Tall Dark and Wicked: The Wickeds Book 5

by Ayers, Kathleen

  “Your mother has kindly already offered the use of her lily, should I need it.” Petra answered with a tilt of her head. “You need not worry for your boots again. I can’t say the same for your hat.”

  The gold flecks in his sapphire eyes sparkled back at her. “I stand warned.” He stretched his palms over his thighs.

  Calluses stood out on the sides of his hands and the tips of his fingers. How had he come by so many? Lady Cupps-Foster was correct. Looking at him now, she would never guess Morwick to be an earl.

  Except for his arrogance and manner—that of a person who answers to no one.

  Looking at Morwick’s hands, Petra thought of Simon’s and realized she’d never actually seen them. He always wore gloves in her presence.

  He caught her looking. The split eyebrow raised in question. The fingers on his thigh drummed.

  “Tea, Brendan? Or perhaps a biscuit?”

  “No, thank you.” He held Petra’s gaze. “I’m headed in the direction of Brushbriar later this afternoon, should you wish to write to Lord Pendleton.” A genuine grin split his face. “I’m happy to relay any message.”

  “How kind of you.” Petra picked up her discarded biscuit, determined to try a bite, anything to turn her attention away from Morwick. She took a tiny nibble, felt her stomach rebel, and hastily put the biscuit back down.

  Morwick picked up his hat, moving it purposefully out of her reach. “I’ve many pairs of boots but I am partial to this hat.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement at her discomfort.

  Maybe Petra didn’t care if her stomach settled or not. Meeting his eye once more, she defiantly bit into the biscuit.

  * * *

  Impudent little thing.

  She had a lovely neck of delicate porcelain skin. He wished to feast on the tender expanse, possibly nibbling a line to just beneath her ear. Once there he would suck and nibble until Petra made the delicious noise she’d made when he’d kissed her so long ago. He’d not forgotten.

  I’m mad. Completely mad.

  Lust aside, Brendan was pleased to see her up and about. His mind screamed to stay away from her, but every other part of his body, especially his cock, didn’t wish to listen. But he should listen. Especially in this room, of all places.

  When he was younger, Brendan had referred to the favorite room of his mother’s as the Mourning Room, a subtle play on words which no one but his brother Spence had seemed to take note of. This was where Mother had grieved for Reggie. How many times had he seen her here, reading one of his letters, sobbing as she looked up at his portrait?

  Too many times to count.

  Though time had tempered the wound, Brendan had seen the pain his mother experienced at the loss of Reggie. The price one paid for loving so deeply. He shied away from any meaningful commitment to a woman, determined to only enjoy the physical delights of the opposite sex. Brendan had mostly been successful, except for Katherine. His affair with Pendleton’s sister had been fiery and combustible, and he’d felt a great deal of affection for her. They’d grown up together after all, and he’d known her his whole life. Thankfully, when she had married, Brendan’s heart had remained surprisingly intact. So many years later, he wasn’t even sure he was capable of such emotion. Nor did he seek love.

  Perfect Petra should not have inspired the least interest in him. Proper, well-bred and so self-contained, Brendan found her enticing beyond words. Why, he wasn’t sure. Lust should have fled as she had become ill and puked on his boots; instead, he’d wanted to cradle her smaller form close to his chest and care for her. Petra was a beautiful, dangerous thing.

  Mother started chattering away to Petra about London and some improvement his cousin Arabella was making to her town house. Once the discussion turned to the decoration of the nursery, Brendan stopped listening. He was too taken by the sight of Petra’s graceful hands as they held her cup of tea. What would those fingers feel like as they touched him?

  Jesus. He needed to stop thinking such things least he burst the seams of his pants.

  At last, Petra discarded what remained of her biscuit and excused herself to return to her room, claiming fatigue. In truth she was still pale and exhausted, with dark shadows beneath her eyes.

  He stood, watching her leave, the desire for her coursing through his veins.

  When he turned back to his mother, he found her calmly sipping her tea, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

  5

  Petra declined another tray in her room and ventured down the stairs to breakfast. If she had to spend yet another day in her room, Petra would go mad. She had just slathered butter onto a piece of toast when Lady Cupps-Foster bustled in, her lovely face distressed and worried.

  For a moment, the toast hovered above Petra’s lips. Honey dripped onto the table. Her first thought was something had happened to Morwick. He’d fallen climbing or disappeared much like his father had, into the earth never to be found again. Her chest tightened painfully at the thought of his loss.

  But Lady Cupps-Foster was distressed, not…anguished.

  Petra lowered her toast. Dear God, had Simon come from Brushbriar to fetch her? Was he waiting in the foyer? Petra sincerely hoped not. He’d not written her since their arrival, and, truthfully, Petra hadn’t longed for him to do so. The lack of his regard should have bothered her more, she supposed.

  “Oh my dear, I’m sorry to tell you your mother has taken ill.” She placed a hand on Petra’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to worry. You shall stay here as long as need be until she is well. I’ve already summoned Dr. Stubbins. I am afraid your departure to Brushbriar will be delayed yet again. It is unfortunate, but one cannot predict illness.”

  Mother was ill. Stricken by the very same stomach distress Petra experienced. She couldn’t help gloating just a tiny bit over the fact Mother was abed with a chamber pot in her lap. Even after Dr. Stubbins pronouncement, Mother had continued to insist a fuss had been made for nothing. Petra was only the victim of nerves.

  It appeared Mother was nervous as well.

  That was a terribly unkind thought, but Petra was so relieved. The trip to Brushbriar, already ominous as she had left London, had grown more so with each passing day. “Thank you, my lady. You are kindness itself.” She took Lady Cupps-Foster’s hand. “I’ll go up and check on her.”

  “I’ll direct Dr. Stubbins up as soon as he arrives,” Lady Cupps-Foster assured Petra. “He should be along soon.”

  Petra thanked her again and moved up the stairs toward the bedchamber her mother occupied, halting as she heard the sound of retching coming from within. The door cracked open to reveal a long beak of a nose situated between eyes dark like bits of onyx.

  “Good morning, Agnes,” Petra greeted her.

  “Lady Petra,” Agnes sniffed, “I am happy to see you up and about.”

  The maid’s tone led Petra to think otherwise. “How is mother? Lady Cupps-Foster informed me she’d fallen ill?” She’d never liked Agnes, though the woman certainly took excellent care of Lady Marsh. Bitter and unpleasant, Agnes delighted in reporting infractions by the other Marsh servants to Lady Marsh. The rest of the household staff detested Agnes, who seemed to care little for their opinion.

  “The stew, I’m sure, at that horrible inn we stayed, though why she didn’t fall ill earlier is a mystery.” Her tone was slightly accusatory, as if Petra had done something to purposefully make her mother ill. “We’ve only that Dr. Stubbins to rely on instead of my lady’s physician in London.” Her opinion of Dr. Stubbins was obvious. “I’ll take excellent care of your mother, my lady.”

  “Agnes!” Mother wailed from behind the door. “Is that Petra?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Petra tried to peek into the room.

  Agnes pulled the door closed. “You’ll not want to become ill again, Lady Petra. Your mother wishes nothing more to delay our arrival at Brushbriar. Perhaps it would be best if you return later.”

  “Of course. Please fetch me once Dr. Stubbins has examined
her.” Petra gratefully retreated. Maybe her mother would be more sympathetic the next time Petra became ill. She sailed back down the stairs whistling a jaunty tune.

  With Mother ensconced in her room, unable to leave her bed, Petra was free of her dubious supervision for the day. Or possibly longer. Petra had been ill for a couple days; perhaps Mother’s stomach distress would be lengthy as well. The thought made her giddy.

  She spent the next hour or so exploring Morwick’s home. Somerton was old, in a way the Marsh town house and estate were not. Many of the walls were constructed of limestone from the nearby countryside, and Petra suspected what she was seeing were the original castle walls. The manor house, though far from modern, had been built around a large, ancient tower, spiraling out in a jumble of stone and brick. As Petra became lost for the fifth time, she decided Somerton’s architect had designed a maze and not a house. She half expected to find the bones of some former guest who’d gotten lost and expired without ever finding the main hall again.

  “Bollocks,” Petra whispered under her breath, staring at yet another dead end. Morwick really should post signs on the walls or pass out breadcrumbs. However would one find their way around Somerton on a consistent basis? She wondered if Morwick was even at home today, or was he busy exploring caves?

  “I find him very intriguing,” she said in passing as she stopped before a group of portraits lining the wall.

  Petra studied a painting of a sad looking matron seated with a dog on her lap. The dog was an ugly looking little beast, more closely resembling a pig. The woman’s head was overly large and her body, in relation to the dog’s, was drawn all out of proportion. A terrible work of art to be sure. She hoped the artist was not richly compensated. Next she perused a gruff, elderly man with a shock of white hair.

  Another hour later, finally bored with her study of the portraits, Petra stopped a passing servant to ask the direction of the library. The Somerton gardens were wild and overgrown, but she’d spied a stone bench from her bedroom window. A perfect spot to read.

  * * *

  Brendan stretched the muscles of his neck, turning his head back and forth. He threw the weather-beaten rucksack on the table. He was pleasantly tired and sore.

  After an early breakfast with his mother, Brendan had made his way back to the cave he’d visited the day before. The cave was nothing special. Not even so much as a fossilized leaf or fern. He had looked for the telltale line of blue and yellow, but there had been no sign of Blue John in the cavern. Brendan wasn’t surprised. His father’s obsession with finding the mineral on their estate hadn’t produced fruit thirty years ago and was unlikely to do so now. Still, Brendan was compelled to look.

  Blue John, or calcium fluorite as Brendan had been taught when studying at Oxford, was the reason behind his father’s disappearance. Mother insisted Reggie had been searching for the rare mineral when he’d gone missing. Maybe Reggie had found a deposit and before he could return to share the news, he’d fallen into a hole in the limestone and broken his neck. He wouldn’t be the first person, nor the last, to fall prey to the numerous holes littering the moors.

  Reggie’s body had never been recovered nor a trace of him found, even though half the county had gone looking for him. Mother still teared up when she thought of that day. Knowing the area as he did, Brendan thought it likely his father’s body lay at the base of a ravine or in a cave somewhere, swallowed by the earth. Brendan preferred his version of his father’s disappearance to the gossip.

  Brendan reached up with his forefinger to touch the scar bisecting his eyebrow, remembering the punch he’d thrown at one of the taverns in Buxton. The drunken son of one of the mine owners had felt it necessary to relate the tragic events of the disappearance of the former earl, not realizing the man’s son had sat at the bar next to him. When the man stated Reggie had had a secret mistress and had fled to America with her, Brendan had gone a bit wild.

  Stretching again and pulling a chair over, Brendan decided, no matter his aching arms, it had been best to be away from Somerton today. He’d left the estate at first light, determined to put Petra out of his mind. She was only a girl and a rather prim one at that. Brendan was reckless by nature and the thought of Petra lying upstairs in a guest room was far too tempting.

  Thankfully, the object of his lust hadn’t come down for dinner last night, although he had not been spared the presence of Lady Marsh. Brendan found Petra’s mother to be the most frivolous, annoying woman he’d ever met. She had chattered incessantly throughout the meal, pausing only to take a breath, or take a forkful of roast before launching into another overly long story about Lady Upton’s ball, or dissecting the gown another lady had worn to the opera. Questions had flown from her lips about Pendleton and his family. Shooting a look Brendan’s way, Lady Marsh had made sure to give Brendan and his mother a glowing rendition of Simon’s courtship of Petra, as if she suspected Morwick wanted to ravish her daughter. By the end of the meal, Brendan had wished to strangle himself with the cravat his valet had carefully tied around his neck despite his protests. Finally, Lady Marsh seemed to have exhausted herself, and had bid him and his mother good night. He wondered if Mother also had had a headache for he certainly had.

  Brendan returned his attention to the matter at hand. Picking up the rucksack, he untied the flaps and spilled the day’s gatherings across the table. He hadn’t expected much from the cave as it was too far from Pendleton land to have any Blue John. Still, there might be something equally as valuable. Copper or tin. Possibly lead. Brendan did not mine on his own land but he was a partner in several mining enterprises, most north of Buxton. A geologist by trade, though he’d not finished his schooling, Brendan’s knowledge and skills made him much sought after by the consortiums who ran the majority of the mines in the area. He surveyed. Studied. Told them where to start digging. Sometimes when a group of paleontologists or fellow geologists came up from London, Brendan would act as a guide through the miles of caves and moors surrounding Somerton.

  Brendan walked over to the windows, throwing open the heavy drapes to allow the late afternoon light into the study. This had been Reggie’s space, and Brendan never felt closer to his father than when he was here. Books and surveys crowded every available space. Equipment for testing samples along with an assortment of ropes and tools for climbing were littered across the floor. The walls were hung with sketches and watercolors, all done by Reggie. In addition to his interests in geology and nature, Brendan’s father had been a gifted artist.

  Dumping out the contents of the pack, Brendan pushed up his sleeves. A beautiful nut-colored stone laced through with bits of green rolled out and across the table. The rock wasn’t valuable or particularly interesting, but it had reminded Brendan of Petra’s eyes.

  Frustrated at having her invade his thoughts again, Brendan shoved the stone to the side.

  He was treading a dangerous path. One had only to look at his mother and see the damage love had done to her. Katherine had been the only woman who’d stirred his affections so strongly, and in the end, he’d let her go rather than marry her as her father had wished. Besides, Katherine had wanted London and Brendan still did not. He couldn’t live his life trapped in and amongst the filth of the city, teeming with people. Brendan hadn’t been Katherine’s first lover, so he hadn’t been compelled to do the right or honorable thing. In the end, Katherine chose Whitfield. Whitfield had died six months ago, right about the time Arabella had married, and Katherine had returned to her mother at Brushbriar. She’d made a point of letting him know of her availability and the lack of impediment her widowhood presented should he wish to strike up their previous relationship.

  But after his return from London, Brendan had no interest in Katherine, nor any woman. That bothered him far more than anything else.

  He looked toward the edge of the desk. The stone resembling the hazel of Petra’s eyes winked at him as it caught the sunlight.

  Damn.

  6

  Pe
tra finally found the library. Even after seeking directions, it had taken her a solid fifteen minutes to reach her destination. She didn’t hold out much hope Morwick would actually have anything of interest in his library, but his mother had spent a portion of her life at Somerton. Perhaps there was something to draw her interest.

  Rows of books lined the walls and stacked in rows behind a well-used leather couch. Tiptoeing around the books, afraid the least bit of movement would cause them to topple, Petra approached the bookcases first.

  A dull scratching sounded.

  “I’m sure there are mice living in the walls,” she said out loud. “Poor things made their way down a hallway and can’t figure out how to leave.” Petra ran a finger over the row of books facing her, grimacing at the dust coating the bindings.

  Cluttered and disorganized, the library was much like Somerton itself. There seemed no rhyme or reason to the way the books had been placed on the shelves, other than utter chaos. Moving to another bookcase, Petra found this section to be less dusty and the books grouped together. She saw dozens of books on the same topic. Geology. Another grouping was all on paleontology. She wasn’t quite certain what that was, though she’d heard of geology. Lady Cupps-Foster had said something about Morwick studying geology.

  “I’ve no idea exactly what that means,” she whispered to the books.

  There was an entire section on gritstone. Several books in German. Another section on mineralogy. Nothing remotely tempted her. Or would tempt anyone. Petra turned away with a sigh and turned toward a smaller stack leaning against the arm of the couch. Novels. Some looked quite lurid. These books could only belong Lady Cupps-Foster. Morwick’s mother apparently had a particular interest in the adventures of Lord Thurston. Petra was thrilled. She’d always wanted to read Lord Thurston but hadn’t been afforded the opportunity.