Too Wicked to Love

by Debra Mullins

Her eyes widened as if he had struck her. “So you felt nothing? It was just a game?” Her voice caught, stark pain evident in her face.

  Damn his hot temper! He had not meant the words, just wanted to punish her, to fire back. To hurt her. Well, he had succeeded.

  He was a blundering cad.

  “What about what you said to me earlier today,” she continued in a low voice, “on the path to the stables? About wanting me.”

  Her obvious vulnerability tore at him.

  “I kissed you because I wanted to.” He stepped closer. “Because you were in my bedchamber. Sitting on my bed. Looking so soft and sweet and tempting.”

  “John,” she whispered. Her breath came in little pants, and her eyes looked huge in her face.

  She wanted him, too. His head spun with the knowledge. With the scent of her. Dear God, he got within two feet of her, and his concentration shattered.

  “Maybe that is why he was able to get so close,” John murmured, forcing coherent thought through a haze of lust. “You distract me. I am not watching vigilantly enough.”

  “What?” She jerked back, searching his face.

  “It is you,” he said. “You are why he was able to get to Annabelle.”

  “What! Do not blame me for this. I have done nothing wrong.”

  “We are both to blame.” He stepped away from her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He knew what he had to do, and it ripped at his heart. He had to distance himself from her, even be cruel. Lives depended on it.

  “You ignore what does not please you, Genny. That idiot Overton treated you badly, and you judge every man by that criterion.”

  “I do not—”

  “It has affected everything you think, everything you do and say. It has even started to impact your family.”

  “What are you talking about? My relationship with my family is fine.”

  “Is it? Had you not let your jealousy over your sister’s happiness estrange the two of you, you might have learned more from her about Raventhorpe and what he has done. What he is capable of.”

  “Jealousy!” Her voice broke. Moisture gleamed in her big green eyes. “How dare you? Why are you speaking to me like this? To think I was worried about you.”

  “There is no reason to worry about me. My job is to protect Annabelle until the Baileys return to America. I am doing that job to the best of my ability, and then I am leaving England. I have a new life waiting for me in America, one where I can start again. Where the past does not matter.”

  “So you keep saying. Well, good riddance to you, John Ready. You and your secrets.” She spun on her heel and, grasping her skirts, ran up the stairs.

  John closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. He was a bastard. He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled slowly.

  “I certainly hope that drama will not interfere with the play,” a voice said. “After all, Miss Wallington-Willis is supposed to be in love with you.”

  John turned his head and saw Sir Harry standing a few yards away. Behind him, Annabelle hovered in the doorway of the sitting room. How much had they heard? “Do you make a habit of eavesdropping, Sir Harry?” John asked.

  “I got up to close the sitting room door and heard voices.”

  John winced. “My apologies.”

  Sir Harry gave a nod. “Accepted. Do let me know if there is anything I can do.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, the offer remains open. Despite this infirmity of mine, I stand ready to assist you—at any time.” Sir Harry’s gaze glittered behind his spectacles, reminding John of the intensity he had seen there just after the abduction attempt.

  Strangely, the baronet’s support calmed him. “I appreciate that, Sir Harry.”

  “Very well, then. Back to the play. You know, Miss Bailey truly has a gift for writing. She is a young lady of many talents.” He turned away and headed down the hall to where Annabelle waited. John lingered where he was a moment longer, looking up the stairs where Genny had fled. Then he very deliberately turned to descend the staircase.

  He had people to protect.

  Chapter 8

  Genny stormed into her bedroom and shut the door—perhaps a tad harder than necessary—then went to her dressing table and sat down to look at her reflection in the mirror. “You will not cry. You will not cry. That man is not worth your tears.”

  A knock came at the door. “Miss Genny? Are you all right?”

  Genny covered her face with her hands, pressing her fingertips against her eyes. “I am fine, Lottie. I just want to be alone for a while.”

  There was a long pause. “All right,” the maid said finally, “but call me if you need me.”

  “Thank you.” Genny listened to the soft shuffle of the maid’s footsteps as she walked away, then lowered her hands from her face. Her fingertips were wet. She met her own gaze in the mirror, her eyes red and moist. “You are strong,” she whispered. “Remember that.”

  How was it John had brought her to tears so easily? Two days ago, she had thought he was trying to seduce Annabelle. Yet even then, she had noticed him. Been attracted to him. Now she knew he was trying to keep the girl safe from a madman, which made her feel better about her attraction to him, but she still did not like the way he kept secrets.

  But to his point, she had secrets, too.

  Had he guessed? She didn’t think so. He blamed her suspiciousness on what Bradley had done to her, and she knew he was right. Bradley was at the crux of it. No doubt John thought she should just forget about Bradley and go on her way, thanking Heaven that she had discovered the truth before they had said the vows. And had that been all there was to it, she might well have been able to do that. But matters were worse than John—or anyone—knew.

  Yes, her pride had been hurt by the fact that Bradley had lied to her about why he wanted to marry her, but the worst part—the piece for which she could not forgive herself—was that she had given him her most precious gift. Her innocence.

  She slumped back in her chair. She had carried that burden for so long that even admitting it to herself was something of a relief. That night . . . dear God, what had she been thinking?

  That she was in love, that she was going to marry this man.

  She had gone to the theater with her family, but Bradley had whispered that he needed to speak with her alone about a matter of some import. She had lied to her parents and claimed a headache, and Bradley had gallantly agreed to see her home.

  Since they were out with some very influential people, her parents had agreed to let him take her home. In the carriage that night, Bradley vowed his undying love for her, claiming he intended to approach her father the very next day to ask for her hand. He had presented her with a lovely little locket to show the seriousness of his intentions. Then he had kissed her in a way she had never been kissed before, making her head spin. One thing had led to another.

  And she had given herself to him, right there in the carriage.

  Two weeks later she had overheard him bragging to his cronies that his naval career was assured now that he had landed the admiral’s daughter.

  Dear God, how stupid and naïve she had been! Luckily, Bradley had never disclosed anything about that night in the carriage to his friends. When she jilted him, he had threatened to tell, but she made certain he understood that his naval career would be at an end if he breathed a word of what had happened between them. She would ask her father to intervene, and he would not be pleased that a man he had trusted had taken advantage of his daughter, especially when that daughter refused to marry to scotch the scandal.

  Her gamble had paid off though Bradley continued to press his suit, following the rules of propriety to the letter. Finally, her father had noticed her discomfort and arranged to send her former fiancé on an assignment to India.

  She had not seen or heard from him until a few weeks ago, when he had shown up at Cilla’s wedding. Yet his legacy had lived on in the untenable position in which
she found herself.

  How was she to make a proper marriage now? She was ruined goods. Where could she find a man who would understand her momentary lapse in judgment and not consider her a whore? She did not have the wealth or connections that would encourage a man to overlook such a thing. Certainly her father was a well-known military hero, but in the end even that would not be enough to save her.

  She was stuck, perhaps even doomed to the future John had predicted for her: favorite aunt to her sister’s children, unless she found a man who would both understand and forgive her mistake. Such men were nearly impossible to find. If only she could erase the past. Start again.

  Start again. . .

  John had said the very same thing. He was leaving England for America, where he could start over. Where he could have a life his past would not allow if he stayed in his native land.

  She had asked him why he could not stay, but perhaps the question she should be asking was, why could she not go, too?

  She liked John. Despite his secrets, his motives appeared to be honorable. Just because a person had a past did not mean he—or she—was a bad person. And just because one man had abused her trust did not mean that another would do the same, did it?

  Maybe John was right. Perhaps she needed to give him the benefit of the doubt, to have faith that he was doing the right things for the right reasons. To believe that he would not betray her. This man was the first since Bradley who interested her, and the first, to her knowledge, who seemed to return that interest in a way that had nothing to do with her family connections and everything to do with her.

  What if she were to go with him when he left for America? Helped him build the family he had talked about?

  They had passion between them, something many couples of the upper classes could not claim. And she did trust him with her safety. Surely, that was enough to see them through the hard times ahead. Surely John would understand about her situation.

  But what if he didn’t?

  No, she would not think like that. She would have to overcome her own fears and bare her soul to him, take the risk that he might see her differently once she told him her secret.

  Of course, he had been horrible to her. She was not even sure how it had happened. One moment she had been offering her assistance, and the next moment he had accused her of distracting him. Dear God, that had made her so angry, that he would accuse her of being responsible for what happened to Annabelle. Clearly that was nonsense, and she had told him so!

  Right before she stormed off.

  Oh, Lord. She rested her forehead on her hand. He had tricked her, played her emotions like a virtuoso.

  John often lingered on the sidelines, watching people. Learning them. Observing their strengths and weaknesses. It would have been child’s play for him to poke at her weak spots and get her angry enough to walk away from him. Maybe to avoid him for the remainder of the house party.

  He had said she was a distraction. Clearly he had taken the attack on Annabelle personally. He blamed himself. He was probably trying to push her away so he could concentrate on the danger at hand.

  She understood that his purpose at Nevarton Chase was very important, but she had only a handful of days left before Samuel and Cilla returned from their honeymoon, and John returned to America. The clock was ticking. She needed to put her plan into action.

  He might resist. She imagined that trying to chip through that armor of honor he wore might prove formidable. But she was not without weapons of her own.

  She stood up and regarded herself in the mirror, smoothing her dress and turning this way and that, examining her figure. By the time she was finished with John Ready, he would be repeating the vows before he realized what had hit him.

  “Lottie! Come help me dress!”

  In the taproom of the Hart and Hound, John nursed his ale and listened with half attention as the barmaid flirted with the fellow at the next table. Her mark was obviously a man of some means, as evidenced by his well-tailored clothing and bulging purse. Not one of the upper ten thousand, certainly, else John would have recognized him.

  Maybe.

  After letting Virgil know that he was leaving the estate, John had taken Sir Harry aside and asked his assistance in watching over Annabelle in his absence. The stalwart baronet had agreed without hesitation. Then he had spoken to Annabelle and obtained a description from her of the man who had tried to abduct her.

  The admiral and his wife had returned from their walk, but Genny had remained conspicuously absent. Guilt over the things he had said to her still pricked at him, but he knew it was all for the best. If he was going to keep Annabelle safe, he could not be distracted, not by anything or anyone.

  With the written description tucked in his pocket, he had spent the afternoon retracing the route Sir Harry and Annabelle had taken. The site of the ambush had revealed nothing of note, so he had one last option he wanted to try before he called it a day. That option involved the local tavern—a place crawling with gossip, where a fellow who had recently come into some funds might feel the need to show off his good fortune.

  He had asked around about the description, but no one could—or would—shed any light on the man’s identity. As soon as he had noticed that his questions were causing some unrest among the locals, he retired to a corner table with a tankard and simply observed.

  Late afternoon. Some things never changed, and the sights and sounds of an English tavern were some of them. Not to mention the smells. God save him, but he had missed the scents of good English ale spewing from the tap and brown bread baking and fresh mutton roasting in the oven. He drained his tankard and signaled the barmaid for another. If he did not learn anything in the next half hour, he was leaving.

  “Mr. Ready! I say, how fortuitous!” Tim Timmons dropped into an empty chair at John’s table without waiting for an invitation. He set his hat and a large satchel down on the seat beside him, then signaled for the barmaid and ordered an ale of his own.

  “Mr. Timmons.” John bit back his annoyance and reminded himself that the man had the loose lips of London’s worst gossip. “Fortuitous indeed. I thought you had an appointment this afternoon.”

  “I did, I did. Went to Evermayne, spoke to St. Giles. I told him there had been no change, but I told him that in a letter before he insisted I come to see him in person.”

  “St. Giles?” It felt odd to form his lips around the name after so many years.

  “Randall St. Giles. His Grace’s cousin, . . . well, third cousin. Impatient fellow. Wants miracles.” The barmaid set his ale in front of him, and Tim immediately picked it up and took a healthy swig.

  “Randall? What is his interest?”

  “Ha! That one? He thinks he’s the heir.” Tim took another drink.

  “The heir? But what about . . . I mean, His Grace had no son?”

  “No sons, just two daughters. Young ones, too. The youngest is, oh, seven I believe.”

  “Seven.” The ale turned to dust in his mouth. “A daughter you say.”

  “Two. The older one is from His Grace’s first wife. She’s twelve. Or fifteen maybe. I’d have to check my notes.”

  John cleared his throat and took a drink of ale, though he barely tasted it. “I had heard—years ago, you understand—that His Grace had a son, not a daughter.”

  “No, no. Two daughters. Would make things easier if he did have a son. Would save all manner of trouble.”

  John said nothing. The old bastard had lied to him. What other deceptions could be laid at the late Duke’s door?

  Timmons drank again, licking his lips as he set the tankard on the table. “Though His Grace did have a brother.”

  John glanced up at that. “Did he?”

  “Yes, but they weren’t close. Different mothers, some fifteen years between them in age. Of course, he died, some four or five years ago.”

  John’s blood ran cold. “Died?”

  “Accident of some sort. Carriage sank in a frozen lake.” Timm
ons shivered.

  John stood and put some money on the table. “I have to leave. Allow me to pay for your ale.”

  “Why, thank you!” The balding man beamed. “Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Ready.”

  John nodded, uncertain if his tongue could form any words more coherent than that, and left the tavern.

  It took long minutes for the groom to bring his horse from the stables. He flipped the lad a coin—he did not even know what kind—and mounted, turning the horse east.

  Toward Evermayne.

  Chapter 9

  Though it had been years, John remembered the way to Evermayne as if it had only been yesterday.

  Some of the landmarks had changed, but for the most part everything looked achingly familiar. When he passed the marker that denoted the border of Evermayne lands, he slowed his mount. The green fields inside their stone walls, the wildflowers sprinkled across verdant carpets, the lush trees promising shade in the late-afternoon sun—everything seemed to welcome him back. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed hard. Home.

  He urged his mount to a faster speed. Quickly the flower-sprinkled meadows gave way to cultivated crop fields or vast grasslands, with livestock milling about in the waning afternoon. The occasional dwelling appeared, usually simple cottages inhabited by the tenant farmers. The closer he got to the village of Evermayne, however, the more sophisticated the architecture became. Farmers’ cottages slowly gave way to brick buildings housing shops and offices. More traffic appeared on the road. A gentleman on horseback, a matron in a single-horse gig, a tenant farmer with his simple open wagon loaded with supplies and wide-eyed children. Everyone glanced at him, tipped their hats, waved hello. He nodded back to them, glad he was not expected to speak. He didn’t know if he would have been able to with his emotions choking his airway.

  He rode through the center of the village, following the main road beyond the shops and workingman’s housing that had sprung up. He passed the livery and an inn that had not been there several years earlier. The road took on a series of curves here, leading back out into the fields and forests he had seen coming in. Anyone else would have thought there was nothing more to see.