by Barton, Anne
“But I haven’t cured you.” Her brow furrowed adorably. “Have I?”
“Not completely. I’ll probably always be an ass. But I’d like to think I’ve made strides. The point is, the portrait belongs to you. No one can ever hold it over your head again. If you want to destroy it, you may. The decision is entirely yours.”
Hers. Two months ago, she’d have given anything to hear him say that. And she would have jumped at the chance to erase the evidence of her wanton past. But now… she was rather proud of it. “I don’t think we need to destroy it, although, I would prefer to keep it in a private room.”
“Here?” he asked, hope evident in his clear blue eyes.
“If it pleases you.”
“It does. Everything about you does.”
“How about this?” She shrugged the cape off her shoulders and let it pool at her feet.
“Definitely.”
Slowly, she slid off her remaining glove, removed the pins from her hair, and glided to the bed.
“How shall I please you?” he said, laying her across the soft counterpane. He plucked her slippers from her feet and caressed a path from her ankle, to her knee, and up her thigh. Her skin tingled deliciously.
“This is a very good start.”
After that, there was very little talking.
Ben removed every stitch of her clothing, and she removed his. He kissed her everywhere. Likewise, he let her explore to her heart’s content. He didn’t flinch when she lightly traced the scars on his leg and the twisted muscles of his thigh.
They made love slowly at first, but then neither of them was content with the leisurely pace. She arched her back and pulled him closer with her legs. Ben groaned and rocked against her faster, in a rhythm that took over her body like the graceful yet powerful crest of a wave. It carried her higher and higher until there was nowhere left to go and she shattered into beautiful bits of light.
Ben did, too. He held her close and she savored the feel and smell of his skin against hers as the glorious tremors subsided, leaving her content, happy… and rather famished.
Daphne wished they could stay like this all night—assuming a tray was brought up, of course—with their legs entwined and their foreheads touching. Soon, they would be able to spend every night like this. She couldn’t wait.
“I forgot to tell you,” Ben said. “Lord Charlton wrote me. He’s much improved and is indebted to you for your kind concern and the herbs you left. He says his memory improves every day.”
Daphne preened. She couldn’t help it.
“He thinks the English Beauty and I would make a lovely couple.”
“I’d have to agree.”
“Do you know what I wish?”
“What?”
“That I could paint you just as you are… right now.”
Oh no. “I’m done with posing for paintings.” Her stomach growled, however, and a thought occurred to her. “We might do a little painting of our own. With melted chocolate perhaps? And strawberries?”
Not surprisingly, Ben was in favor of the suggestion.
Indeed, he showed promising signs of being a most indulging husband.
ACCLAIM FOR WHEN SHE WAS WICKED
“Sensual and solid, this debut is a story demanding to be read. The characters are believable and relatable, and Barton smartly blends issues of morality and Regency era social class with passion and excitement.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Delightfully smart, fun, fast-paced and just different enough for readers to take note of Barton’s charming voice, this novel is filled with wry humor, and compassion intrigues readers. The intrepid heroine, arrogant hero, memorable secondary characters and the colorful depiction of the era add to the reading enjoyment.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Break out the bubbly for Anne Barton’s delightful debut!”
—Vicky Dreiling, bestselling author of
How to Ravish a Rake
“When She Was Wicked is a delightful debut! Anne Barton’s cast of characters is charming and witty. Owen is the type of hero that readers fall in love with from the very first introduction, and Anabelle is ingenious and resourcefully cunning—a girl after my own heart.”
—Tiffany Clare, author of Midnight
Temptations with a Forbidden Lord
“5 stars! I predict great things from this author. Anne Barton will become an author to watch. Her voice is strong and unique. Her writing is reminiscent of historical heavy-hitters such as Julia Quinn, Tessa Dare and Lorraine Heath. Her endearing characters and eloquent writing make her one of the most promising new authors in this genre… I can’t wait to read her next book.”
—LongandShortReviews.com
Don’t miss
Scandalous Summer Nights
from award-winning author Anne Barton
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Chapter One
London, 1817
Any girl with a smidgen of good sense would have given up on James Averill years ago.
Olivia Sherbourne’s problem was not so much a lack of good sense as it was an abundance of stubbornness. She’d pined after James for ten long years. No matter that he gave her scarce little encouragement; her patience was born out of a love that was deep, abiding, and true.
Also, she’d once seen his naked chest.
It was magnificent. And it had sustained her for the better part of a decade.
The mere memory of his bare, muscled torso glistening in the afternoon haze turned her bones to jelly, and a soft sigh escaped her lips.
“It’s your move.” Rose, Olivia’s younger sister, serenely inclined her head toward the chess board between them.
As Olivia frowned at her precariously positioned rook, the truth of Rose’s words struck her. It was her move.
And time was running out.
“I was thinking about James,” Olivia admitted.
Rose had suffered through scores of one-sided conversations about the handsome solicitor that had begun in precisely this manner. To her credit, however, she didn’t roll her eyes or throw up her hands in exasperation. She deserved some sort of sisterly award.
“About his expedition?”
Olivia nodded. At dinner last evening, their brother, Owen, the Duke of Huntford, had casually mentioned that James would travel to Egypt where he’d participate in an archaeological dig—for two years.
Two years.
Which meant Olivia would be four and twenty when he returned. It was too long to wait—even if James did have a chest that rivaled Apollo’s.
Olivia looked around the elegant sea-green drawing room to make sure she and Rose were quite alone. “He leaves in three months. That’s all the time I have.”
“For what?”
“To make him fall in love with me.” Of course, she would first have to make him notice her. And treat her as something other than a piece of furniture that one avoided so as not to stub a toe.
Rose’s brow furrowed with sympathy. “I know how fond you are of Mr. Averill, but I’m not certain it’s possible to make someone fall in love.”
Blast Rose’s inclination toward logic and reason.
“I must try.” Olivia sprang to her feet and the skirt of her dress caught the corner of the chessboard, toppling most of the pieces, which was just as well. Rose had been two moves away from trouncing her.
Olivia paced before the dormant fireplace, hands propped on her hips. “If he knew his attentions would not be unwelcome, perhaps he would dare to court me. Is it possible I’ve been too coy where he’s concerned?”
Rose blinked, swallowed and opened her mouth to reply.
“Don’t answer that.” Hearing Rose recount each time Olivia had worn a daring gown or turned her ankle or read a bit of moving poetry solely with the purpose of capturing James’s fancy would only humiliate her further. Because none of her ploys had worked.
“You must remember,” Rose said smoothly, “that M
r. Averill is a close friend of Owen’s. Our brother can be terribly intimidating.”
Olivia raised her chin. “James isn’t afraid of Owen. He’s one of the best boxers in all of London—and he’s blackened our brother’s eye more than once.”
“True. But Mr. Averill is an honorable gentleman and, as such, would respect Owen’s wishes with regard to you. A boxing match is one thing. Sisters are quite another.”
“Yes, well, I don’t give a fig about Owen’s wishes. My happiness is at stake.” Olivia was vaguely aware that she sounded like a spoiled child and was grateful Rose was the non-judgmental sort.
Rose glided to Olivia’s side. “I want you to be happy, and so does Owen.” She squeezed the tops of Olivia’s arms affectionately. “Now tell me… what do you plan to do about Mr. Averill?”
That was an excellent question. Just thinking of the possibilities made her heart pound in her chest. “I’m not certain yet. But I shall decide before this evening. He’s sure to be at the Easton ball.”
“You must let me know if there is anything I can do to help you. I’m sure Anabelle would offer her support as well.”
Anabelle was their brother’s duchess, and she’d been their friend even before she’d become their sister-in-law. “I am lucky to have both of you on my side, but I think I must face this challenge on my own. Wish me luck?”
Rose hugged her. “Of course. Just be careful. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
Olivia grinned. “Neither do I.” But she also knew it was a distinct possibility. “You know, I am feeling rather adventurous at the moment.”
“You don’t say.” Rose’s face paled.
“I do indeed. We must celebrate my decision to follow my heart with a drink.”
“Tea?” Rose said hopefully.
“Of course not.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Olivia swept her gaze around the drawing room once more before scurrying toward a bookshelf. There, behind the dusty tomes about flora and fauna that no one in the household read, was a half-full decanter of brandy that she’d nicked from her brother’s study along with one tumbler.
Rose gasped. “Owen would be furious.”
“That’s why this is so much fun.” Olivia removed the stopper and splashed a healthy dose of liquor into the glass. “To true love,” she toasted—only it wasn’t a proper toast since they had only the one glass. She swallowed a large gulp of brandy and felt her nostrils flare as the liquid burned a path down her throat and into her chest. Handing the glass to Rose, she said, “Your turn.”
Rose’s hand trembled as she reached for the drink, but she must have figured that the quicker she drank the less chance they would be discovered. “To true love,” she said, before taking the smallest of sips and thrusting the glass back at Olivia.
Olivia narrowed her eyes. “Did you even taste it?”
Rose nodded and the auburn curls at her temples bounced emphatically. “Against my better judgment, yes I did.”
“Excellent.” Olivia was warmed by her sister’s show of loyalty. Or perhaps she was warmed by the brandy.
She drained the glass before returning it and the decanter to their hiding spot.
Rose inhaled deeply, her relief palpable. “I am going to my room to read for a while. But first, Olivia, you must promise me something.”
Olivia brushed the dust off her palms, turned to face her sister, and arched a questioning brow.
“Your impulsive nature is one of the things I love best about you,” Rose began.
“But…?”
“But you must think carefully about what you will say to Mr. Averill tonight. Your actions could have serious and lasting consequences—for both of you.”
“I know.” Olivia swallowed, sobered by the truth of her sister’s words. “Thank you. I’ll think about what you’ve said.”
“I’ll see you at dinner.”
Olivia smiled and waited until Rose left the drawing room before whirling around and resuming her pacing.
Her unrequited love must seem ridiculous to her sister and her dear friend Anabelle. But Olivia’s was not a fleeting infatuation. She had a connection with James, understood him. And she adored everything about him, even the quirks that some might call flaws. She was charmed by the way his lips sometimes moved when he was deep in thought—as though he were talking himself through a difficult problem. She loved the way his eyes lit up when he recounted the latest additions to the British Museum and his passion for math and science—even if she didn’t share it. She even loved his infuriating tendency to become distracted by a rare plant when she was endeavoring to show off a smart new pair of slippers.
Rose needn’t have worried on one count—Olivia would never stoop to snaring James in a marriage trap. She didn’t want to have to trick him into taking her as his wife.
Even if it would be ever so much easier.
She paused in front of the settee, took a large silk pillow, and clutched it tightly to her chest.
What she wanted—what she’d dreamed of every single night for the last ten years—was his complete and utter adoration. She wanted him to dance only with her, although she supposed he might occasionally take her mother for a turn about the room. Olivia wanted him to go riding with her all afternoon and then find a shady spot where they could eat sliced chicken, crusty bread, and strawberries. She wanted him to pick wildflowers and tuck one behind her ear and look at her as though he couldn’t believe how fortunate he was that he’d found her.
Of course, in actuality, she had found him. But she loved him too much to quibble over such trifling matters.
And that’s why the thought of confessing her feelings to James terrified her.
After tonight, she wouldn’t be able to delude herself with platitudes like he simply isn’t aware you hold him in such high regard or he must believe his attentions would be unwelcome.
She’d never had to face the very real possibility that he did not return her affections.
A shiver stole through her limbs, but she shook it off. Ten years of dreaming and two and one half seasons of waiting could not be for naught.
Their fairytale romance would begin tonight.
She simply refused to believe anything different.
James Averill could be forgiven if he arrived at the Easton ball slightly foxed.
He was celebrating, damn it.
While waiting to greet Lord Easton and his wife, he attempted to straighten his cravat, but feared he’d only made matters worse. He shrugged. Who the bloody hell cared?
When he got to Egypt, he’d never wear cravats.
In three short months he’d be on a ship headed to the land of archaeological wonders.
It had taken years of meticulous planning, but he’d finally realized his dream. He’d saved enough money to ensure his mother and brother would be comfortable. He’d taken on a partner so that his clients wouldn’t be left in a lurch.
Before long, he’d be a free man.
And that’s why he deserved another drink. Damn it.
He swept his gaze around the already bustling ballroom. Huntford and Foxburn were a head taller than most of the other guests and easy to spot in the crowd. Odds were five to one his friends had already located and partaken of a stash of liquor.
James hoped to hell they’d saved some for him.
He smiled and nodded politely to a viscount and several older ladies as he meandered toward his friends. Thanks to his finely tailored coat and practiced manners, he blended into this privileged world rather well. Like certain species of lizards in the desert, he was capable of mimicking the landscape. However, at times such as this he was acutely aware that ballrooms were not his natural environment.
He was a solicitor, someone who worked. For his living. Huntford and Foxburn didn’t hold that against him, but then, they both knew he could kick their asses from London to Edinborough and back again.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” James had to admit that marriage agreed w
ith both the duke and the earl. Huntford still brooded, but James suspected it was mostly for show. Foxburn now smiled with startling frequency.
“Averill,” Huntford replied, welcoming him with a slap on the shoulder. Foxburn signaled to a passing waiter and James deduced that his drink was on its way.
The duke leaned his large frame toward James and lowered his voice. “There’s a matter I need to discuss with you.”
“Business?” James hoped it was nothing terribly complex. His mind was not at its sharpest at the moment.
Huntford frowned. “Of a sort. Can we meet at your office tomorrow?”
James raised a brow. “Of course.”
“Very good. We will deal with it then.” The duke pinched the bridge of his nose, then shook his head—as if to clear his mind of troubling thoughts.
Foxburn idly tapped the foot of his cane on the parquet floor. “I understand congratulations are in order, Averill.”
James must have looked mildly confused because the earl narrowed his icy blue eyes and said, “Egypt?”
Right—the expedition. “Yes. I have almost three months to get my affairs in order, and then I’ll be off.”
Foxburn seemed to consider this as he took a large swig of his drink. “You’re giving up all this”—he waved his cane in an arc to indicate the sparkling ballroom—“to ride camels?”
“And unwrap mummies,” Huntford added.
“And sleep in a tent.” Foxburn was really enjoying himself now. “Be careful you don’t get sand in your drawers.”
All three men made a face and squirmed at the thought.
“The discomfort will be worth it,” James said confidently, “if I unearth one ancient artifact—one clue to the civilizations that came before us.”
“What might that be?” Huntford asked. “A bit of broken pottery? Something that might have been the tip of a spear, but is more likely a plain old rock?”
“Well, yes.” Of course, he hoped to discover something with pictures or writing—a unique piece that had never been seen before—but explaining himself to these two seemed a waste of breath. “If I find some old pottery or rocks, I’ll consider the trip a success.”
