Tall Dark and Wicked: The Wickeds Book 5
Page 2
Lady Cupps-Foster made a dismissive sound and marched out of the library as Petra sunk into one of the alcoves.
Of all the unmitigated gall. First ogling her during the ceremony then dismissing her out of hand during the brunch when she tried to be polite. She was still fuming when Morwick walked out of the library. He paused, clearly sensing her presence, and turned in her direction.
Her hands crawled from her sides in an attempt to clasp themselves demurely, as she’d been instructed, and failed.
“I thought properly bred ladies didn’t eavesdrop.” Morwick moved closer, leaning against the wall, clearly amused by the mounting rage that must have been visible on her face. He loomed over her, large and intimidating, like an angry bear or some other beast. “What are you going to do? Call me a dreadful cad?”
Red flashed before Petra’s eyes, and she had to restrain herself from stamping her foot. Later, she would count the moment as one of the few times she’d ever lost her temper.
“I am not a bloody pea-wit, you monster.” Petra had the momentary satisfaction of watching his eyes widen at the anger she threw back at him. “Possibly you are accustomed to dim-witted women as I cannot imagine any young lady with a modicum of intelligence expressing the slightest interest in you. A gentleman would not comport himself in such a way. I only wish I could have availed myself of the wine to blot out your presence. Perhaps become—”
The remainder of her diatribe was cut short as Morwick’s mouth fell on hers. He placed his hands, palms flat, on the wall behind her, neatly trapping Petra between his arms. His lips were relentless and hungry, demanding her surrender, ravaging Petra until she felt light-headed. Her hands flew out to grasp the lapel of his coat, holding on for dear life. The kiss deepened, becoming gentle and coaxing until Petra tentatively kissed him back, mimicking the movement of his lips on hers.
A growl of satisfaction sounded from the large male holding her captive.
“Lady Cupps-Foster.” Mother’s voice sounded from further down the hall. “Goodness, have you seen Petra? I sent her after you. Where has she gotten off too?”
Morwick broke the kiss, eyes burning with blue flame, and took a step back, regarding her with an odd intensity.
Petra swallowed, her fingertips flying to touch her swollen lower lip. She moved down the wall until she had put enough distance between herself and Morwick, hurrying toward the sound of her mother’s voice. She’d never been kissed in such a way nor felt such…a stirring within herself. It was as if she’d been out in the snow for hours and was suddenly in front of a hot searing fire. It was unsettling and uncomfortable.
And wonderful.
Shaken, Petra went to her mother’s side. She dared not look back or lift her eyes as the guests shouted congratulations to the bride and groom, too afraid she’d catch his eyes.
Petra never wished to see the Earl of Morwick again.
2
Six months later.
“When Lord Pendleton extended an invitation to visit his estate, I’d no idea we’d be traveling into the wilds of England. I hadn’t realized his estate was quite so far away. Goodness, I feel as if we are in a different country,” Mother said, smoothing down an errant fold in her skirt.
Petra grasped the window ledge as the coach listed dangerously to one side. The roads were excessively rough and full of nothing but ruts and potholes. She was certain the springs of her father’s coach were on the verge of being ruined forever. He’d have fits when they finally returned home and he saw the damage. “Derbyshire is still in England, Mother. It is not so very far.”
“We should already be planning your wedding from the comfort of London.” Mother’s lips formed a tiny hill of disapproval. “Traveling all this way when the end result will be the same.”
Petra absolutely hated that particular expression of her mother’s. The pursing of Mother’s lips all but decreed Petra was about to be chastised in some way.
“My request is not an unusual one.” Petra murmured and pressed her forehead into the glass window. “I only wished to meet Simon’s family and spend some time with him to make sure we suit.”
“Lord Pendleton has made his intentions toward you clear. There was no need for us to come all this way.” Mother sniffed. “Apparently he feels you do suit.”
“I wish to be certain. It is my life, after all, Mother.” Marriage was a daunting proposition even though she’d been preparing for such a thing her entire life.
“Petra,” Mother admonished her, “I’m not sure what is the cause of your foul mood; perhaps your distress is caused by nerves.”
“I was fine until dinner last night. I believe the stew didn’t agree with me.”
“Nerves, Petra. I ate exactly the same stew as you and have suffered no ill effects. You are only anxious at meeting Lord Pendleton’s family. I don’t blame you, of course. I was nervous the first time I met your grandparents, knowing your father would propose we marry.” Mother nodded her head. “We are all in agreement Lord Pendleton will make you a most adequate husband.”
Petra frowned at the word. She didn’t wish to marry adequate.
“I feel as if you and Father are rushing me into marriage because Simon has offered for me,” Petra answered. “Surely—”
Her mother puffed in frustration. “You like Lord Pendleton. He’s been courting you for weeks. Good Lord, he was the very best of the crop of bachelors this Season and is quite taken with you. Don’t you want to marry him?”
“Of course I do.” A least she thought she did. When he’d first made his intentions clear, Petra had been certain, swept away in the excitement of having the attractive viscount court her. “But I’ve known him such a short time.”
“You’re concerned, I can see it. You worry if Simon’s family and you don’t get on, he will rescind his offer of marriage. Do not worry, dearest. Our visit is only a formality, I promise.”
Petra’s stomach ached. That was Petra’s concern. Her parents had been thrilled when Simon asked permission to court her. Viscount Pendleton was a prominent member of Parliament, highly respected and quite dashing. He had also chased off Lord Dunning, the man her mother had originally wished Petra to marry. Petra had been incredibly grateful. Dunning was twice her age and prone to gout. Simon’s attention had seemed a godsend at the time.
“I like Simon very much but —” But what? How could she explain to her mother what was wrong when Petra didn’t know herself? She’d pled her case to Father, telling him she only wished more time. Simon’s courtship of her had happened so fast. Father had acquiesced. The betrothal papers had been drawn up and reviewed by the Marsh solicitors, but nothing would be signed until she returned to London and Petra gave her agreement to the marriage. Father had promised. She shot her mother a mutinous glance. “Surely, a bit more time, or even another Season, would have made little difference if Simon and I suit.”
“Petra, you are one and twenty. Nearly ancient. Waiting would have served no purpose other than potentially losing Pendleton’s interest and possibly labeling you a spinster or worse. You might never have another suitor of such standing. The match is incredibly advantageous for all concerned.”
“I have not accepted Simon’s proposal.” Advantageous. More so for her parents than for her. “Father has promised I am allowed the final decision.”
Her mother looked away. “You and Simon are perfection together.”
“As I recall, Mother, you felt much the same about Lady Gwendolyn as a wife for Rowan.”
Her mother pursed her lips and sat back against the squabs. The return of the tiny hill above Mother’s lip told Petra she didn’t care to be reminded of such an utter failure in matchmaking. Her mother detested having her wishes disregarded. “Your brother’s marriage to Arabella was not exactly what Lord Marsh and I envisioned. That much is true.”
My God, that was the understatement of the century. Her mother’s dislike of Rowan’s wife was so well-known it had sparked rumors in the ton that her brother
was contemplating an annulment, or even more scandalous, a divorce by order of Parliament so that Rowan could marry Lord White’s daughter, Gwendolyn.
“Arabella is no longer so unpleasant.” Mother’s eye twitched a bit as she spoke. “I believe marriage to your brother will soften her further with time.”
Petra pressed a hand to her lips to keep from snorting in disbelief. Arabella was many things—controlling, devious and possessive of Petra’s brother—but certainly no one would describe Arabella as soft. Petra had not always liked Arabella, but the last few months had given her a grudging respect for her new sister-in-law. Arabella possessed a ruthless nature and was brilliant in business, much like Petra’s brother. Rowan, for his part, eyed his wife as if she were a giant tea cake he wished to devour.
A love match. I am surrounded by them, though Mother doesn’t consider such a thing of import.
Perhaps that is what had given her pause in agreeing to Viscount Pendleton’s suit. She liked Simon very much, but she wasn’t in love with him. And he didn’t look at her like a tea cake either.
“Dearest.” Lady Marsh took Petra’s hand, stretching her plump figure across the coach. “You and Pendleton make a very attractive couple, and he’s completely besotted by you.”
“Yes, so you keep telling me.” Besotted was a rather strong word. Mother acted as if Simon had been composing love sonnets and plying Petra with trinkets and flowers. He had done no such thing. He’d told her once that he believed an excess of emotion would be frowned upon by his peers. Simon was incredibly conscious of anything smacking of impropriety. The most Petra had ever received from him was a brotherly peck on the cheek.
“I find him delightful and well-mannered,” Mother continued. “Mature beyond his years. Pendleton will make you a fine husband.”
“Then perhaps you should marry him, Mother.” Petra’s obedient manner finally slipped. She was exhausted with Mother’s litany regarding the wonderfulness of Simon. Everyone, especially Mother, expected Petra to be so bloody grateful Simon wanted her. The entire ton had congratulated Petra on her good fortune.
Mother gave her a hard stare. “I’ll tolerate none of your missish behavior, Petra. I see a streak of rebellion in you of late I do not care for.”
Fuming at her mother’s chastisement, Petra took a deep breath, her gloved hands automatically crawling into her lap. Clasping her fingers had been ingrained in Petra for so long, the action was nearly second nature: a sign of a well-mannered young lady, one who is seen and not heard.
“I feel I don’t know Simon as I should. If I’m going to agree to be his wife, I would like to know better the man whose children I must bear. If the Pendletons are to become my family, should I not come to know them better?”
“Bearing Simon’s children is the privilege of his wife.” A humph of frustration. “And that is why we are traveling to his estate, Petra. So that you may come to know each other better. At your insistence.” Mother shook her head and went back to her book. “This change in your usually obedient nature has been most noticeable since your brother’s marriage. I blame outside influences.”
Mother was referring to Arabella.
Petra turned her attention back to the window. Marriage to Simon would be incredibly advantageous. He was wealthy, intelligent, and highly respected, even if some in the ton considered Simon a bit tightly laced. He was charming. Unfailingly polite. Handsome. But she hadn’t any great passion for him. There was no glancing at him with longing from across a crowded ballroom. Nor the racing of her pulse when he drew near.
Perhaps only time was needed. Away from London, in the country, Petra was hopeful passion would bloom between them, or at the very least, something more than friendship. Perhaps she was being unrealistic, for most marriages began with little affection.
I want what Rowan has with Arabella. A spark.
That’s why she’d insisted on this tedious journey to Simon’s home. Petra was determined to be hopeful.
I felt such mad desire once and it only took a moment.
The wild scenery of the Peak district flew past the window and transformed into an image of a large, broad-shouldered man with eyes the color of sapphires. Rude and ill-mannered Morwick may have been, but Petra had relived the kiss he’d given her thousands of times. She’d called him a monster and instead of being offended or apologizing, as any true gentleman would have, Morwick had kissed her. And worse, she’d enjoyed the press of his lips against hers, the way his larger form had trapped her against the wall, as if he were claiming her. Morwick hadn’t even touched her, except for his mouth, but her skin heated and pulsed as if he had.
Petra pressed a hand to her stomach as her insides took an unwanted turn. She forced herself to focus on the beauty outside the coach window.
Her knowledge of the area was woefully lacking. This part of England was divided into the Dark Peak and the White Peak. The Dark Peak consisted of cliffs and hills of gritstone which rose above the moors to overshadow portions of the White Peak, littered with fields of limestone. What little she knew of the area was the result of information Simon had imparted over dinner with her parents several weeks ago. The area east of Castleton, where Simon’s estate lay, was home to the only known deposits of Blue John. The mineral was known for the distinctive purple, yellow and blue banding and was incredibly rare. Many years ago, Simon’s father had found a vein of Blue John on the land surrounding Brushbriar, and the Pendletons had become quite wealthy as a result.
The Marsh home possessed two vases made of Blue John, which Mother had proudly showed to Simon after dinner.
“I doubt I could be happy here,” Petra said, mainly to irritate her mother. “It’s quite dreary.” Perhaps Mother would take the hint and order the coach be turned around. She and Simon could continue to court when he returned to London and Petra could make her decision in familiar surroundings.
“I quite agree. I’ve never cared for the moors. Thankfully, Lord Pendleton spends most of his time in London. He’s become very important in Parliament,” her mother reminded her for the hundredth time, not looking up from her book. “He has a lovely house in Mayfair across from a park. A wonderful address to be sure. Think of the dinners you’ll preside over.”
Petra tried to imagine herself as a politician’s wife, hosting dinner parties for London’s elite, but didn’t find the role as appealing as her mother did. Politics bored her, although Petra was involved in several charities and concerned especially with reforms affecting children. That was what had first attracted her to Simon; she’d heard him speak at a ladies luncheon on the subject. He’d been so passionate about the subject matter. Petra had found him incredibly appealing.
As the coach came over a rise in the road, an immense lake came into view, the water studded with large boulders, sparkling in the meager sunlight. Birds swooped down across the expanse, calling to each other. It was a serene, peaceful scene and Petra’s mood calmed. She had a sudden longing to kick off her shoes and race through the tall grass as she had before Mother had begun to groom her into the young lady she now was. It was tedious being demure all the time.
“I do hope Agnes and Tessie arrived at Lord Pendleton’s with no incident and have not shirked their duties. I shall want a lie-down when we arrive, and our clothing aired. I was unsure about sending them ahead of us, but possibly it was for the best. I’m not sure what else we could have done with you feeling ill and lingering in bed.” Mother’s brow wrinkled. “I do hope Lady Pendleton doesn’t find the appearance of our servants without us to be ill-mannered.”
“I am sure Simon’s mother is most understanding.” Mother was obsessed with appearances and the merest hint of impropriety horrified her. “You wrote her a note, after all.” It was apparent Mother’s biggest concern was Lady Pendleton and not Petra’s physical state, for she hadn’t asked Petra how she was feeling since the coach had left the inn some hours ago. “Since you asked,” Petra jabbed at her mother, “I’m feeling marginally better.”
Mother’s words were cut off as the coach lurched violently to the left, then to the right, knocking Petra’s head sharply against the window before unseating her. The contents of her stomach, only recently settled, lurched wildly, before the coach shuddered and came to a stop.
Petra lifted her head from the windowpane with a wince, gingerly touching a finger to her temple. Bollocks, that hurt.
“Dear Lord. Petra, are you all right?” Her mother’s worried face swam before her. “I hope that doesn’t bruise. Goodness, whatever is Jenkins thinking, shaking us about in such a manner?”
“I’m fine, Mother.”
Satisfied, Mother sat back and clasped her gloved hands in her lap in expectation, waiting for the coach to begin moving once more.
“Perhaps an animal ran out in front of the coach,” Petra surmised. The lovely bonnet, created especially to accompany her new traveling dress, had been knocked sideways. One of the tiny blue flowers decorating the brim had fallen off. Petra discreetly picked up the flower and tucked it into the pocket of her dress, hoping her mother wouldn’t notice. Mother wished Petra to look her best for her first introduction to Lady Pendleton, and the dress had been made especially for the occasion.
Petra straightened the bonnet, making sure the remainder of the flowers gracing the crown were still intact. Satisfied all was well, the bonnet once more perched fetchingly on her head, Petra moved to stand. Unfortunately, she could not. Looking down, she saw the skirts of her dress were caught between the edge of the leather seat and the coach wall, possibly on a wayward nail. Giving a gentle tug, she tried to free herself.
Mother’s eyes bugged and her hands waved frantically at the tearing sound. “Don’t you dare rip your dress, Petra. We spent hours choosing exactly the right fabric and trim for the dress in which you would meet your future in-laws. The color is perfection. You father nearly had a fit of apoplexy at the cost. We are not going to appear on their doorstep in torn clothing as if we are beggars. First our servants appear unsupervised at the door of Brushbriar, and now you wish your future mother-in-law’s first impression of you to be one of you in rags? Whatever are you thinking?”