Tall Dark and Wicked: The Wickeds Book 5

by Ayers, Kathleen

  “I was thinking I should like to return to my seat. What do you suggest I do, Mother? Spend our visit in the coach? Won’t such a thing be much more ill-mannered?” Petra tried to make herself more comfortable without tearing her skirt further.

  A rap on the door silenced her mother’s retort. “My lady?” It was Jenkins, the driver. “We’ve a problem with the coach.”

  “Well, fix it,” her mother ordered. “It can be repaired, can it not? We don’t wish to be late.”

  Jenkins made an odd sound as if something were stuck in his throat. More likely he didn’t know what to say to her mother, who expected the world to bow to her dictates. Everyone in the Marsh household, including Father, certainly did.

  Because of James. Petra thought guiltily of her long-dead brother, Mother’s favorite and the heir. He’d been gone for many years but his death still left such a pall over the family that Petra and Rowan had been raised to never displease Mother.

  “Of course, my lady.” Jenkins’ lips drew taut as he tipped his hat. He caught sight of her on the floor of the coach. “Are you injured, Lady Petra?”

  “I’m fine, Jenkins. Thank you.” Nausea was slowly making its way back through her mid-section, followed by a vague cramping sensation.

  An hour later, the coach still sat in the road while Jenkins and the two grooms attempted to fix whatever had caused them to stop. Sounds of banging and masculine grumbling came from the back of the coach, although Jenkins assured her mother all was well.

  Petra slumped against the seat of the coach, still stuck in place. Every time she attempted to move, Mother shot her a look of pure murder. After the third such admonishment, Petra asked, “What is your plan, Mother, concerning my dress? I assume you have one.”

  “Oh, I can’t worry about such a thing now. I’m quite concerned we shall have to stay the night out here in the open.” Her hands flapped around tragically. “Whatever shall we do? Lord Pendleton will think some great ill has befallen us. Kidnapped by highwaymen or eaten by wild animals.”

  It was a struggle to keep from laughing out loud at her mother’s dramatics. The slightest inconvenience could be a cause for a concern. A broken heel on one’s shoe, a missing earring, serving fish instead of chicken, tearing an expensive traveling dress. Another painful cramp tightened Petra’s stomach. Her daughter becoming ill upon catching sight of the man who’d offered for her and his family.

  “Petra, cease moving this instant.” Mother’s chin quivered. “I cannot think with such a distraction.”

  “Ho, there.”

  A deep baritone sounded from outside the coach, and the greeting was returned in kind by Jenkins. Someone had miraculously found the Marsh coach on this road in the middle of nowhere. Petra hadn’t heard another coach or even the sound of a horse approaching. The newcomer must be on foot.

  Boots crunched outside. The coach swayed, followed by a male grunt as the visitor examined the wheel. “You’ve broken the axle. See there. A tiny fracture but enough to dislodge the wheel.”

  The raspy, low voice sent a ripple over Petra’s skin, temporarily dislodging the awful cramping in her stomach. Though faintly familiar, Petra had no idea who the visitor could be.

  “We haven’t the means to repair it,” Jenkins answered. “We are on our way to Brushbriar, the estate of Lord Pendleton. Do you know of it?”

  A snort answered Jenkins’s question. “You’re going the wrong way, my good man. Brushbriar is due west of here. You took the right fork in the road, not the left.”

  A deep sigh of exasperation followed the information.

  Poor Jenkins.

  “Don’t worry. Happens all the time. The road isn’t well marked, and if you aren’t familiar with the area, it’s quite easy to get lost. And I’ve a man who can fix the axle.”

  “Thank you.” Jenkins was overjoyed at having a solution to the broken axle. “I’ll inform Lady Marsh.”

  “Lady Marsh?” The visitor seemed to contemplate the presence of Petra’s mother. “I’m acquainted.”

  Mother gave Petra an odd look and shrugged. She didn’t know who their rescuer was, either.

  The door to the coach flew open to reveal a broad set of shoulders followed by a mop of dark curls.

  Bloody hell. Could the journey to Pendleton’s become any worse? If Petra hadn’t been ill before, she most certainly was now.

  The Earl of Morwick invaded the small space of the coach, the slightly battered coat he wore dripping moisture on the floor. A leaf was stuck in the unruly tangle of his hair, and the stain of a beard darkened his jaw. He looked savage and wild, much like the landscape outside. His beautiful eyes flashed with mild annoyance at seeing Petra and her mother.

  A delicious trickle of awareness suffused Petra’s skin. She allowed the feeling to sink into her bones before remembering how horrible Morwick was.

  “Lord Morwick,” Mother said in a surprised tone, clearly unsettled by his unexpected appearance. “My goodness, you are the last person I thought to see.”

  “I could say the same, Lady Marsh. You are quite far from your usual habitat of London.” His tone was polite though Petra could have sworn she detected a hint of sarcasm. It was difficult to tell since everything he said sounded mildly sarcastic.

  “I happen to live here,” he continued. “My estate is close by, or relatively close.” He pointed over his shoulder to a spot in the distance. “I’ve been out fishing and caught nothing. Except for the two of you.” This time when he looked at Petra, the gold flecks in his marvelous eyes caught the light in the coach.

  Petra suddenly felt quite warm despite the chill in the air.

  “What a lucky occurrence, Lord Morwick.” Mother wasn’t pleased. Even though she’d chosen to accept her son’s marriage to Arabella, as she’d had no other choice, Mother was not enamored of anyone related to the Duke of Dunbar, though Mother liked the duke well enough. “Will you be able to assist us with our coach?”

  “I’ve a man in my employ who’ll be able to fix your wheel, but you’ll not get to Brushbriar tonight. Besides the broken axle, Pendleton’s estate is at least a three-hour ride in the opposite direction.”

  Mother’s face collapsed. “But we are expected at Brushbriar today. Lord Pendleton will be most concerned. You are acquainted with Lord Pendleton, I assume?”

  “We are well acquainted, Lady Marsh.” He didn’t elaborate, but Petra thought his tone sounded dismissive. He looked down the road then back at the horizon. “The sun is beginning to set. It would be best if you and your daughter,” he finally gave Petra some acknowledgement, “come to Somerton with me.”

  Mother’s lip quivered at the thought of spending the night under Morwick’s roof. She was eyeing him as if he were some wild animal. “I hate to inconvenience you. Perhaps there is an inn nearby?” Her mother sounded so hopeful.

  “There is not.” The response was clipped as if Morwick were already tired of dealing with Lady Marsh. “My mother is in residence and will be thrilled for your company.”

  Petra’s stomach cramped again. The last thing she wished was to accept the hospitality of Lord Morwick under any circumstances, but especially when she felt so dreadfully ill. At least she wouldn’t have to greet Simon in such a state.

  “Thank you, Lord Morwick. We gratefully accept your offer. If you are certain we aren’t an inconvenience.”

  “Perish the thought.” A tiny bit of derision colored his reply as the left side of his mouth ticked upward.

  Petra found her gaze focused on his mouth. Hastily, she looked away. It seemed strange those lips had once been on hers.

  “I do look forward to renewing my acquaintance with Lady Cupps-Foster.” Mother bestowed a genuine smile on Morwick while plucking at her skirts.

  “She often tells me I am poor company. She’ll be most pleased to see you regardless of the circumstances.” Again, there was a hint of mockery. “I’ve already sent one of your grooms to my home to retrieve a carriage. He should return within the hour.�
�

  “Then this is a happy accident,” Mother replied, accepting Morwick’s assistance as he took her hand and helped her out of the coach. “Isn’t it?”

  Petra didn’t think so. She found this a most unhappy occurrence. She was ill, not at her best, and must now spend the evening in the company of a man who had insulted and…ravaged her.

  The ebony curls came back through the door, flicking drops of moisture on Petra and looming over her like a villain in a lurid novel. Did he have to be so bloody intimidating?

  “Are you injured?” Could he sound any less concerned with her well-being?

  “No, my lord. At least no more so than our last meeting.” The last bit slipped out before Petra could think better of it.

  A tiny grimace flitted about the full lips. “I barely recall our last meeting. Your brother’s wedding, was it?”

  The very nerve of him. My God, he’d kissed her. Why hadn’t she slapped him? Perhaps he would have remembered that. “Stop looking at me as if I were spoiled pudding,” she said back to him. “It’s rude and impolite.”

  Heat slid over her arms and across her chest. Another disturbing development, and one which infuriated Petra. “Have I done something to annoy you, my lord? Besides my mere presence, of course.”

  The gold strands in his eyes sparked. “A rather spirited retort. How out of character for a well-mannered young lady such as yourself. Perhaps you’ve hit your head.” His lips twitched again.

  He was enjoying her discomfort. “I’m quite spirited,” she snapped. “Terribly so.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” He leaned closer, the heat of his body chasing away the last of the chill clinging to the inside of the coach. Not that Petra was cold; on the contrary, she felt hot all over. Dear Lord, she hoped she hadn’t caught a fever of some sort.

  “You smell very piney,” she said. He smelled of the moors and the fresh air, an incredibly intoxicating scent. “Like a giant tree.”

  “I’ve been outdoors. Fishing. And it isn’t the insult you perceive it to be.”

  His lashes were unusually long and lush for a man. And a small scar bisected his left eyebrow. She hadn’t noticed a scar at Rowan’s wedding, so perhaps it was recent. According to gossip, he was famous for fist fights and brawling in taverns. He was probably loaded with scars and cuts…all over.

  Heat rushed across her chest.

  “Are you sure you haven’t hit your head?” His gaze lingered on the knot swelling on her temple. “You’ve a small lump.” He touched her forehead. “Just there.”

  “I was wondering about the scar.” Against her will, Petra’s gaze was drawn to the stretch of his coat across the breadth of his shoulders. Many gentlemen in London actually padded their coats to unnaturally give the appearance of a more manly form. An acquaintance of hers, Betina Willingsworth, had told a story of one of her suitors whose right shoulder slowly slid down to form a lump on his upper arm while she and the gentleman in question had been dancing. Much to the gentleman’s horror.

  Morwick tilted his head, peering closely at her eyes. Their lips were mere inches away. She almost thought he meant to kiss her. The words he said next were like a bucket of cold water.

  “You look a bit addled.”

  “Addled?” Thankfully, he’d reminded her what a complete ass he was. Addled. Pea-wit. He thought her little better than a stuffed dress wearing a bonnet. Not even memorable enough to recall their kiss.

  “Well, if you aren’t hurt, what are you waiting for?” His lips tightened and he pulled back to the opening of the coach. “Expecting me to carry you out? Come along.”

  Expecting him to— “If you must know, I’m trapped.” Petra nodded toward the bunched pile of her skirts. “I realize behaving politely is beyond you, but I beg you to find a spark of manners.”

  Morwick’s tightening of the lips turned into a full-blown frown.

  “My skirt is caught,” she hissed.

  “Well, pull it out.” He spoke in the tone one uses for an idiot. Or a pea-wit. The frown deepened.

  “Mother doesn’t wish me to tear the fabric. The traveling dress is new and quite expensive.” Good Lord, she did sound like an insipid twit obsessed with her clothing, but she was striving to regain her usual decorum, which was difficult given she couldn’t seem to avert her gaze from his mouth. “I know you probably don’t carry a pair of scissors with you, that would be ridiculous. But perhaps a small knife? Some gentlemen carry a—”

  A large hand reached behind her and grabbed a handful of her skirts.

  Petra squeaked in alarm and tried to get away. “No. Absolutely do not—”

  One sharp jerk and the sound of her skirt tearing, as well as her underskirt, echoed in the coach. Now untethered, Petra toppled over in a graceless manner, exposing her calves and ankles.

  “You—” Her mouth gaped open in shock. “Why—”

  Her beautiful traveling dress, the one made especially for this journey, was utterly ruined. The skirt was torn beyond any repair a skilled seamstress could make. Mother would be furious about the destruction of the dress.

  And possibly also at Morwick for seeing Petra’s ankles. Thank goodness Mother had left the coach.

  “Stop gaping at me like a fish and hurry along before the sun descends completely and we must pluck our way back to Somerton as if we are blind.”

  Morwick was an utter cad. And he had a dimple in his cheek.

  “You are no gentleman,” she huffed.

  The dimple deepened. “I never claimed to be. And it’s only a dress, Perfect Petra.” Morwick took her elbow, ignoring her hiss of outrage. He practically pulled her from the coach. His hand stayed on her elbow, brushing against her hand as his fingers fell away.

  Petra was sure he’d done such to unnerve her. Cad.

  “I’m sure you’ve hundreds of dresses. At the minimum, dozens. Far more than you could wear in a lifetime.”

  “Thousands.” She said with determination as he turned his back to her. “They can barely be contained in my wardrobe.” Petra would have said more but a lightheaded feeling came over her, and the ground felt unsteady. She blinked as her stomach lurched painfully again. Mother was sitting on a large tree stump, across which Jenkins had draped his cloak.

  Mother seemed to be very far away from where Petra stood.

  Clenching her fists in resolve, Petra made her way forward, the nausea rolling through her stomach in waves. She refused to be humiliated further by becoming ill in front of Morwick. Her temple was throbbing, and she was sure she’d have a large bruise when she arrived at Brushbriar.

  “He is insufferable,” she muttered, determined to hang onto her anger. A horrible gurgling sound came from her stomach as Petra struggled to hold the end of her dress together. She was so utterly, completely miserable that for a brief moment, Petra wished fervently she’d just married Dunning.

  * * *

  Brendan Lorne, 11th Earl of Morwick was in an incredibly foul mood caused in no small part by the appearance of Lady Marsh and her daughter on his doorstep. Perfect Petra was far more beautiful than he remembered and his attraction to her had not lessened one bit, as evidenced by the hardening of his cock the moment he set eyes on her.

  Desire punched him in the gut as he discovered her, glaring defiantly at him from the floor of the Marsh coach. It was the same desire that had led him to inappropriately kiss her in the shadowed hall of her own home. Worse, she’d not resisted him in any way; instead, the little nitwit had grabbed the lapels of his coat and pressed herself against him with a tiny whimper.

  Christ.

  Brendan had been unsettled from the moment he’d seen her at Arabella’s wedding. Upon being, introduced he’d behaved badly, pressing his lips against her gloved hand for far too long. Petra had worn a gown the color of spring grass, the pale tops of her delicate breasts pushing up against the silk with every breath. He’d had to rein in the urge to pounce on her and disrupt the entire wedding. Worse, she’d been seated next to him at the brun
ch, smelling of roses and oddly, sugar cookies.

  Brendan adored sugar cookies.

  Petra, to her credit, had attempted to engage him in polite conversation. In return, he had treated her with barely concealed disdain, the only weapon against her he possessed. When she had confronted him, calling him a monster, Brendan had only wanted her more. Perfect, ladylike Petra, fists balled at her sides, calling him a monster, had been incredibly arousing. Brendan had come very close to lifting her skirts and taking her against the wall. Instead, he’d merely kissed her senseless.

  Nothing good could come from involvement with a woman like Petra.

  Although at the moment, his cock begged to differ.

  Brendan had ruined her gown deliberately today, behaving in the most ungentlemanly way he could imagine. Rude, callous behavior was guaranteed to push Petra away. Ladies hated poor manners. It would be better for all concerned if she detested the sight of him.

  Which was why inviting Petra and the pompous Lady Marsh to stay the night was absolute idiocy on his part. But there hadn’t been an alternative. He could hardly leave them sitting in the road. Even Brendan wasn’t that much of a cad. Besides, keeping the Marsh ladies under his roof for the night was bound to make Pendleton livid. The prig needed to show a tad of emotion once in a while.

  “I must thank you again, Lord Morwick, for coming to our rescue,” Lady Marsh repeated. The woman seemed completely unsure of how to converse with Brendan. She tried to hide her dismay at his rumpled appearance, the only sign of her distaste the small lines forming around her lips as she struggled not to frown. Did she expect him to go tramping about the woods in a tailored coat and trousers? She stared with muted horror at the sight of his bare throat. Lady Marsh was an excellent example of why he didn’t involve himself with young, vapid ladies of the ton; they grew up into fussy, vapid matrons of the ton. A horrible vicious cycle.