Tall Dark and Wicked: The Wickeds Book 5

by Ayers, Kathleen

  “The pleasure is entirely mine, I assure you.” He glanced at the top of the disabled Marsh coach. “I see no trunks, Lady Marsh.” He was sure she had a change of clothes for every hour of the day. Had her trunks fallen off?

  “Our trunks, along with our maids were sent on to Brushbriar early this morning ahead of our arrival. Petra needed her rest.” Lady Marsh spared a glance for her daughter. “Nerves, you see. Meeting your future husband’s family can be rather trying.”

  “I suppose it must be.” He ignored the sudden tightening of his chest at her announcement, even though he’d assumed such when Lady Marsh had announced their destination.

  “So, you see, our things are at Brushbriar and we are…here.” Her mouth quivered in distress. “We’ve nothing but the clothes on our backs.” Lady Marsh managed to make the lack of clothing for one night akin to dying of the plague. She really was a ridiculous woman.

  “Pray, don’t distress yourself, Lady Marsh. I’ll send a note to Brushbriar. I’ve a groom who rides incredibly fast and will carry word to Pendleton of your delay. I can instruct him to have a valise packed for your stay this evening. And I’m sure my mother will be happy to lend you her lady’s maid for the night.”

  A choking noise came from behind Brendan. Petra had been unusually quiet while he conversed with Lady Marsh, though he’d been keenly aware of her, seething with anger, standing behind him.

  Brendan turned, about to toss a veiled insult in her direction, one guaranteed to ruffle her perfect little feathers. The words died in his throat at the sight of her.

  Petra was trembling and deathly pale. One slender hand was pushed flush against her lips, the other pressed against her stomach. A horrified look had entered her eyes.

  “Petra, dear Lord!” Lady Marsh gasped, making no move to come to her daughter’s aid, and turned away. “You’ve torn your skirt.”

  Brendan had no such reservations about approaching Petra in such a state, and he didn’t give a damn about her skirt since he was the one who’d torn it. She was going to be ill; Brendan had worn the same expression on his own face once or twice.

  Damn. I knew I should have walked the other way home today.

  Petra’s eyes widened at his approach. “No. Don’t you dare help me,” she sputtered before placing the hand back across her mouth. She loped in the direction of a thicket of bramble off the road behind the coach.

  Brendan ignored her entreaty to be left in peace. She looked close to collapse.

  Petra looked up at him as he took her arm. “I insist you release me.” Then she cast up her accounts. All over his boots.

  3

  My God. I was wrong. This journey can get worse.

  Petra had done several embarrassing things in her life. She’d once tripped while dancing with Lord Rhys, and her slipper had come flying off, skittering across the ballroom floor. When she was barely twelve, she’d written a mushy note of affection to the brother of one of her friends who’d just returned from Eton. She’d been teased endlessly for months.

  But never, had she ever, cast up her accounts on an earl.

  A strong hand wrapped around her waist and firmly propelled her to a spray of bushes hidden from Jenkins, her mother and the remaining groom. Morwick grabbed her skirts in one large hand, hauling them up, exposing her stockinged legs rather improperly.

  Petra twisted, trying to pull down her skirts even as she felt the remainder of her tea and toast from breakfast rise in her throat. “My God, you would take advantage of me when I’m ill?”

  “Stop fussing. You don’t want to get any on your dress, do you? I’ve seen plenty of ankles, Lady Petra, and yours are quite average. And you are ill and not appealing in the least. I think I’ll be able to control myself.”

  “You are horrible,” she whispered, becoming ill again.

  “I never claimed to be anything else.” His hands held her firmly about the waist.

  Petra had never been so miserable in her life. Her stomach heaved and rolled. She was shaking and coughing. Of all the people she could have been sick in front of, Morwick would have been her last choice. But he said nothing more as he held her until the last of the heaves subsided, merely producing a handkerchief hastily from somewhere in his coat. He pressed the square of cloth to her lips.

  The handkerchief smelled of Morwick and dust.

  “Better?”

  “Your handkerchief smells of dirt. But yes. Thank you.” She tried to straighten, but another stomach cramp caused her to double over.

  “I’m sorry it’s not the delicate, monogrammed bits of silk you’re used to, but this isn’t London.” His voice lowered. “Deep breaths, Petra. You’ve eaten something spoiled, I imagine. Lady Marsh seems to think you’ve nerves, but you don’t strike me as especially nervous. What did you eat last before becoming ill?”

  “Lamb stew,” she whispered. “I believe it was the lamb stew.” Her stomach turned again. “Are you going to call me Puking Petra now?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” he murmured. “What a grand idea.”

  Morwick tightened his hold, supporting her body with his. He was warm and solid, a port in a storm.

  “I shall not apologize for ruining your boots.” She choked as the stomach cramps momentarily subsided. “I still find you reprehensible.”

  “I would expect nothing less.” His words were brusque, but his arm stayed around her waist. “Are you ready to go to your mother?”

  Petra nodded dully. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Petra!” Lady Marsh stood several feet away, waving her hands. “Oh, my dear one.” A startled squeak popped from her lips. “Lord Morwick. Your boots!”

  Morwick did not release his hold on Petra even though Mother had noticed. Her lips formed that tiny hill of displeasure. “I see your mother,” he said with a trace of humor, “is ready to offer her assistance.”

  “Oh, she won’t be able to help.” Petra kept her voice low least her mother hear. “Mother positively faints at the sight of blood or…other things. She will be quite useless and I should hate for you to contend with a fainting countess as well as Puking Petra.” She tried to pull away from him but wobbled; he held on tighter.

  This time Mother made an odd cluck, the sound of an outraged hen.

  “They are just boots, Lady Marsh,” Morwick said smoothly. “And old ones at that. Not much of a loss. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll clean them off.” Morwick’s sapphire gaze turned to Petra. “I hear the carriage approaching. Will you be able to make the short ride? Somerton isn’t very far.” There was concern in his eyes, though he still sounded annoyed at her condition.

  “Yes, thank you. I will need to rest before dinner, I think.”

  “I insist you rest during dinner and a physician will be summoned.”

  “I’m sure that isn’t necessary, Lord Morwick.” Mother wrung her hands. “It’s only nerves and exhaustion from the journey. A good lie-down before dinner and she’ll be right as rain, won’t you, Petra?”

  Morwick stared her mother down, not intimidated by Lady Marsh in the least. “Nevertheless, my lady, Dr. Stubbins will be called.” At her mother’s protest, he said, “I insist.” He walked Petra to the stump her mother rapidly vacated upon their approach and settled her gently before stomping off into the underbrush.

  Mother turned to Petra. “How kind,” she said over her shoulder to Morwick, clearly resenting his interference. She took Petra’s arm. “I’m sure you aren’t really ill dearest, but nonetheless, I’m happy this didn’t happen at Brushbriar. Imagine what Lady Pendleton would have thought had you arrived with a ripped dress and then been unwell in her presence. Thank goodness something positive has come from our little mishap.”

  Another cramp twisted Petra’s stomach. She was too miserable to care what Lady Pendleton would have thought about her being ill.

  “A good night’s sleep will restore you, I have no doubt. We’ll be at Brushbriar well before tea.”

  As usual, Mother was
wrong.

  4

  “Here now, my lady.” Tessie, her lady’s maid, held the cup of tea to Petra’s lips. “Would you like a hot bath?”

  “That would be lovely, Tessie. Thank you.”

  “Afterwards, should you feel well enough, Lady Cupps-Foster is in her private parlor and asks you to join her for tea.”

  “I should like that.” Petra took the cup from her maid’s hands with a nod and sipped, thankful the cramps in her stomach had begun to subside. She was by no means well, but at least she’d started the day without a chamber pot in her lap. “Thank you for your care of me yesterday, Tessie. Whatever would I do without you?”

  The maid, buxom and red-haired, gave her a gap-toothed smile. “I am so happy you are better. Your mother has been beside herself with worry about you.”

  Once Dr. Stubbins had pronounced Petra not be moved for several days, Mother had had to capitulate. She sent for Tessie and her own maid, Agnes, who were awaiting their arrival at Brushbriar. Mother had been forced to write a letter of apology to Simon and his mother for their unexpected delay. Dr. Stubbins had declared Petra very ill from spoiled stew, refuting Mother’s constant claims Petra was only suffering from nerves. He prescribed bed rest, broth and tea.

  Illness aside, Petra was thrilled with the reprieve.

  Putting the tea aside, Petra stretched her arms, and gingerly rolled over to leave the bed. The room wobbled and she grabbed the bedpost. Petra shut her eyes firmly until the feeling passed. She needed to drink more fluids. Dr. Stubbins had declared that plenty of water and tea would assist in her recovery. Broth as well if she could tolerate it.

  The carriage ride to Somerton had been blessedly brief and passed in a blur of trees and grass. Petra had curled up against her mother’s shoulder for the duration of the journey, focusing only on not becoming ill again and ruining Lord Morwick’s carriage in addition to his boots. She had barely glanced at the large stone edifice, covered in a thick growth of ivy, rising up from the moors.

  Lady Cupps-Foster, face warm in greeting, had grown concerned at the sight of Petra. She’d marched about like a general, issuing orders to a group of servants who had all scurried to do her bidding. Before Petra had known what was happening, she had been changed into a borrowed nightgown of soft cotton and settled on a comfortable bed beneath a down comforter, Mother’s concerned face swimming above her. She remembered very little after that except for the chamber pot on her lap.

  Once her bath was finished, Petra felt better than she had in days.

  She made her way downstairs, pausing to ask a servant for directions to Lady Cupps-Foster’s private sitting room and strolled down the hall, admiring the soft blue color of the walls and the polished tile of the floor. A footman standing guard outside of a door at the end of the hall announced her.

  While she tried to stop herself, Petra listened for the sound of Morwick’s low rasp.

  “My dear!” Lady Cupps-Foster looked up as Petra came forward. She put aside the book she’d been reading. “Come in, come in.” She patted a spot on the couch to her right. “I’m so glad you felt well enough to come down.”

  “Thank you for the invitation, my lady.” The room was warm and welcoming, much like Lady Cupps-Foster. A fireplace, expertly fitted into a corner, crackled merrily with a fire. An oriental rug, the fibers plush and full, cushioned Petra’s steps as she came forward. The colors of the rug, deep blue and burgundy, were accented by curtains of the same colors, framing a large rectangular window with a view of the moors. The furniture was slightly worn, comfortable and well-used. She took a seat and Lady Cupps-Foster placed a pillow behind Petra’s back with a smile. The pillow was missing a tassel.

  A massive portrait of a young man dominated one of the walls. He was tall and dark-haired, with a signet ring on his pinky finger. At first glance, Petra thought the man was Lord Morwick.

  “They look very much alike, do they not?” Lady Cupps-Foster tilted her head toward the portrait, a wistful look on her face. “My late husband.” Lady Cupps-Foster spoke. “Reginald—Reggie, I called him.”

  Petra knew the story of Lady Cupps-Foster; everyone in London did. Widowed three times, all three husbands expiring under mysterious circumstances. Reggie had disappeared on the moors right outside this very window, never to be heard from again.

  “Handsome, isn’t he?”

  The man staring down at Petra had the same mop of ebony curls as Morwick, but his eyes were dark and his build lean, unlike his son’s big, broad form. The twist of the lips was the same, a combination between amusement and annoyance. Petra was beginning to know it well. “Very.”

  “Reggie swept me off my feet. I was widowed less than a year with a son barely out of swaddling clothes when I met him.” A small laugh escaped her. “He was relentless in his pursuit. My father was furious. But I found Reggie to be the most fascinating human being I’d ever met. He brought me here to the moors, with Spence. My elder son,” she added.

  A tingle ran through Petra. She feared Morwick held the same fascination for her as Reggie had for Lady Cupps-Foster. She almost wished he hadn’t been so gentle with her. It was easier to dislike him if he remained scornful of her.

  “I see Reggie whenever I catch a glimpse of the mop of hair my son refuses to cut properly. And the set of his chin. Goodness, I do tend to rattle on. Come and sit. Timmons has just bought tea and some biscuits.”

  Petra took the cup of tea and nibbled at a biscuit, careful to gauge her stomach’s response to something other than broth.

  “Slowly, my dear. Should you feel ill,” Lady Cupps-Foster nodded toward a small potted plant near the window with drooping brown leaves, “I’m not fond of that particular lily.” Winking at Petra she picked up her own cup and sipped. “I’m told you ruined my son’s boots.”

  Petra’s face grew warm. “I’m afraid to tell you I did.” She put down the unappealing biscuit. Maybe tomorrow.

  “I must thank you as the boots needed to go. Woods, that’s Brendan’s valet, was likely overjoyed. My son has never cared about clothing and is the farthest thing from fashionable you can imagine. Poor Woods.” She laughed. “Now my eldest son, Spencer, is much more of a clothes horse. I would hate to see his tailor bill. But not Brendan. He’s been mistaken for one of the miners he so enjoys conversing with more than once. I do think he wishes to actually be a miner, for he has a love of going underground. Caves, specifically, though he is just as often seen climbing about.” A graceful hand waved in the air. “He will give me a fit of apoplexy one day, I’m sure, with his antics.”

  “What is he looking for? In the caves?” Petra wondered what would prompt a person to find interest in descending into the earth.

  “Fossils, minerals, bits of rock and earth to study. He pursued mineralogy and geology while attending Oxford.” A rueful smile graced her lips. “Though his fists and temper got him thrown out. Brendan loves nothing so much as a brawl. My father was so angry with him.” Her hair, nearly the same dark shade as her son’s, gleamed in the light streaming through the window. She leaned back against the cushions, holding the cup of tea to her lap. “Your mother told me last night you are visiting Brushbriar and Lord Pendleton.”

  Lady Cupps-Foster had the same indigo eyes as Morwick and was just as direct.

  Disconcerted by the question, Petra put down her tea, hands crawling toward each other to clasp together in her habitual ladylike manner. “Lord Pendleton has offered for me.”

  Lady Cupps-Foster cocked her head. She nodded, her eyes knowing. “Your mother’s conversation led me to believe you’ve accepted.”

  A rush of frustrated anger rose up in Petra. “I’m sure my mother did not intentionally misinform you, my lady.”

  “I see.” Her eyes were knowing. Before Lady Cupps-Foster could say more, the door to the small sitting room swung open in a great whoosh, the startled footman stepping back with a bow.

  Morwick strode in, bits of dirt falling from his boots and pants as he moved forwar
d. He looked down at the mess he had created and sent his mother an apologetic look.

  “Can you not wait to be announced?” She didn’t sound upset, but instead pleasantly surprised. “How lovely of you, and the cloud of dust you constantly wear, to visit me.”

  Petra clutched her hands tighter. A wave of awareness washed over her skin, so acute it was nearly painful. She lowered her eyes as the prickling sensation tickled the skin of her neck and arms. He was studying her.

  “It’s my house, Mother. I shouldn’t have to be announced,” was his curt reply. Morwick’s heavy tread moved closer to finally settle in a chair across from them, stretching out his long legs to cross at the ankle, bumping the small tea table as he did so. With a careless flick, he took the tattered hat he wore off his head, tossing it carelessly onto a neighboring chair. The ebony curls had been flattened from the hat, sticking to his sweat-dampened neck and cheeks. He wore a cambric work shirt, faded from age, and a pair of equally worn leather breeches. Every bit of his large form was covered with a thin layer of dust.

  Lady Cupps-Foster made a face and gave a delicate sneeze. “Could you not have refreshed yourself before visiting? Were you digging something up?”

  Morwick didn’t answer his mother; instead his sapphire gaze turned to Petra. “Hello, Lady Petra.” The rasp of his voice was low and deep.

  “My lord,” Petra greeted him, the familiar heat rushing down her body.

  “Feeling better? If not, Mother doesn’t care for the lily over there.” He nodded toward the pot Lady Cupps-Foster had indicated only moments before. “Brought it home from Castleton one day as a gift.”

  Lady Cupps-Foster gave him a faintly annoyed look.

  “My mother lacks a green thumb.” He winked at Lady Cupps-Foster, ignoring the look she shot him. “I fear the poor thing is begging to be put out of its misery, should you require assistance.”