kissing her fingertips, and placed it over his heart. “You must trust me.”

  When Marissa had been a child, her father, the duke, had thought to teach her to swim. He’d taken her to a cliff overlooking the sea near his estate a few miles from the Scottish border. The rocky outcropping wasn’t terribly high, but to the child Marissa had been, jumping into the ocean from such a height was terrifying. Her father had grasped her hand in his larger one, pressed a kiss to her fingers, and smiled. “You must trust me, Marissa.” They’d jumped together into the blue water. Her father had never let go. Not for an instant.

  Haddon wasn’t going to let go either.

  23

  I can’t seem to let go of his hand.

  A moderate look of surprise shone on Haddon’s face as he stood before Marissa in the foyer of her house. After breakfasting together, discreetly, in the guestroom, he’d brought her home in his carriage, taking the long way through the park.

  She’d no idea there were so many things one could do in a slow-moving carriage. Haddon apprised Marissa of at least two.

  It had been Marissa who insisted Haddon walk her inside, even knowing all of her neighbors had likely seen the gossip in the papers by now or had heard the rumors at whatever social gathering they’d attended the night before. They were probably peering at her from behind the curtains of their parlors.

  Marissa lifted her chin high and marched up the steps.

  Greenhouse, for his part, appeared somewhat outraged at the appearance of Lord Haddon in Marissa’s foyer, especially so early in the morning and behaving in such an informal manner toward his employer.

  Her butler was a prig. She’d have to do something about that.

  “Marissa, are you sure you are all right?” The dark tendrils of his hair were blown about his ears from the wind outside, and his eyes shone like pewter. “Jordana has told me that sometimes when a person is hit in the head—”

  “I’m fine. And it was only a small case of hair dye and a hatbox or two.” Marissa’s heart threatened to come out of her chest just looking at him. “It isn’t as if I was stomped on by a horse.”

  “Even so,” the right side of his mouth tipped up, “you should rest.”

  No, what she should do was attempt to dispel the rumors making their way around London about her and Haddon, even though it was likely a wasted effort. She was lucky, she supposed, that her nephew, the duke, wasn’t standing on her doorstep, and Spencer was at Gray Covington with Elizabeth else Marissa might fear for Haddon’s life. Adelia would probably arrive at some point today to crow over Marissa’s tarnished reputation.

  It was all very distressing.

  But worse was this terrible dread at the thought of Haddon leaving her.

  Her fingers wrapped more firmly around his.

  “I’m not tired,” she insisted, trying to push away the rising panic. She and Haddon, over tea for her and coffee for him, had agreed to an understanding. She didn’t fear he’d change his mind. That wasn’t the source of her mounting anxiety. It was perfectly normal for Haddon to return home. He had his own affairs to see to, and Jordana wanted to go to Thrumbadge’s.

  Goodness, she’d lived forty-nine years without Haddon in her life. Nevertheless, her fingers tightened around his forearm like a steel band, clinging to Haddon as if she wouldn’t survive a moment without him.

  Marissa had never been a woman who clung to a gentleman. It was unseemly.

  There is a first time for everything.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered as Haddon gently disengaged her fingers.

  “Everything will be all right, my love.” He kissed her forehead. “I promise.”

  My love. A tremor ran through Marissa at the brush of his lips. No one had called her that in a very long time, not since Reggie. If Haddon didn’t leave, she might embarrass herself further by sobbing into his coat like some nitwit.

  “Curl up in your delightful parlor and nap, why don�
�t you? We have an understanding, do we not?” he whispered against her ear.

  “I suppose we do.”

  “I’ll expect you to dream about me.” He pinched her bottom, grinning when she squeaked in outrage.

  Greenhouse gave a gasp of horror at their antics before composing himself.

  “How in God’s name did you end up with such a prude for a butler?” Haddon smiled into her hair, his body shaking as he tried not to laugh out loud. “And we most certainly do have an understanding. That will not change. I’ll send you a note later.”

  Marissa nodded as he pulled away from her.

  “You’re acting very odd, Marissa.” He leaned down, peering at her in concern. “Do you want me to stay? Jordana will understand.”

  “No. And she will not understand.” Marissa was being ridiculous. Needy. The behavior reminded her of the way she’d dissolved into a puddle of grief when Reggie had disappeared. She had promised never to conduct herself in such a way again. It was unbecoming. Haddon would find it appalling and rescind their understanding before it had even begun. And she wouldn’t blame him.

  “I do have a small headache.”

  “All the more reason to rest.” Haddon strode to the door and winked at her before making his way outside.

  She stood in the middle of her foyer, waiting until she heard Haddon’s carriage pull away before making her way up the stairs. Her ankle did hurt. Just a bit.

  Felice rushed to Marissa, taking her arm.

  “My lady, we were so worried for you.”

  “Just a small bump on the head and a twist of my ankle. My shoe is in worse shape.” Marissa gestured to her foot. The shoe looked as if a large dog had been gnawing at it. “But I am in need of a bath, I think.” Maybe a nice soak and a nap would help set Marissa to rights and keep this feeling of dread at bay. She already missed Haddon. How much worse would she feel when he actually did leave her?

  Maybe he won’t, her heart murmured. He said he wouldn’t. Ever.

  Marissa was sure Haddon meant the sentiment. Now. But she was realistic; after having three husbands, one had to be. He would eventually remarry to produce an heir. No matter the attachment between them.

  Her foot faltered on the step.

  This was why she’d avoided romantic entanglements for the better part of twenty years.

  I’m not very good at them.

  “My lady.” Greenhouse came up the stairs. “This arrived for you a short time ago. My apologies. With all the—”

  “Thank you.” She interrupted him, taking the note, her annoyance with her butler clear. The writing was Tomkin’s. Her latest report on the state of the ruination of Pendleton as well as Nighter’s efforts in regard to Miss Higgins.

  Remorse filled her at the thought of Miss Higgins.

  Shaking off Felice, she clutched the note in her hand.

  “A bath, Felice. See to it at once. Greenhouse, tea please, in my room. Also, send one of the footmen to the flower market. I’m sure no one has been there yet today as nothing in this house smells fresh.”

  As her maid and butler rushed to do her bidding, Marissa flopped onto her bed, Tomkin’s note falling to the coverlet.

  She would read it in due time.

  24

  Trent regarded his eldest daughter from across the carriage, taking joy in her happiness. And Jordana was absolutely, blissfully happy.

  It was amazing what could be accomplished with the promise of new books and a trip to Thrumbadge’s. Jordana’s fingers traced the outline of each book’s spine, fluttering over the brown paper and twine in which the tomes were wrapped with obvious anticipation. She could hardly contain herself; Trent was sure she would run upstairs with her treasure as soon as they arrived home.

  Which was what Trent had intended. He wasn’t ready to answer his daughter’s questions about Marissa. Books were a perfect distraction.

  Jordana was far from stupid. He thought she’d probably ascertained how he felt about Marissa. If she hadn’t, the whispers that had followed him about Thrumbadge’s would have informed her.

  The moment he had stepped inside the booksellers a low hum had started up, though Thrumbadge’s was far from crowded. Trent ignored the curious looks sent in his direction. The conversations that ended as soon as he turned a corner. He imagined Lady Stanton was even now sitting in her drawing room, besieged by callers who all wanted to express their horror at yesterday’s events with a pitying glance at Lady Christina.

  Until now, Trent had forgotten how much he detested the way society gossiped.

  Marissa hadn’t been exaggerating about the scandal. He’d kept the papers from her as he drizzled honey over her toast, but she’d probably seen them by now.

  The rescue of a certain older lady by a much younger gentleman set London on its collective ear yesterday. One wonders if our thrice-widowed Lady C.F. is doing more than performing chaperone duties for Lord H. Our sympathies to Lady C. S.

  Yesterday, when he’d seen the packages topple from the carriage and she had fallen to the ground, Trent had thought of nothing but getting to Marissa. He’d shocked Lady Stanton speechless and blatantly ignored Lady Christina, shaking her fingers from his arm. His temper had flared out of control, stoked by his worry over her well-being, when another man had also rushed to her side.

  I suppose no one thinks her merely Jordana’s chaperone any longer.

  Truthfully, Trent had been committed to Marissa since their night together at Brushbriar, she just hadn’t realized it. He knew she still assumed their understanding to be little more than an affair, one which may well last years but would eventually end. She was still holding onto the absurd notion that he needed an heir, assuming Trent would one day toss her aside in favor of a younger woman. One whom he wouldn’t love, all to procure an heir he didn’t need.

  At least she’s made peace with our age difference.

  Trent pressed a finger to his lips and looked out the window. Not exactly. Her absolute horror at the exact amount of years between them had been hard to mistake. She was so dismayed over those nine years, Marissa hadn’t even asked how he knew her age.

  But Lady Waterstone had been very forthcoming.

  Christ, I hope the papers don’t set her off.

  She had agreed to an understanding with Trent.

  He intended she agree to a great deal more.

  “Papa?” Jordana said as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his house. “You have a visitor.”

  Trent recognized the black carriage with matched bays. He didn’t need to see the crest on the door. What does Pendleton want? He’s already taken every penny I have.

  “It would appear so.”

  If Pendleton thought to guilt Trent into giving him another cent, his distant relation would be sorely disappointed. He didn’t want to see the man until Pendleton walked down the aisle with Miss Higgins. It would be worth attending the wedding to ensure he did so.

  As he and Jordana left the carriage and climbed the steps, his butler flung open the door in greeting.

  “I see we have a guest,” Trent said, handing over his hat and gloves.

  “Yes, my lord. I’ve placed Lady Pendleton in the drawing room and brought her tea.” He took Trent’s coat. “She’s been here the better part of an hour.”

  Jordana was already skipping up the stairs to her room unconcerned with who was visiting when she had a stack of new books to pore over.

  Lydia was here? Why in God’s name would she visit me?

  “Very good.” Trent made his way to the drawing room, dreading having to make small talk with his guest. This couldn’t be a social call. He opened the door and tried to form his lips into some semblance of a polite greeting.

  Lydia had positioned herself in the middle of the sofa so she would be the first thing Trent saw as he opened the door. A pot of tea, steam still curling from the lid, sat before her on a low table, along with an assortment of biscuits which he knew Lydia wouldn’t deign to touch.

  He
r upper lip curled slightly, pleased at the discomfort her visit caused him.

  “Lady Pendleton.” He bowed to her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he stated bluntly.

  “Lydia, please.” Her dark eyes were smug. “We’re family, after all.”

  Trent flinched. He didn’t care for the reminder of their relationship. Going directly to the sidebar for a glass of whisky, he caught a whiff of brandy as he passed Lydia. He poured out three fingers of whisky and took a sip before turning.

  “It’s a trifle early for spirits, don’t you think, Trent?”

  Nothing good could come of her visit, as evidenced by her use of his given name.

  “Is it? The hour doesn’t seem to have stopped you, Lydia.” He nodded at the cup of tea sitting before her. Lydia had always enjoyed her brandy. Probably more so now with Pendleton’s financial situation so precarious.

  Yes, but I’ve taken care of that, haven’t I?

  Lydia’s upper lip rippled into her patent sneer. He recognized it as the same one she used to turn on his wife, Anne, when they’d crossed paths in Castleton. There was a slight tremble in her gloved hand poised over the handle of the teacup she held. Lines of dissipation colored her once smooth cheeks.

  Trent wished with all his heart he’d never accepted a farthing from Lydia’s husband.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Lydia?” The longer she stayed in his house, the more his irritation grew. “I’m sure you’re not here merely to avail yourself of tea and pleasant conversation. I’d appreciate it if you’d get to the point.”

  “Your manners have undergone a transformation, Trent. But then, considering the company you’ve been keeping, it’s no wonder. I understand you’ve taken up with Marissa Tremaine.” Lydia’s face grew ugly. “Isn’t she a little too long in the tooth for you? My word, she’s nearly the same age as I am.”