Practically Wicked

by Alissa Johnson

  “Madame liked having a daughter about,” she explained with a small shrug. “Someone to put in diamond dresses and show off to her friends.”

  Like a living doll, he thought, disgusted. “And yet she had no reservations about sending you here for your inheritance?”

  There was a marked pause before she answered. “It is possible she did.”

  “She tried to stop you?”

  “No. I wasn’t being coy in saying it was possible, I meant it was possible but I’ve no way of knowing for certain. I didn’t speak with her before leaving.”

  “She doesn’t know you’re here? Did you sneak out of Anover House?”

  “Of course not. I’d never be so heartless…I left a note.”

  “A note?”

  “You may wish to temper your criticism of me. She was taking laudanum for her injury before I left. Holding a rational discussion on the matter was out of the question.”

  “And if it hadn’t been?”

  “I…” She pressed her lips together a beat before answering. “I would have snuck out and left the note. She is often unreasonable, even irrational.”

  He added this bit of information to everything else he had learned of Mrs. Wrayburn in the past four-and-twenty hours. “Well, I am relieved I decided against paying her a visit today.”

  “You thought to go to London?”

  “No, I went to London,” he admitted, surprising himself. He’d no intention of telling her that, but he found he had no taste for continuing the lie about having gone into the village.

  “I see.” She tilted her head, her expression shrewd. “And did the contract meet with your approval or your expectations?”

  “Both, as pertains to you. The first as pertains to your mother. I assumed she gave you the contract,” he explained. “I suspected she might be lying to us all.”

  “Ah.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, your trip makes sense, then. I daresay, I’d do the same in your place. But, no. Mrs. Culpepper and I…er…discovered it.”

  “Discovered,” he repeated, amused. “I know what that means. You’re not angry that I went to London?”

  “When you said you were going to the village? No, not especially. Your reasons were sound. And you’ve told me now, haven’t you?”

  “I have.” And he hoped she was telling the truth about not being upset. There were too many misunderstandings between them already. “I should have told you my intentions this morning.”

  “Perhaps,” she allowed. “But our peace is new. We’re bound to have a misstep or two, and I like that you’ve erred first. You’re now obligated to forgive me when I make a mistake.”

  “Does Miss Anna Rees make mistakes?”

  “They say there is a first time for everything.”

  Her willingness to make jests erased any concerns he had that she might secretly be harboring a little resentment. “You’re truly not upset,” he said, a bit awed.

  “You were being protective of your friends,” she replied. “There is nothing wrong in that.”

  “I am sometimes overly protective of Lucien and Gideon,” he admitted.

  “And why might that be?”

  “Another time,” he evaded. He wasn’t opposed to telling her his history with the family, but he wasn’t interested in telling it tonight. He wanted to learn more about her. “So, you found paperwork you were not meant to find and you left home without permission or even advance notice. Am I right in guessing that this is an escape from your mother?”

  “Her world,” Anna clarified. “Anover House, the demimonde. It is an escape from all of it.”

  “A world is greater than one person and one place. The demimonde has more to offer than what goes on at Anover House.”

  She looked decidedly unconvinced. “I assure you, if the demimonde offers it, it goes on at Anover House.”

  He wondered if she was jesting, or if she was naïve enough to believe it. Anover House, while very much a den of considerable infamy, was by no means the destination of choice for either the most depraved individuals of the demimonde, or the most interesting. Present company excluded, naturally. “Would you say all of those of the ton are the same?”

  “I’d say near enough that I don’t want anything to do with them either.”

  “You’re stubborn in your views.”

  “Determined in my path,” she countered.

  It bothered him to hear it. The demimonde was his world of choice, the ton his world of birth. To know she was looking to be rid of both made him nervous, and a little defensive.

  On the other hand, it gave him greater insight into her determination to gain a thousand pounds from Lucien. She didn’t merely want the money or feel entitled to it. Having left the protection and support of her mother, she needed it to survive.

  “What role does your Mrs. Culpepper play in all this?” Did she encourage Anna’s bleak views on society? he wondered.

  “Oh…friend, travel companion—”

  “Coconspirator?”

  “That as well,” she admitted with a soft chuckle. “She was the architect of our plan, to be honest. I’d still be at Anover House, were it not for her.”

  “Then I owe her a debt of gratitude.”

  She didn’t blush, as many women of his acquaintance might, but her eyes darted away a second before returning to his. It was a start, he told himself.

  But he wanted so much more. He wanted to kiss her.

  The Italian phrase hadn’t materialized out of nowhere. The desire was there. The urge to touch her had gnawed at him since he’d walked into the house and seen her walking down the stairs.

  It seemed right to do it now, while she was surrounded by flickering candlelight and the books she so clearly loved. They were alone and hidden, and he badly wanted to pull her close and feel the warmth of her through their clothes, her mouth move beneath his.

  But it wasn’t the right time. Trust wasn’t rebuilt in a day, and he’d be a fool to push things too far, too fast. Particularly as he wasn’t at all sure where he wanted things to go.

  Better for him to step away.

  Better…but not easier. His brain produced a half dozen excuses for his prompt departure, but not the discipline to put a single one of them to immediate use.

  He stayed exactly where he was as a weighted silence stretched out between them.

  His eyes dropped to her mouth.

  Her gaze skittered away as her fingers played with the spine of her book. He imagined them sliding up the back of his neck to play with his hair.

  Clearly, she was aware of tension building between them. But she wasn’t running away. That was promising. Very, very promising.

  But it changed nothing. He was going to put an end to the tension. Immediately. He was going to walk away so she wouldn’t have to run. He was going to—

  In the end, he didn’t have to do anything. It was an upstairs maid, Abigail, who saved them both. After a polite knock on the open door and an equally polite apology for the interruption, the young woman crossed the room and handed Anna a small ring of keys.

  “Mrs. Webster has said that His Lordship has said that you are to have this.”

  “Oh, right.” Anna accepted the ring, looking far more composed than Max would have liked. “Thank you. I hope I’ve not caused an inconvenience.”

  “A few less keys to haul about is no inconvenience to Mrs. Webster. But it was kind of you to ask. Should I show you which keys go to which cases, miss?”

  Anna’s gaze shot to him briefly. “Yes, I suppose that would be wise.”

  Max tried not to resent the intrusion (they were keys and locks, for pity’s sake, how hard could it be?) even as he acknowledged that it was all for the best.

  “I believe I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said before Anna could follow Abigail to the nearest case. He gave her a small bow. “Good night, Miss Rees.”

  “Good night, Lord Dane.”

  If she was disappointed by his decision to leave, no sign of it
reached her face. Her smile was polite, but distant. It irritated him no end.

  Which is why he made a point of whispering in her ear as he brushed by her on his way to the door.

  “Sweet dreams, Anna.”

  He’d never know if she had any visual reaction to his words, but he heard her breath hitch, and that was enough for him, for now.

  Chapter 11

  As dawn broke over Caldwell Manor, Anna stood in her room, wiggling her bandaged feet inside her shoes.

  “Quite comfortable, really,” she murmured.

  Mrs. Culpepper’s balm and a good deal of time spent barefooted had done wonders for her blisters. With bandages and a careful choice of shoes, she was confident she could walk a little ways without further aggravating her sore feet.

  And should they became a little aggravated…Well, she would live with it. It was too fine and sunny a morning to stay indoors, she decided and headed downstairs.

  As for the rest of yesterday’s mishaps, they were easy to avoid once a person knew what to look for. She’d keep her feet away from manure and out of streams, give a wide berth to sheep and shepherds’ dogs, and limit her stroll to level ground.

  A warm wash of early sunlight settled on her face the minute she stepped out the back door Max had carried her to the day before. She blinked, clearing her eyes, and discovered Max himself leaning against the stone balustrade of the terrace and looking quite handsome in his black coat and buckskin breeches.

  He looked even better when he smiled at her, his hazel eyes shining a bright green in the morning light. “I hoped you’d come this way.”

  “Good morning.” Better than good, possibly the finest morning she’d had in years. “Rather early for you, isn’t it? I thought the demimonde kept town hours, even in the country.”

  “I keep whichever hours suit me,” he replied, straightening as she approached. “And it suited me to find you here this morning.”

  She rather doubted he’d risen at dawn and come outside on the off chance he’d meet her, but she appreciated the sentiment. “Are you for the village?”

  “No, I’m for escorting you about the countryside. I assumed any woman so determined to have a morning stroll that she was willing to walk on wounded feet was determined enough to give that morning stroll a second try. And I thought perhaps you might like a guide. I promise to steer us away from raging rivers and man-eating beasts.”

  Good heavens, he really had risen early to seek her out. How lovely. “I should like that very much.”

  “Excellent, but before we begin—how are your feet?”

  Anna looked down to the cloth boots peeking out from her skirts. “Much improved, thank you, but I shall have to stick to soft paths and dry earth for a day or two.”

  “Easily done,” he assured her and, with a sweep of his hand, invited her to lead the way off the terrace.

  They kept to a leisurely pace over the next half hour and kept conversation at a minimum. Max pointed out a low mound where a few large, crumbling stones protruded from the grass, all that remained of a small medieval fortress predating the Engsly estate. Anna asked after several intact outbuildings and a pair of songbirds, which Max professed to know absolutely nothing about.

  Anna didn’t feel the need to fill all the lulls in the conversation. There was so much going on around them, it seemed foolish to constantly speak on top of it all. Why go on a walk in the country if one wasn’t going to take a moment here and there to appreciate the sight of a hawk soaring overhead or the sound of the wind in the trees?

  She snuck a glance at Max. It seemed odd that they could go from mistrust and anger to comfortable silence in so short a time. Stranger still that it didn’t seem more odd. It felt right, to be walking side by side with Max whilst the early morning sun warmed her back. It felt better than right, in fact. It felt perfect. Better than any daydream she’d ever had.

  That sense of rightness gave her the confidence to break the silence and ask a question that had been niggling at her. “Were you poking fun at me at dinner last night? When you asked me about my favorite spots in London.”

  He gave her a quizzical look, though whether he was surprised by her question or merely the sudden appearance of that particular topic, she couldn’t say. “Not at all. Only teasing a little. If I wounded your feelings, I apologize—”

  “No. I wasn’t sure, that’s all. I’ve very little experience in making friends,” she admitted, “and given our recent history…”

  “You assumed I was looking to wound,” he finished for her.

  “I didn’t know,” she corrected. “In my defense, it’s clear you’d been nurturing a fair amount of anger toward me for some time.”

  “I called on you no less than a dozen times. Pricked my pride some, as I explained—” He broke off unexpectedly and there was a short, weighted pause before he spoke again. “That’s a lie. It did fair more than prick, and it was more than my pride. I was…notably disappointed. I was certain you would see me. I knew of the countless others you’d turned away, but we had met and you—”

  “I’m sorry, others? What others?”

  “The other gentle—” He stopped in his tracks, blinked at her blank expression, and swore. “Oh, hell. You didn’t know about them either, did you?”

  “Them?” There was a them? “Tell me.”

  He hesitated, clearly reluctant to speak. “I was not the first gentleman to pay you a call at Anover House,” he said at last. “There were—”

  “Others,” she finished for him as a sick weight settled in her stomach. “Countless others.”

  “Well, not literally countless.”

  A brief pause followed that statement. “What a relief.”

  “Anna—”

  She shook her head, cutting him off. She wasn’t in the mood for platitudes. “These others who called on me, I suppose they were friends of my mother’s, like you?”

  “I’m no friend of your mother’s,” he said grimly, “but yes, I believe many first saw you at Anover House.”

  “Not likely to have seen me anywhere else.”

  “I saw you at the theater once,” he offered kindly. “A year or so before we met.”

  It took her two seconds to figure out which one. “The Magic Flute.”

  “I…Yes, how did you know?”

  “I’ve been to the theater twice in my life,” she explained, dully. “The Magic Flute is what I saw a year or so before we met.”

  “I’m not helping at all.”

  “You are, in fact. So many truths were hidden from me for too long.” She thought about that. “Or I was hidden away from them for too long. Either way, you have helped to enlighten me, and for that I am grateful.”

  He looked away, clearly uncomfortable.

  As she hadn’t the first clue how to remedy that, she simply pushed forward. “Do you know the names of any of my callers?”

  “I recall a few,” he replied after a moment’s thought. He gave her a peculiar look. “Are you wondering after someone specific?”

  Was he wondering if she was wondering after a particular gentleman? She rather liked the idea of that. Pity she hadn’t the experience to tell.

  “I was interested in whether or not any of them were ladies. Not true ladies, of course”—a real lady would never visit Anover House, not even to retrieve a wayward husband or son—“but a woman—”

  “Yes, I understand. And no, I don’t know. I imagine a female caller would be loath to announce she’d not been received.”

  “It’s different for the gentlemen?”

  “For some. It…” He looked away again, cleared his throat. “It depends on the circumstances.”

  She waited for him to elaborate on that, then rather wished she hadn’t when he met her gaze again and said, “Anna,” in that tone—that gentle, reluctant, awful tone that inevitably preceded the delivery of very bad news. “Why don’t we find a place to sit?”

  A place to sit? Good Lord, that was worse than the tone.r />
  “I don’t want to sit.” She highly doubted whatever he had to tell her would be improved by an additional three to five minutes of dread, or however long it took them to find a proper seat.

  Max reached out and took her hand in both of his. “Not every man is an arse. You do know that.”

  “I’ve some hope for it being true,” she allowed and wished her gloves weren’t quite so thick, and that he was holding her hand for reasons other than comfort.

  “There was…” He squeezed her fingers gently. “There was a wager amongst a few of the gentlemen in London. A pool, if you will. A challenge.”

  “And the nature of this challenge?”

  “A man could, if he wished, place five pounds in the pool before paying a call on Anover House. The first man to gain audience with you was to win the pool.”

  “I see.” She saw red, specifically. But she pushed the fury down, where it wouldn’t show. “And this pool is no longer in existence?”

  “The wager was abandoned some years back. The participants were allowed—”

  “How large was the pool before it was abandoned?” she cut in.

  “I don’t know.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. If he knew of the wager, then he had some idea of how far it had gone. “How large?”

  “I’d not followed it closely. I would estimate five, maybe six hundred pounds.”

  “Six hundred pounds,” she repeated softly as fury melded with astonishment. She’d assumed “countless” was really only a dozen or so determined gentlemen who’d been denied her company at one of her mother’s parties and thought to try their luck the following day. “I’ve turned away more than a hundred gentlemen?”

  “No. Not at all,” he assured her. “A gentleman was allowed to enter the contest more than once. Most made multiple attempts.”

  That was small comfort. More than a hundred times in the past, someone had called on her, entirely unbeknownst to her, and she’d turned them away. “Well, I’ve certainly earned my nickname, haven’t I?”

  “It would have been better applied to your mother,” he muttered.