Practically Wicked (Haverston Family Trilogy #3)

by Alissa Johnson

  “Several days?” She swallowed hard. She hadn’t translated “soon” into “days.”

  “You’ll be perfectly comfortable here, I assure you.”

  The devil she would. There was a very long list of reasons why she would most certainly not be comfortable staying on. And at the top of that list, written in bold and underlined lettering, was the name Lord Maximilian Dane. Good God, she had to find a way of this.

  “I am honored by the request, my lord, and Codridgeton is a lovely village, I’m sure, but—”

  “Codridgeton? No, you’ll stay here.”

  “Here? At Caldwell Manor?” She realized she was parroting almost everything he said, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. Stay a few weeks? At Caldwell Manor? Was the man unhinged? “There is a perfectly serviceable inn in the village. The Bear’s Rest, I believe? I saw—”

  She cut off with the realization that they had jumped from whether or not she would be staying, to where she would be staying. How on earth had that happened?

  “A fine establishment,” he allowed, “but I’d just as soon not be obliged to saddle a horse every time we wished to have a word. I would prefer for you to stay at Caldwell.”

  Anna was beginning to wonder if she might prefer a voyage to the Americas. “Do you think that wise, my lord?”

  His lips curved in a smile she could only describe as a little bit smug. “I’m not in the habit of offering suggestions I think unwise.”

  She doubted he was in the habit of offering suggestions at all. He was a marquess. He commanded. She wished he would command himself into using a little common sense. Perhaps he simply wasn’t comfortable acknowledging the obvious, but it needed to be done.

  “I shouldn’t be in your home at all. You know what I am,” she said quietly. “What my mother is.”

  It was inconceivable that he should want her under his roof for a single night, let alone weeks.

  “Yes,” he replied evenly. “You are my sister. Your mother is the mother of my sister.”

  “There will be talk.” There would be endless talk, even in a village distanced from London, like Codridgeton. Just the thought of it made her skin crawl.

  It appeared not to bother the marquess one wit. He lifted a slightly amused and highly arrogant brow. “Do you know who I am, Miss Rees?”

  Baffled, she shook her head and made her best guess. “My half brother?”

  “I am the sixth Marquess of Engsly. Our father was the fifth Marquess of Engsly.” He leaned forward a little and tried another reassuring smile. “Let them talk.”

  She wished she could smile back. The intended sentiment was appreciated. He meant to acknowledge her in a way their father had not, and he could well afford any consequences. The talk of neighbors would not bring down the house of a marquess.

  What Engsly seemed not to understand was that she was not a marquess, or a marchioness. She wasn’t even a Haverston. Unlike the legitimate members of the family, she was vulnerable to the censure and disdain.

  At worse, he would be branded a naïve fool.

  At best, she’d be branded a grasping interloper.

  Unfortunately, those appeared to be her only options. Returning to Anover House was out of the question and going anywhere else required more than the half pound she had left in her reticule. Mrs. Culpepper’s sister had not agreed to take in a pauper, and Anna refused to become a financial burden on Mrs. Culpepper.

  She needed the thousand pounds. And unless she suddenly found the temerity to demand he hand over those pounds this very instant, grasping interloper it would have to be.

  She pasted on a pleasant smile. “I shall direct the driver to unload our trunks.”

  His smile was likewise amiable and, she very much hoped, far more sincere.

  “It’s already been taken care of.”

  Of course it had been. He was, as he had so aptly pointed out, the sixth Marquess of Engsly. There’d never really been any question of her staying.

  The remainder of Anna’s meeting with the marquess was kept mercifully brief. Engsly gave her an abbreviated tour of the manor, pointing out the doors to the dining room, the music room, and his study. The library, billiards room, and orangery were down another hall and she was encouraged to explore all of the house and grounds to her heart’s delight.

  “I had thought to share a dinner downstairs,” he told her as a pair of maids followed them to her chambers, “but with your companion out of sorts, perhaps the two of you would prefer I sent your meals upstairs?”

  He really was a thoughtful sort, Anna mused. Pity he’d not thought to let her leave, or stay at the inn or, at a minimum, evict the other house guest before her visit. “I would be most grateful, thank you.”

  “Here we are then,” he chimed, as they stopped outside her chambers. “Your Mrs. Culpepper is across the hall, just there.” He pointed to the exact door, which was unnecessary, really, as a steady and familiar stream of snores could be heard emanating from the other side of the door.

  She looked into her own chambers. It seemed a fine room, complete with its own little balcony. Not so large or opulent as some of the guest chambers in Anover House, but that could only be counted as a mark in its favor as her mother’s taste in fashion had always been more fashionable than tasteful. The bed appeared to be in the more ornate style that was popular more than fifty years past. The walnut armoire and chest of drawers predated the bed by another twenty years. The wood of each gleamed with the polishing of decades. These were items of quality that were meant to be used and enjoyed, not present merely to impress.

  Mrs. Culpepper would no doubt pronounce the room “well appointed.” Anna thought comfortable a better description.

  “It’s a lovely room,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

  “It is my pleasure to have you here,” he said softly. “If there is anything you else you need or want, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  She wanted to ask for her blasted thousand pounds, if it’s not too much trouble, but, in the end, she put on her pleasant smile once again, thanked him for his hospitality and wished him, and the hovering maids, good evening.

  Then she stepped into the room and closed the door.

  For a moment, Anna stood where she was, staring at the back of the door in something of a daze. Eventually, she forced herself to walk to the bed, where she took a seat on the mattress and began the arduous task of sorting through the tangled web of her thoughts.

  Problems were much easier to address when approached methodically. Emotions were simpler to define and manage when one didn’t attempt to define and manage all of them at once. Particularly on a day like today.

  In just under eleven hours, she’d left London, and possibly her own mother, for good. She’d met a brother she’d not known existed a month ago. Somehow, she’d been coerced into staying at Caldwell Manor for at least several days (which was going to be interesting to explain to Mrs. Culpepper, who was no doubt surprised to have had her trunk delivered to her room) so that she could meet the other brother she’d not known existed a month again. And to top it all off, she was, for the first time in four years, under the same roof as Max Dane.

  Every one of those developments was monumental, any one of them would have made the day unforgettable, but it was the last that sent her heart racing the fastest.

  Damn the man, why could he not have grown thicker round the middle and developed a bald pate?

  Why did he have to be so handsome still, so appealing? She couldn’t possibly face him, let alone carry on a polite conversation, without remembering all the reasons she’d been taken with him four years ago. She’d certainly not be able to look at him without thinking of their kiss. How could she, when she’d been so damnably careful to capture every detail of it as it happened? Every taste and sound and dizzying sensation had been permanently etched in her mind.

  As were a thousand other particulars of that night—the way he’d made her laugh, made her feel clever and interesting, lovely an
d desirable. And hopeful. She’d never been so hopeful as she had for those few weeks after they’d met.

  Though she’d not liked admitting it, even to herself, the truth was that she’d never been so heartbroken as the day she’d realized and accepted that Max Dane wasn’t coming back.

  The blighter.

  He ought to have at least written a letter explaining why, instead of leaving her to wonder what she’d done wrong.

  “I didn’t do a damned thing wrong,” she muttered to herself, not so much because she believed it, but because it helped to hear it said aloud.

  “I’m not doing a damned thing wrong now,” she added, because that, too, felt good to hear.

  “I’ll not be doing anything wrong when I take that thousand pounds and leave with Mrs. Culpepper. There is nothing unseemly in . . .” She trailed off and wrinkled her nose. Now she just felt silly.

  But talking to herself had helped settle her nerves. Talking with Mrs. Culpepper would be even better, but it was hours yet before dinner, and it was possible Mrs. Culpepper might sleep straight through to morning, leaving Anna with nothing to do, and no one to do it with, for the remainder of the evening.

  Anna frowned at the door. She wasn’t fully comfortable taking advantage of the invitation to explore, no matter how sincerely offered, but she couldn’t possibly spend the entire night dwelling on her change of circumstances.

  She was in dire need of distraction. Her embroidery tools and the few books she’d taken from Anover House had been packed in Mrs. Culpepper’s trunk and Anna hadn’t the heart to wake the woman. There was nothing else for it; she’d have to find diversion elsewhere.

  The library, she decided. Surely she could seek out that room without mishap or, more importantly, running into Max Dane. Caldwell Manor was enormous and the hall with the library wasn’t terribly far from where she was now. She could risk it.

  Chapter 6

  She shouldn’t have risked it.

  Anna swallowed past the dry lump in her throat. Almost, she’d made it to the library. In fact, she could see its double doors not twenty feet down the hall . . . Or, more notably, fifteen feet beyond where Max Dane stood, blocking her path.

  He’d all but materialized before her like a ghost. One moment he’d not been there, then she’d turned her head for just an instant to peek into an open parlor, and when she’d looked back again, there he was, looming like a specter.

  Only one might imagine a specter to be less substantial in appearance.

  Also, they were unlikely to bow and say, “Miss Rees,” in voice that sent pleasant shivers up one’s spine.

  He really did look handsome, Anna thought with a suppressed sigh. And she’d forgotten to so much as glance in the vanity mirror before leaving her chambers again. Her appearance had now gone from sadly road worn to slovenly. Lovely.

  Fortunately, however unexpected and unwelcome this meeting was, it didn’t come as quite the shock as their first. Perhaps it wouldn’t go as poorly either.

  Chin up, shoulders back, eyes straight ahead.

  She managed a credible curtsy and when she spoke, her voice remained calm and steady. “Lord Dane, a pleasure to see you again. I—”

  “Is it? A pleasure?”

  The question, odd in and of itself, had a mocking quality to it, lending it the feel of an opening salvo.

  Good heavens, he truly was angry.

  Baffled, and a little irritated that he should feel he had the right to anger, she said the first thing that came to mind. “Well, no. Not entirely.”

  He smiled, an almost disdainful curve of the lips that held little humor. “Still honest, I see.”

  This was why it was so important for a person to think before speaking. And why it was sometimes better for a person to not speak at all. Particularly when that person had inadequate practice.

  “I only meant that the circumstances are somewhat awkward,” she tried.

  “Awkward,” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. “That is one way of putting it.”

  This wasn’t going well at all. Between his cold manner and her missteps, the experience was growing painful. Better to end it before it became worse. They could try again tomorrow, if need be. Or never, if the good lord had any mercy to spare for her and sent Max packing back to London or his own estate sometime during the night.

  She hesitated, uncertain if she should retreat back to her room or push onward to the library.

  Onward, she decided, and stepped forward. He might make her uncomfortable, but he’d not embarrass her into retreat.

  I’ve done nothing wrong.

  “If you will excuse me, Lord Dane, I was just on my way to—”

  He stepped into her path and gestured at the open door of a nearby room. “I’d like a word, please, Miss Rees.”

  She glanced inside. “In a billiards room?”

  “Unless you’d prefer to have this conversation in front of any passing staff?”

  She didn’t want to have a conversation at all—unless it was likely to end in his confession of unbearable remorse at having tossed her aside four years ago—but he was right, there were things that might be said that were best said in private.

  “Very well,” she agreed and stepped past him into the room.

  He didn’t offer her a seat once inside, and she wasn’t inclined to take one. Instead, she watched him cross his arms over his chest and lean a hip against one of the two tables occupying the room.

  “I’d never thought to see you outside of London,” he said at length.

  You never thought to see me at all.

  “It is has been quite an experience thus far,” she replied, keeping her tone light. One of them needed to put an effort into making things easy between them.

  “You came without your mother.”

  “She was unable to make the journey.” Primarily because her mother not been informed of said journey, but now was not the time to mention it.

  “I heard of her injury. Was it wise to leave her side at such a time?”

  “The injury was not terribly serious,” she assured him and silently congratulated herself from allowing any hint of annoyance or defensiveness to enter her voice. “And she is recovering with all due speed.”

  “Nevertheless, your abandonment of her now might appear to some to be . . . a trifle cold.”

  She thought his comment, and the tone in which it was delivered, to be a trifle cold, but he continued on before she could respond.

  “Strange business, this sudden connection of yours to the Haverstons.”

  “Not so very strange,” she countered, growing increasingly impatient. “Illegitimate children are born every day. Presumably there has been but one immaculate conception.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt your secular origins, Miss Rees,” he drawled. “I’ve met your mother, you’ll recall.”

  Not a hint of emotion was allowed to touch her face. Why not just call the woman a whore and be done with it, she thought. He wasn’t wrong, exactly, but that wasn’t the point. “Is this why you wished to leave the hall, so you might impugn my mother’s character in private?”

  “Not at all. You’ll also recall that I quite liked your mother.” He offered a negligent lift of the shoulder. “I’m merely making conversation.”

  They weren’t having a conversation. She wasn’t certain what they were having—a thinly veiled battle, perhaps—but it wasn’t a conversation.

  If he wished to pretend otherwise, however, she could play along. But she’d be damned if she continued to go on as the defendant. “And what of you, my lord? What could possibly have drawn you from the bosom of your gambling hells and iniquitous dens?”

  “London’s dens of iniquity have done without my visitations for some time now. Which you might have heard if you’d left your sanctuary more often.”

  “You’ve given up the life of debauchery?” She didn’t believe it for an instant.

  “You misunderstand. Debauchery, when I care for it—and I ge
nerally do—now comes to me.”

  “You’ve become a depraved recluse. How delightful.”

  He acknowledged the barb with the lift of an eyebrow. “Still just as tart, as well, I see.”

  “There is something to be said for living up to expectations,” she replied and, because she couldn’t curl her fingers into her palms without him noticing, curled her toes inside her shoes instead.

  “I wouldn’t know.” His gaze turned shrewd. “And what of your expectations? What is it you really want from Lucien?”

  Had he not been told of the thousand pounds? Anna wondered. For two people reputed to be the closest of friends, there seemed to be a great many secrets between Engsly and Max. But maybe that was the way of it between gentlemen. She would have to ask Mrs. Culpepper.

  “It is none of your concern.” If Engsly wished to keep secrets from Max, it was none of her concern. “It is between Lord Engsly—”

  Max leaned forward just a hair. “On the contrary, Miss Rees, the Haverstons, and anything that threatens them, are very much my concern. The thousand pounds you’re demanding from them concerns me a great deal.”

  She shook her head, baffled and not a little frustrated. “If you knew of the thousand pounds, why did you just ask—?”

  “That can’t possibly be all you want.”

  She wasn’t sure what all she wanted; she’d not hoped for or made plans around anything but the thousand pounds.

  “But it is what’s bothering you now,” she countered and decided she was tired of dancing around the subject of his peculiar behavior. “Why is that?” she asked softly. “Why are you so angered by my presence here?”

  He shook his head dismissively. “I’m not angry so much as I am, as I believe I mentioned, highly, highly suspicious.”

  “Well.” She took a moment to consider the circumstances, imagined herself in his place, and came to the conclusion that his suspicion was both understandable and unlikely to be assuaged by anything she could say or do at present. “I suppose I would be as well.”