Wickedly Yours (The Wickeds Book 4)

by Kathleen Ayers

  “Rowan.” She admonished him in a harsh tone though her eyes twinkled. “Pay attention.”

  “I am. I’m paying particular attention to your mouth.”

  A deep flush stained her cheeks, which surprised him, especially after last night. “Mr. Longstreet was completely harmless. He was flirting with me but not for the reasons you assume. More importantly, he is in love with the daughter of a country squire.”

  Rowan ceased his study of her mouth. “Why is Longstreet’s love life of any importance to me? And I didn’t care for his flirting.”

  “Yes. I surmised such from your behavior last night.” Arabella gave him a pointed look. “You wish to build a rail line through Surrey, without such, the Newsome mills have no value to the textile empire you are building.”

  “Who said I was building a textile empire?” Arabella paid attention to every comment or dropped hint. He suspected she’d ‘accidently’ glanced at his papers when he was at his club. Honestly, Rowan would have given them to her to read had she asked.

  Her lips twisted further. “I’ve seen your ledger.”

  Ah. He’d forgotten seducing her while working on his ledgers late last week. She’d run her finger over the columns while he fumbled under her skirts and found several mistakes.

  Clever, brilliant girl.

  “The most direct route,” she continued, “will take you through the property of a local farmer. You could go around, of course, but the expense will be much higher and several miles of track wasted.”

  Rowan sat back, eyeing his wife with renewed respect. “How do you know that?”

  “I can read a map. And I’ve traveled through the area on the way to visit my cousin, Spence. Longstreet is in love with Squire Tidwell’s daughter, Marianne.”

  “Again, why is Longstreet’s love life my concern?” His eyes fell to her breasts as he considered her words. “What color chemise are you wearing?”

  “Red. The land is part of Marianne’s dowry, which her husband will control once she is wed.”

  Rowan’s mind examined the information, sliding the pieces around in his mind, marveling at the absolute brilliance of his wife.

  “Come here,” he growled.

  Arabella stood and walked to him, her luscious plump mouth pursing in annoyance. “You aren’t listening. I’m about to get to the best part.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.” He bent and lifted her skirts, finding the slit in her drawers. God she was wet. Slick. He couldn’t wait to sink himself into her. “Why hasn’t Tidwell accepted Longstreet’s suit for his daughter?”

  Arabella gasped and clutched the lapels of his coat while his fingers slid into her warmth. “He has no means.” A small whimper left her mouth. “Tidwell wishes Longstreet to distinguish himself and prove he can provide for Marianne. Which I find rather petty, considering Tidwell is quite wealthy and could easily support them.”

  “Longstreet must prove himself. But,” he pulled her close and brushed her lips with his, “how does this information help me? Do you wish me to purchase the man a commission in the army?” The young man didn’t look the type who would enjoy the military.

  “Yes,” she panted, pushing against his hand. “But not the type of commission you are thinking of. He’s a painter. An artist. He needs a large commission and a wealthy patron to prove to Tidwell he can support Marianne. If he can do so, Tidwell has promised his blessing.” Her fingers slid through his hair. “Longstreet will be here within the hour to introduce himself and begin your portrait.”

  Rowan spun Arabella around and pressed her down atop his desk, not caring that his papers spilled to the floor. He tugged at his trousers until his cock sprang free and thrust into her, watching the way her eyelashes fluttered against the rise of her cheeks. She arched against him whispering, “Longstreet is dull as dishwater, but he will give you access to the property or sell it outright once he is wed.”

  “How long will such a thing take?” Rowan took Arabella’s hands and held them over her head lacing their fingers together. She was far more intelligent than even he had given her credit for. Were she a man, Arabella would be a master of business and industry.

  “Not long. Marianne grows impatient and I suspect Longstreet has already ruined her.” The sentence ended on a whimper as his hips rocked against hers. She cried out, her body clasping his and Rowan groaned at the intensity.

  Arabella gasped as the inkwell rolled off the desk to stain the expensive rug covering the floor. “The rug.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” As Rowan struggled to bring his breathing back to normal he bent his lips to hers, all the while thinking that of all the assets he possessed, Arabella was the most valuable.

  36

  An invitation had finally arrived. Actually, two. The first was to attend the nuptials of Mr. Longstreet and Miss Marianne Tidwell. Rowan had embraced his patronage of Mr. Longstreet but instead of having his own portrait painted, he had asked the young man to paint Arabella. She sent their regrets along with a lovely gift.

  The second invitation was not nearly as welcome. She and Rowan had been invited to dine at the home of Rowan’s parents, Lord and Lady Marsh. Arabella wished to send her regrets to Lady Marsh as well. She considered taking to her bed and pretending illness but decided against such subterfuge.

  As the carriage rolled towards the Marsh home, Arabella hoped Lady Marsh wouldn’t resort to poisoning her soup.

  Arabella had not seen her new in-laws since the wedding, nor did Lady Marsh call on her. The last fact, in particular, caused much gossip within the ton. At a luncheon for Soldiers’ Widows, of which Arabella was a large contributor, several ladies bantered about the words ‘annulment’ and ‘divorce’ when whispering of Arabella’s marriage. Lady Gwendolyn had apparently made her opinion on the situation clear at a musicale the night before saying she would not ‘look askance’ at a man for his past mistakes.

  Arabella, careful to keep a polite smile on her face while overhearing the attendees of the luncheon wager on the demise of her marriage, longed to point out an annulment would require a public declaration that Rowan could not perform his husbandly duties. She doubted Lord Marsh would wish his son’s ability to father an heir questioned. The option of divorce was patently ridiculous. Such a thing required an act of Parliament, a tedious and lengthy process. And she would have to agree.

  “You’re frowning, my love.” Rowan’s lips curved into an amused smile. “No, wait, I feel certain it’s actually a sneer.” He leaned over to kiss her, stopping the sharp retort forming on her lips. The green and gold of his eyes glinted as he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Thank you, Bella, for not coming down with a mysterious illness at the last moment.”

  “Would you have accepted such an excuse? If so, there is still time for me to leap from the carriage.” The entire evening had her feeling rather cowardly. Especially after tolerating the speculation of her marriage at the charity luncheon earlier today.

  He picked up her hand and pressed a kiss against her pulse. “I will reward your sacrifice most handsomely.”

  Arabella shivered in pleasure as his teeth grazed her skin. “The carriage ride is not long enough for such nonsense, my lord.”

  “Nonsense? I see I will have to change your mind once we return home.” He pulled her close. “You are a stubborn woman and I find I must continue to explain the nature of our marriage to you.”

  She giggled at his teasing, wishing they were already home.

  “Your laughter is a lovely sound. My favorite in all of the world.” His finger traced the line of her jaw before he kissed her soundly again.

  The words sent her heart fluttering. How did he do that? With the merest touch or casual word, Arabella’s entire being glowed from the inside out.

  Rowan exited the carriage and held out his hand, large and warm. His fingers wrapped around hers. “Courage, Bella.”

  * * *

  Rowan’s first inclination was to decline his mother’s invitation to din
e, but he didn’t want to be estranged from his family no matter their poor behavior. He hoped the invitation meant a loosening of his parent’s disapproval of Arabella.

  As he entered the drawing room, Rowan’s hopes were dashed.

  Surprise showed on his mother’s face as she caught sight of Arabella. They weren’t expecting his wife to accompany him tonight, that much was obvious.

  Lord Marsh discreetly murmured something to a waiting footman. Probably requesting an additional place be set.

  “Darling.” His mother greeted him with warmth, before turning. “Arabella.” Her mouth tightened into a pucker. “How lovely to see you.”

  When the invitation to dinner had arrived, addressed only to him, Rowan assumed his mother was merely being peevish. She had a tendency to be a bit spiteful if she hadn’t gotten her way. He looked down at her plump form, artfully encased in violet. Most people would find such a statement difficult to believe, but Rowan had been on the receiving end of his mother’s manipulation for most of his life.

  He squeezed Arabella’s hand. His wife was far too intelligent to not comprehend his mother’s surprise and he didn’t wish her hurt by it.

  Arabella dipped gracefully in greeting. “Thank you for the invitation.” She emphasized the word as she gave his mother a look that would curdle cream.

  Mother’s cheeks pinked. “Of course.”

  Rowan gave his mother a pointed look. Arabella didn’t need his protection but if necessary, she would have it.

  His father came forward, clapping Rowan on the shoulder in greeting. He smiled politely at Arabella. “We are so happy to see you both.” He gestured to the large, brocade sofa. “Sit.”

  “I expected Petra to join us,” Rowan said as he settled himself on the couch and pulled Arabella down next to him.

  Her hand gripped his tightly, though outwardly not a bit of discomfort showed. Her features remained serene.

  “She’ll be down in a moment. A ride in the park earlier wore her out, poor thing. She’s so many suitors I fear she’ll become exhausted before the Season ends.” Mother fluttered her hands.

  “Has she a favorite?” If Petra didn’t, he was certain Mother did.

  “Lord Percival Dunning,” she snapped back without preamble. A sound at the door stopped her from saying more. “Ah, there she is.”

  Rowan doubted seriously his sister’s choice of husband was Lord Dunning. Petra would never choose a man who was half a head shorter and a good twenty years older than herself.

  Petra, dressed in some diaphanous gown covered in ribbons, fairly skipped into the drawing room. She was humming but stopped immediately upon seeing Arabella on the couch. Not known for her discretion, she gave both their parents an odd look before pasting a small, polite smile on her lips.

  Rowan was beginning to wish both he and Arabella had begged off with a headache.

  * * *

  None of Rowan’s family would make decent card players. Their dislike of Arabella was on full view and difficult to overlook.

  Arabella took a deep breath and tried to maintain the calm, serene manner she was striving to project. Under no circumstances would she allow Lady Marsh or the insipid Petra to intimidate her. She’d assumed, wrongly it appeared, the dinner invitation was Lady Marsh’s version of extending an olive branch to her. Arabella reminded herself Rowan’s family had every reason to dislike her and very few to embrace her. She didn’t give a fig for any of them, but she did care for Rowan. He loved his family, but she didn’t need to. Arabella need only tolerate their presence in her life.

  Resolved to tolerance, Arabella decided to engage Petra in conversation over dinner. Arabella knew the girl was enjoying the Season, likely her last if the hints Lady Marsh dropped were any indication.

  At the announcement that dinner awaited them in the dining room, Lady Marsh stood and immediately attached herself to Rowan in a blatant display of motherly possession.

  Arabella stood and walked slowly towards the drawing room, certain Lord Marsh would walk with Petra and leave her alone. Surprisingly, he did not. Instead he offered an arm to each of them.

  “I hope you like duck, Arabella.” His tone was polite, almost cordial. She was not fooled for an instant.

  “Yes, my lord. It is one of my favorites.” A small lie. Honestly, she had no opinion on the duck nor anything Lord Marsh’s cook might have prepared. Her discomfort of the evening had ruined her appetite.

  He nodded, as if approving her choice and brought her to her seat, but before she could sit her husband appeared at her side. He settled her in the chair allowing his fingers to linger over her shoulder before brushing her collarbone. The simple action spoke volumes.

  Lady Marsh’s nostrils flared in irritation reminding Arabella of a bull about to charge. Were her mother-in-law to have a pistol Arabella doubted she’d survive the first course.

  The conversation flowed around Arabella as a line of liveried footmen brought an array of silver platters to the table. What little food she ate was delicious. The dinner had been specially prepared for Rowan. Roasted duck served with potatoes in a wine cream sauce was one of his favorite dishes. He made a show of thanking his mother for remembering and Lady Marsh beamed from her end of the table.

  She tried and failed to engage her mother-in-law in conversation but received only curt one-word answers, snorts of disbelief or careless waves of the lady’s beringed hands. Her mother-in-law’s behavior towards her was noticed by everyone at the table. Lord Marsh shot his wife several warning looks, which she did not heed.

  Rowan’s parents questioned him on a variety of subjects in which he gave pat answers. He laughed and entertained them with bits of gossip, as if he spent his days flitting about the ton enjoying all the delights society offered. He never mentioned the textile mills nor the rail line he would soon build. There was no discussion of steam, a topic Rowan debated with her endlessly. Her husband worked either with his solicitor or in his study, brow wrinkled in concentration. He employed two secretaries. Sometimes if he were completely immersed Rowan would lose all track of time and Arabella had to remind him to eat.

  He caught her eye as he twirled the stem of his glass, a silent plea for understanding.

  Rowan was rather skilled at projecting an amused, devil may care attitude which for some reason his parents admired. The only mention of anything serious was a brief conversation on the repairs needed to a roof at one of Lord Marsh’s holdings which Rowan promised to see to.

  The Dowager had mentioned Rowan once had an elder brother who perished many years ago. Arabella had broached the subject once, but her husband put her off. After seeing tonight’s display, she figured out quickly that Rowan’s elder brother had not only been the heir, but Lady Marsh’s favorite. Arabella understood Rowan’s behavior as she was well-versed in pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

  But I’m not any longer.

  Turning her attention to Petra, Arabella was mildly successful in getting Rowan’s sister to speak about the Season. While Petra mentioned several young gentlemen’s names, Lord Percival Dunning was not one of them. Arabella almost felt sorry for Petra. Clearly Lady Marsh had already mapped out her daughter’s future.

  Gratefully she pushed back from the table as the meal ended. Rowan had spoken little to her as his parents managed to monopolize most of the conversation. Lady Marsh chattered throughout the meal deliberately excluding Arabella. She’d even brought up Lady Gwendolyn several times.

  “Rowan, let us retire for a drink before joining the ladies.” Lord Marsh clasped Rowan’s arm and nodded.

  Arabella watched with dismay as they retreated to enjoy a brandy and a cheroot. Determined to continue to project a serene manner, she followed Lady Marsh and Petra to the drawing room, comparing the situation to a felon being forced to the gallows. Or perhaps Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine. Nothing positive could come of her spending time with Rowan’s mother and sister. The separation of the sexes after dinner was a ridiculous tradit
ion and just now, Arabella wished fervently it didn’t exist. The urge to stay with Rowan was so strong, she nearly turned on her heel to follow him.

  Lady Marsh immediately perched on the divan, reaching out to grab her daughter’s hand, forcing Petra to sit next to her, leaving Arabella to choose one of the uncomfortable looking chairs across from them.

  “I believe I’ll have a sherry.” Lady Marsh intoned to a waiting servant, not bothering to offer a sherry to Arabella.

  She wouldn’t wish one anyway. Sherry was not something Arabella cared for. In the time she’d been married she had enjoyed wine with her husband and tried spirits, but nothing so missish as sherry. She wondered what Lady Marsh would do if she asked politely for a glass of scotch. While she didn’t care for the aftereffects, Arabella thought becoming numb to the veiled insults of her mother-in-law held vast appeal.

  As she settled herself in the chair, Arabella decided she’d had quite enough of Lady Marsh’s behavior. Clasping her hands in her lap she surveyed both women with a bold stare.

  Petra returned her gaze instead of looking away as she used to. It appeared Rowan’s sister had gained additional backbone. Likely Jemma’s influence.

  “How did you enjoy Lady Galsped’s fete the other night?”

  It took Arabella a moment to realize Lady Marsh addressed her. She would not meet Arabella’s eyes but glanced instead at a painting on the wall.

  Perhaps she thinks I have the power to turn her to stone should she look directly at me.

  “I found Lord and Lady Galsped to be excellent hosts,” Arabella answered, “and the music to be delightful.” She flushed slightly thinking of what had come after the evening at the Galspeds. The things Rowan had done to her. “I danced.”