Wickedly Yours (The Wickeds Book 4)

by Kathleen Ayers

  “You’re a poor liar.” He studied her intently for a moment before the fingers of his hand threaded through hers.

  I’m actually a very good liar. The truth lay on the tip of her tongue.

  As the opera dragged on, Malden said nothing more, but he did not release her hand. He continued to move his leg into her skirts and intermittently stroke the base of her thumb with his. Malden’s subtle attention drew Arabella into a heightened state of awareness. Her body hummed softly, in tune with the masculine presence next to her. She kept staring at the curve of his ear and the tiny bit of his neck she could see above his collar.

  Arabella startled as the lights came up to signal intermission. She’d been so focused on Malden she’d quite forgotten the opera. A steady stream of gowned ladies accompanied by gentlemen in their formal wear entered the booth to give their regards to the Earl of Marsh and his family. The small space rapidly filled with the press of bodies.

  Her brother’s tall form loomed over everyone in the box. She watched as he wrapped his arm protectively around Jemma and led her to the door. As they passed, she caught sight of Jemma’s face, which had turned a sickly green color.

  “Air.” Nick muttered to Arabella as he moved swiftly towards the door. “Possibly a bland biscuit of some sort is required.”

  Arabella watched as her brother led Jemma out and she turned to see a distinguished looking gentleman coming towards her. His craggy face and lips hinted of distaste as he approached. The man stopped before Malden. “Malden.”

  Malden stood abruptly, the wry, amused look he’d sported for most of the opera disappeared. “Excuse me for a moment, Bella.” He stood to follow the older man who was standing before Lord Marsh.

  Without thinking, Arabella clung to his hand, filled with momentary anxiety. Which was ridiculous. She’d managed to navigate the ton without Malden for years. She released his hand, ashamed of her sudden weakness.

  The hazel eyes softened on her. “I will not leave you to the wolves, though I am more afraid for them rather than you.”

  Her lips twisted into a sneer. “You’ve nothing to fear, Malden. I was thinking how bored I will be while you are gone. Your company is better than none, after all.”

  One side of his mouth ticked up. “Of course. What was I thinking?” Gently, he brushed the line of her jaw with his knuckles before leaving her.

  * * *

  The loss of Malden’s presence was akin to a candle being snuffed out, leaving one in complete darkness. Arabella cursed her sudden fragile nature, blaming him. If she didn’t stop this nonsense, she would soon become a wailing, needy milksop of a girl. Exactly the type of young woman she despised. Lifting her chin, she spied a pretty girl with ash-blonde hair speaking to Petra. The pair drew their heads together and shot glances in Arabella’s direction before the girl moved to greet Lady Marsh.

  Arabella picked up the playbill Malden left in his seat and leafed through the small booklet. What did she care if no one greeted her or spoke to her?

  “Are you enjoying the opera, Lady Arabella?” Petra flounced down next to her, a false smile on her pink lips.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Arabella wished she would go away. Petra annoyed her. She was too delicate. Pink-cheeked. Innocent. Petra had attended one of the teas Arabella hosted for the Anchor Society, a charity supporting the widows of sailors. Lady Marsh must have been there as well, but Arabella couldn’t recall. Tea had been held in the gardens. Petra had spent the entire afternoon hiding from Arabella behind a series of flowering bushes. The girl lacked a spine, though she was certainly a great beauty. If Malden were wise, he would marry someone exactly like his sister.

  Arabella ignored the slight pain in her chest thinking of Malden with another woman.

  “Honestly, Mother and I weren’t certain you would join us this evening.” Petra regarded her with no small amount of curiosity. “Not because you don’t like the opera, but because you don’t like us.” Her voice lowered as if imparting a confidence. “Though I assure you, the feeling is mutual.”

  Arabella stiffened. Apparently, Malden’s twit of a sister had grown some claws since she had played hide and seek at the Anchor Society tea. Perhaps that would make Petra less dull. “Then we are in agreement.” Arabella raised a brow. “I’m certain you didn’t make your way to my side just to tell me of your dislike. Do go on.”

  “The current situation is appalling. Lady Gwendolyn is beside herself.”

  Lady Gwendolyn White. She suspected Lady Gwendolyn was the ash blonde Petra had been whispering with. It was rumored Malden was about to offer for her when Arabella had ruined everything.

  “Lady Gwendolyn’s distress is really none of my concern. Just as I am not your concern.” Where was Malden? Petra deserved a scathing retort and Arabella’s resolution to not be insulting was weakening in the face of the girl’s attitude.

  Petra sat back and clasped her gloved hands. “You are a horrid person.”

  Arabella blinked and stiffened her spine. True, she was a horrible person, or at least she had once been. Before Corbett. Before Malden. Now Arabella thought of herself as merely unpleasant. She was striving to become likeable and Petra was making her efforts more difficult.

  “I will not allow you to harm my cousin again. Ever.” Petra’s voice was full of determination. “Why Rowan agreed to this marriage rather than sending you somewhere far away, as you deserve, is beyond my understanding.”

  “I’m sure most things are beyond your understanding,” Arabella snapped.

  Petra had the decency to redden. “I see nothing to recommend you.” She leaned closer. “This marriage is akin to inviting a large snake into our midst and hoping it does not decide to swallow us all whole.”

  Arabella carefully spread her fan upon her lap and waited for the boiling rage within her to subside. It was not often that one was compared to a snake. She was surprised how much Petra’s words hurt, for she cared nothing for the girl or her opinion. Again, it occurred to her that she could simply tell her brother or Malden everything. Arabella would be outwardly declared unredeemable and she could avoid unfortunate conversations such as these.

  “My apologies, Lady Petra, all this wailing,” Arabella allowed the double meaning to sink into Petra’s pea brain, “has upset my delicate constitution. Of course, I mean the opera.” A brittle smile molded her lips. “I fear I am not an admirer.”

  Petra reddened further. At least she wasn’t so stupid as to not recognize an insult.

  Arabella stood, enjoying the shocked look on Petra’s face. She refused to sit quietly and be insulted by a girl whose greatest daily challenge was deciding what ribbon best matched her dress. The Dunbar coach sat parked just outside. Malden be damned. She’d done her best.

  “Excuse me, Lady Petra. I bid you a good evening.” Inclining her head slightly, Arabella made for the door.

  24

  Rowan headed back towards his father’s box leaving Lord White to sputter from his rebuke. The conversation had been long overdue. White’s arrogance in assuming he could walk into the Marsh box and openly show his distaste for Arabella was at an end. He had made things perfectly clear to White. Now Rowan’s anger was directed at his parents. His mother in particular. Didn’t either of his parents wonder at Lord White’s insistence Rowan marry his daughter Gwendolyn?

  He kept such things from his parents.

  Rowan sometimes purchased the markers of gentlemen he thought might prove useful to his future business dealings. He rarely told the gentlemen in question he held their markers, preferring to negotiate through a third party. When the chance came to purchase Lord White’s debt, Rowan did so. White was well respected in Parliament despite his lack of financial sense and he was a friend of Rowan’s father. Friend of his father’s or not, Rowan didn’t care for White. He’d had a number of the man’s markers for years. Somehow White found out Rowan held his debts, so large a sum that if called due, White would be ruined.

  Which was why Lord White had ingrat
iated himself with Lady Marsh. His determination to have Gwendolyn wed Rowan was nothing more than a bid to have his markers forgiven.

  I should call them all due immediately and bankrupt him. But he wouldn’t. Rowan rarely made decisions out of anger and White could still prove useful someday.

  Nick had interrupted Rowan’s discussion with White to inform him he and Jemma were taking the Dunbar coach. She was unwell and indeed, upon seeing his cousin’s face, Rowan became concerned. Jemma was pale and shaking and Nick’s face creased with worry. He assured Nick he would see Arabella home.

  Arabella.

  He’d been in a constant state of arousal since he’d spotted her, shocked to see her in a gown of color. True, the deep indigo could be mistaken for black, but all in all, the gown was a vast improvement over the browns and grays she typically favored. And he could see the graceful curve of her neck and the swell of her breasts pushing against the bodice. Rowan could not take his eyes from the expanse of lovely pale skin. The sable mass of her hair was not braided or subdued into an unflattering hairstyle but had been allowed to spill over her shoulders in artful disarray. He had inhaled bergamot, wanting desperately to nuzzle beneath her ear and nibble at the nape of her neck.

  Desire, so fierce he’d nearly tripped approaching her, radiated throughout his entire body. He couldn’t seem to stop touching her, deliberately seducing her with soft whispers and the press of his leg against hers, forcing the lush body next to him to soften. He’d been about to ask the color of her chemise, but the lights came up.

  While no one else seemed to be anxious to see him wed to Arabella, possessing her was all Rowan could think about.

  Entering the Marsh box, he made straight for the seat where he’d left Arabella. The chair was vacant. The box had emptied of guests and only his mother, father and sister remained.

  “Where is she?” He spoke without pretense.

  His mother pretended ignorance. “I believe the duke has taken her for a stroll around the terrace. I’m sure she’ll be right as rain in a few moments. She was in dreadful need of some fresh air. Poor lamb.”

  Besides the fact his cousin Jemma would violently object to being called a ‘poor lamb’, Lady Marsh was being deliberately evasive.

  “The duke and duchess have gone home as I’m sure you’ve guessed. Arabella, Mother. Where is she?” He cast a sideways glance at his sister.

  There was a reason Petra didn’t play cards for every emotion showed on her face. And just now, she looked rather guilty.

  A hint of a smile graced his mother’s lips.

  “She left.” Petra interjected. “A headache. She doesn’t like the opera and compared the singing to wailing.”

  Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You allowed her to leave? Alone?” Of course they’d allowed Arabella to leave by herself.

  His mother placed a hand on his sleeve. “Let her go, Rowan. It was clear she wasn’t enjoying herself. And now that His Grace has left it would have been awkward had she stayed. Lady Gwendolyn has promised to return to our box and—”

  He shook off his mother’s hand. “If anything has happened to her you will be held responsible, Mother.” He turned and said over his shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He was furious. Bloody furious. First Lord White and now this. He’d coddled his parents for far too long. Because of James.

  I am not James. James would have married Lady Gwendolyn happily whether he wished to or not.

  He searched the thinning crowds of the refreshment area, looking towards the terrace in case Arabella sought out her brother instead of leaving. She would not know Nick had taken the Dunbar coach and Rowan didn’t care for the thought of Arabella wandering down the dark line of coaches where she could be easily accosted. Or worse, hire a hackney.

  Rowan hurried down the sidewalk. Several couples mingled about, enjoying the night air. He could hear throaty laughter somewhere to his right. But no Arabella. Perhaps she’d gone back inside to look for him.

  A slender woman, the folds of her cloak flashing open to show the brilliants lining her skirts, walked from between two coaches. She put her hands on her hips, turning to look up and down the street as if searching for something.

  Arabella.

  Instantly he walked to her side before she could try to elude him. “There you are. I didn’t realize Balderez had the effect of making one ill. Or induce ladies to run from the theater.” He took her arm and turned her to face him.

  A sheen of tears coated the dark velvet eyes. Arabella was clearly upset. She twisted away from him. “Let go. I’ll see myself home. You are relieved of your duty to me,” she said, the militant attitude she often assumed on clear display.

  “It is not duty and I did not mean to abandon you.” The sight of her distress unexpectedly tugged at his heart. His fingers closed over her elbow. “You should have waited.”

  Her chin lifted defiantly. “Perhaps I didn’t care to be treated to Lady Gwendolyn sneering at me from across the room. And your sister has all the personality of a tea cake. I would have enjoyed my evening more had there actually been cats wailing onstage.”

  So, it hadn’t been his mother, but Petra who’d caused Arabella to flee. A possibility he’d not foreseen. He wondered what his dear sister, who had the most pleasing of personalities when permitted to be anything other than demure, had said to upset Arabella. Rowan fought back the urge to defend his sister. But he was infinitely happier with Arabella’s insults than the horrible wounded look he’d first seen in her eyes.

  “Come. I’ll see you home.” He started to lead her towards his own coach.

  “As I said, I can see myself home. Direct me to the Dunbar coach if you please, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Jemma was feeling ill. Your brother and she have already left and taken the coach. You are left with me to see you home safely.” A curl had fallen from her coiffure to land on her cheek and without thinking he reached out and tucked it behind her ear.

  “No, thank you, Malden.” She shied from his touch and tried to get closer to the street. “I shall hire a hackney.”

  Obstinate woman. “Rowan. Stop calling me Malden with that dismissive tone you like to use. My name is Rowan.” He gripped her arm and half-led, half-dragged her down to his waiting coach ignoring the stares of the few people they passed. “Unless you wish to add to the gossip about us, you’ll cease your dramatics.”

  “Dramatics?” Her cheeks puffed out in outrage.

  Finally seeing his coach, Rowan placed both hands on Arabella’s waist and shoved her into the interior. He instructed the driver before climbing in himself and latching the door.

  The coach started to inch down the street, surprisingly thick with evening traffic.

  Arabella glared daggers from her place on the leather squabs. Her struggles had caused more of her hair to spill down one side of her face. Deep, angry breaths erupted from her, forcing her breasts to nearly spill from the gown.

  Rowan found her glorious to behold.

  “I will not marry you. I don’t care if the entire ton spits at me as I walk past and am reduced to growing fat in an obscure Italian city.”

  Rowan wasn’t sure, exactly, why Arabella should grow fat in Italy, but he didn’t interrupt.

  “You are much more suited to a woman of Lady Gwendolyn’s stature, whom your sister was kind enough to inform me actually desires to wed you. A simpering pea-wit who will obey your every whim and call on your mother for tea and needlepoint.”

  “My mother doesn’t needlepoint.” He leaned forward. “You’re jealous.”

  Arabella swatted at his shoulders. “I am not jealous. I resent being abandoned.” And hurt. “You arrogant—”

  The rest of her tirade ceased as his mouth fell firmly on hers. Grabbing her roughly, he trapped her, pushing her back against the squabs. With a groan, his hands slid beneath her cloak to wrap around her waist as his lips moved possessively over hers. There was madness in the kiss, the insanity of hi
s desire for her. He nipped at her full bottom lip.

  Arabella whimpered softly, the sound of her surrender. The lush lines of her body molded against his chest as her arms wound seductively around his neck.

  Then she nipped him back.

  * * *

  She sighed in pleasure as she wrapped herself around Rowan. The kiss was merciless, demanding she yield to him. Arabella did so gladly, her ire turning to desire for Malden. Her senses swam as his lips moved over hers, willing her capitulation. Tentatively she opened her mouth as he’d done to her before and touched her tongue to his.

  A deep growl came from his chest.

  Hands slid through her hair, loosening the carefully placed pins. Tiny pinging sounds met her ears as the pins fell to the floor of the coach. The kiss became more urgent. Commanding. She was locked in an intoxicating battle of wills Arabella most certainly would lose.

  I want to lose.

  His larger body covered hers, all muscle and heat, dominating the small space of the coach. Insanity gripped Arabella as it always did at Malden’s touch. A deep yearning filled her for him. Physical, yes. But also something more. She wished desperately to belong to him.

  His mouth left hers to toy with the sensitive skin of her neck before falling to the tops of her breasts. Warm. Soft. Lips skimmed over the delicate flesh and pleasure radiated down her body. She shivered, arching against him. Her nipples tightened painfully beneath the silk of the indigo gown.

  “Rowan—”

  Her breath caught as a finger slid down the front of her bodice, followed by his hand. He deftly popped out one breast, caressing the tip of her nipple with his thumb.

  “Do not ever call me Malden again.” The tip of his tongue touched the hardened peak. “I mean it, Bella.”

  “No.” She moaned softly. “I won’t. I will wait and call you Marsh when you are earl.”

  His teeth grazed her nipple, punishment for her remark. “This is why I came for you.” His tongue circled her nipple, deliberately torturing her with every flick. “You need never doubt again. I want this marriage. I want you.”