Wicked

by Amy Sandas

  He took another step and she retreated, stumbling back before she apparently changed her mind and squared her shoulders. Though her smile had slipped from her lips, her champagne-colored eyes met his with steady focus.

  The show of courage was impressive. Foolish but impressive.

  “There is no need for you to convince me of your wickedness,” she stated in a firm yet quiet tone. “I know what you are, my lord. I’m aware of the rumors about you and I realize I probably haven’t even heard the worst of them. But I also think you are more than what everyone says about you. You have only ever treated me with compassion—and yes, gallantry—with no indication that you expect anything in return.” Her lips quirked upward again. “So, forgive me if I choose to appreciate those aspects of your character.”

  Roman felt her words like a vise around his chest. “Forcing yourself to see good in people where it doesn’t exist will get you hurt,” he noted thickly.

  “I’m willing to take the risk.” Her head was tipped back and her eyes swept gently over his face as she spoke.

  Roman suddenly realized how close they stood. Her sodden skirts clung to his legs and the edges of his coat brushed his chest. All he had to do was lift his arms and they would be in an embrace. A dip of his head would bring his lips in contact with hers. It would be so easy and then he’d finally know if her mouth was as soft and decadent as it looked. He’d fill his hands with her buttocks and press his aching length against her belly.

  Goddammit, why did she tempt him so fiercely?

  With a growl he turned away, walking to the stall where his horse had been led. He didn’t bother to look back. “Return to the house.”

  He waited with his stomach tight and the muscles of his back burning until he heard her leave. Only then did he lean against the stable wall, allowing his head to fall back with a groan of unfulfilled desire.

  ***

  Haylie made it into the house and up to her room without being seen. She sat in front of the vanity mirror, still huddled in the marquess’s coat as she waited for a bath to be brought to her room. Tucking her face into the woolen material, she breathed deep of his scent—cedarwood and brandy and smoldering hearths. Pleasure swirled through her, tempered firmly by an uncertainty.

  The man made her feel too much. Things she’d never imagined.

  Her stomach tightened as she thought of how his manner had changed before he’d turned away from her in the stables. One moment, he’d been all intense and broody, and he’d stood so close she’d been able to feel the heat of his body reaching out to her. Despite his warning words, she could have sworn he’d been feeling something. She certainly had been. Though her skin had been chilled by the rain, the blood in her veins had been aflame as she’d trembled with anticipation, wanting nothing more than for him to pull her into his arms—forcefully—and kiss her breathless.

  But then a second later, he’d turned and walked away, leaving Haylie alone in her longing and confusion.

  The rain continued through the afternoon, leaving the guests housebound.

  Bathed and dressed in a fresh gown with her hair restyled, Haylie considered leaving her room a few times to search out the other guests and see what indoor activities might have been arranged, but for some reason, she didn’t feel much like socializing. If someone happened to recall her presence on the trek to the ruins and subsequent absence from the group, she would have to acknowledge the embarrassing fact that she’d been left behind. Then she’d have to explain how she’d gotten back to the manor and she’d gotten the distinct impression the marquess wouldn’t want it known that he’d rescued her.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t hide in her room forever.

  When the dinner hour finally rolled around, Haylie tentatively made her way to the drawing room, where the guests gathered before heading into the dining room. As her uncertainty shifted into discomfort, she couldn’t help but wish the marquess were at her side. She wasn’t sure if it was his own dismissive attitude or his innate self-assurance, but she always felt so much more confident in his presence.

  A few people noticed her arrival, but there were no snide, smirking glances. In the nearly ten minutes that passed before dinner was announced, no one approached her to inquire how she managed to get back from the ruins or voiced any concern for her health after being caught in the rain. It seemed they had all either forgotten she’d been along on the walk or assumed she’d been with them the whole time.

  Haylie didn’t know if she should feel relieved by that fact or terribly disheartened.

  Even when Westcott gave her a quick smile from across the room, she couldn’t find any pleasure in the moment. In fact, she was starting to become annoyed with his distant, fleeting smiles. If the man had any true interest in her, he would approach and talk to her and he certainly wouldn’t have completely forgotten about her at the ruins.

  She was starting to work herself up into a full state of annoyance when Granville finally appeared, looking strikingly handsome and distinguished in black evening wear and a crisp white cravat. Haylie held her breath, waiting for his dark gaze to find her as she sat off to one side of the room. But he gave only a cursory glance over the gathering, giving her no attention at all.

  Dinner was announced shortly after and though the party was greatly reduced in numbers, Haylie was still seated a significant distance from the marquess. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to happen when she saw him again tonight, but it seemed he intended to ignore her completely.

  She should have expected it. She even partially understood it considering his insistence that his attention was ruinous. But it didn’t make the pain of it any less poignant.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t keep from sliding her gaze his way throughout the meal. She barely even tried to engage in conversation with those around her as she usually did to varying degrees of success. For some reason, making small talk with the other guests simply didn’t interest her.

  Lifting her gaze once more to his end of the table, she stiffened at the sight of the lady on his left sitting indecently close. So close her breasts practically spilled over her sparkling décolletage onto Granville’s dinner plate. Though he retained his typically stoic expression, Haylie noticed something different in his manner. He was more relaxed than he tended to be in Haylie’s company. His movements were graceful and easy, his gaze still dark and intense but less guarded as he engaged in conversation with the lady.

  Then he looked her way. And his entire demeanor changed.

  Not in an overt or obvious way, but perhaps because she had been studying him so closely, Haylie detected the subtle lowering of his dark and heavy brows over his gaze and the moment of tension in the muscles of his jaw as something hot and dangerous flickered through his gaze.

  Haylie’s heart rate sped up as a flush warmed her skin. Was he angry with her?

  She didn’t think so. She’d seen him angry on her behalf earlier today at the ruins. What she saw just now was quite different, yet she felt certain she’d seen that look in his eyes before.

  Unable to look away, she continued staring even when he glanced away to casually reach for his wineglass. As the red wine slid past his lips, his gaze found hers again.

  The focused heat was still there and Haylie’s body reacted with a strange and delicious tightening. The muscles in her thighs tensed and her lips parted on a shaky breath.

  If she were not so unschooled in such things, she might have suspected the man had a rather improper interest in her.

  But that would be a foolish thing to believe.

  The Marquess of Granville’s taste did not run toward awkward, plump young ladies with a long history of wallflower status. He was most often associated with ladies like the one seated next to him.

  Haylie practically held her breath as he glanced back at the woman at his side and muttered something that made her laugh before she patted his arm in a familiar manner.

  A flush of embarrassment warmed Haylie’s cheeks and she l
ooked down at her plate. Foolish, indeed.

  She refused to look his way again for the rest of the meal.

  After supper, the ladies returned to the drawing room while the men enjoyed their port and tobacco. Strictly out of habit, Haylie began strolling the perimeter of the room. It was what she had always done during such after-dinner interludes in order to avoid sitting awkwardly at the edge of a conversation she was never invited to join.

  Setting a casual pace, she made her way around the end tables and sofas and chairs where the other ladies had settled in little groups. She admired the paintings on the wall as she passed by and trailed her fingers over the silent keys of the pianoforte that stood in the corner, then paused beside the open casement windows to breathe in some fresh air before making another loop to do it all again. It was on her third stop by the window that the men rejoined them.

  As soon as the marquess entered the room, she felt an urge to go to him. Even knowing he would rebuff her, the feeling remained strong.

  Resisting, she stayed where she was and watched him instead.

  He was one of the last to filter in along with the Duke of Melbourne and Count Vittori. The three men stopped just inside the drawing room, each of them surveying the gathered guests with a different expression.

  Melbourne’s dimpled smile was easy and relaxed. He was the sort of person who appeared to genuinely enjoy the social dance of trading clever witticisms and flirtatious glances. Beside him, Vittori surveyed the room with a heavy-lidded gaze, as though challenging its occupants to entertain him. And then there was the marquess, whose gaze was impatient and closed.

  Haylie suspected he would be slipping from the gathering at the first opportunity.

  As the count crossed the room to the piano and the duke became engaged in a quiet conversation with a rather sparkling young widow, the marquess cast a swift gaze about the room. When his attention swept past the spot where Haylie stood near the open windows, she thought she saw his features tense, just as they had at dinner.

  But the moment was so fleeting she couldn’t be sure.

  It was not so fast that her own reaction could be ignored, however. The sudden breathless pressure in her chest, the tingling in her toes, and the flush of warmth beneath her skin. And again, that fierce physical urge to go to him.

  He stood alone near the entrance to the drawing room. Any minute he might step from the room.

  Glancing about, she realized no one was paying any attention to her and for the first time she was grateful to be disregarded. She took a bracing breath and gathered herself before making her way around the outside of the room to Granville’s location.

  She intentionally approached him from behind, so he wouldn’t see her coming and somehow avoid her. As she stepped up beside him, his entire body seemed to stiffen beneath his fine black evening wear. He didn’t turn his head to look at her, though he had to know she was there.

  After a moment of awkwardness, she spoke. “Good evening, my lord.”

  “You take a risk in approaching me tonight.” The tension in his voice made her heart trip into an irregular pattern.

  “I thought we’d already established that I find certain risks worth taking,” she replied in a low tone.

  The muscles of his jaw bunched briefly, as though he had clenched his teeth before responding. “What do you want?”

  “I just...” What did she want? She wasn’t so sure anymore. “I didn’t get the opportunity earlier to tell you that your plan seems to have worked. Despite the incident at the ruins today, which appears to have been an innocent oversight, I believe things might be turning around. I was asked to dance four more times after our waltz last night. And just now at dinner, a few people made a point of including me in the conversation.” She smiled. “Small things, I know, but it’s a significant difference from what I had become familiar with.”

  He finally glanced down at her then. The look in his eyes was hard to read, but it suddenly made Haylie feel like she had just run up several flights of stairs without rest. “What about Westcott? Has he stepped forward to declare his interest?”

  She slid a quick glance to the gentleman in question. “No, he hasn’t,” she answered, not wanting to admit that she wasn’t terribly worried whether the lord took an interest in her or not.

  “Idiot,” the marquess muttered.

  Haylie looked back to the marquess, surprised at the vehemence of his reaction. “It’s all right,” she assured. “Some of the others have been quite nice.”

  “You wanted Westcott. You should have him.” He directed his gaze across the room, but Haylie found herself unable to look away from the intent focus in his eyes, the hard line of his jaw, and the firm press of his lips. Lips that slowly curled upward in a wry smirk. “It appears your gentleman has decided to join us.”

  “Lord Westcott is coming over here? What should I do?” Haylie asked in a whisper.

  The marquess’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t answer. A moment later Westcott was there in front of them. His smile was friendly and though he was certainly handsome, Haylie couldn’t help but wish his eyes were darker as she noted that there was no smoldering heat in his gaze, no flash of wickedness.

  “Lord Granville, correct?” Westcott asked with a lifted brow and casual smile.

  “Indeed,” the marquess replied.

  “I’m Lord Westcott. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He turned to Haylie. “Miss Dellacourt, I believe we were introduced at the Michaels’ ball.”

  He recalled their introduction?

  Haylie nodded, “Yes. It is lovely to see you again, my lord.”

  “Would you care to join me in a stroll about the room?”

  It was exactly what she hoped for. Lord Westcott—possibly the most sought-after bachelor of the season—was standing tall and elegant in front of her, offering his escort to her. In full view of the entire room. It was an astounding social coup. The highest acknowledgement.

  But she couldn’t help but compare him to Granville and hated to admit that, by comparison, he seemed rather...dull.

  It didn’t really matter. It wasn’t as though she expected a proposal or anything from the man. She was just hoping that Wescott might lead the way for others to start seeing her in a new light by his example. If Wescott could smile at her, talk to her, seek her company on occasion, others were likely to do the same.

  The man didn’t need to spark intense self-awareness or make her belly flutter with fascination and a delicate sort of physical longing.

  And she really didn’t need to be thinking about how the marquess managed to do those things with a simple glance.

  Walking on Westcott’s arm—in full view of people who had been snubbing her for two years—would effectively remove her from wallflower status.

  And yet she knew once she walked away, Granville would slip from the room. Since all the guests would be leaving the next morning, it was highly unlikely she would ever speak with him again. The thought caused an odd weight to settle in her stomach.

  But Lord Westcott was waiting. Her hesitation was bordering on rudeness.

  “Of course,” she quickly replied. “I would love to.”

  Westcott turned and offered his elbow. As Haylie placed her hand on his forearm, she slid one last glance toward Granville. His expression was that of a man who had grown bored, but Haylie thought she saw something else in his gaze. A spark of possession. A moment of anger. And then it was gone.

  “Enjoy your evening, Miss Dellacourt,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she replied, but the words felt hollow.

  Chapter Seven

  A few hours and a few stiff drinks later, Roman was alone in his room. It was after midnight and most of the guests had retired in preparation for an early start the next morning, so the grand house was quiet. His friends had gone on to their beds long ago, Allerton with his new bride, Melbourne with a wealthy young widow who’d just finished her year of mourning, and Vittori with his usual variety of be
dmates.

  Roman had also received an offer of companionship for the night. The lovely baroness who’d sat next to him at dinner found him just as he was leaving the drawing room to seek a reprieve from the constant socializing in the billiard room. She’d made sure he knew which room she was using and that she’d be alone that night.

  Any other time Roman likely would have been tempted. Tonight, he preferred solitude. If he couldn’t have the woman he wanted in his bed, he’d rather have none.

  Unfortunately, sleep was hard to come by.

  He found himself pacing his room, filled with an unsettling hunger that wouldn’t leave him. He’d stripped down to his evening breeches in an attempt to cool the heat under his skin, but the night air provided no relief when he imagined it as the cool fingers of Miss Dellacourt caressing his body in innocent exploration.

  Perhaps he should return to London tonight.

  A little geographical distance might help. Then, at least, the object of his desire would not be within such easy reach. Not that he would go to her. No matter how badly he wanted to.

  She was firmly off-limits. Her innocence alone was enough to keep Roman from pursuing her, but Roman’s history with her brother made anything between them laughable in the extreme. If Roman had even a shred of nobility in him, he had to ensure no further contact with her.

  And now that she had garnered Westcott’s attention, there should be no cause for her to seek him out again.

  Roman stalked to the window and shoved aside the drapes to let in a flood of moonlight.

  Miss Dellacourt and Lord Westcott made a fine pair. With her dark hair, vibrant gaze, and optimism, Miss Dellacourt presented a natural and dramatic foil to the lord who stood so tall and fair, with a blasé stare and infinitely proper manner.

  They were perfect for each other. They might even find a degree of happiness together until the years wore them down and bitterness took over. Eventually, they’d seek companionship elsewhere. Marriages amongst the ton were meant to last in duty, not in faith and loyalty.