Tall Dark and Wicked: The Wickeds Book 5

by Ayers, Kathleen

  “I’m ashamed to say,” Petra kept her voice light, “that I didn’t notice his hair. I was more concerned with the contents of my stomach.”

  “So you spent no time with Morwick at all?” Katherine said.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t.” Except for the kissing under a tree and a spirited discussion on geology. Oh, and I puked on his boots.

  “I’m not surprised.” A throaty laugh came from her. “I can’t imagine you and Morwick in the same room, let alone engaging in conversation.”

  “You can’t?” Well, that was rather insulting.

  “Well, no.” Katherine laughed softy again. “I meant no offense.”

  Petra somehow doubted that.

  “What on earth would the two of you possibly find to talk about? I suppose the weather, possibly. Or maybe you could have discussed the spoiled stew. But once the pleasantries were over, I can’t imagine…” Her shoulders moved in a delicate shrug. “Morwick is obsessed with rocks and fossils, things most of us know nothing about. He’s a scientist. An explorer of caves and such. I’ve known him practically my entire life and I barely understand a word.”

  Petra didn’t know which she disliked more, Katherine’s implication Petra was too unintelligent to understand anything Morwick said, or the idea he wouldn’t care to speak to her at all. Her hands tightened once more in her lap.

  “Oh, dear me, that didn’t sound correct either. It’s only you are so proper and ladylike, you must find a man like Morwick to be beyond the pale. He doesn’t care for society as a whole, nor any of its trappings. And he can be very blunt in his opinions. I only meant you would not tolerate him for long. You are too much like my brother.”

  “Appearances can sometimes be deceiving, Lady Whitfield.” Petra shook off the shield of decorum wound around her and fixed her stare on Katherine, uncaring if Mother noticed. She refused to allow Katherine to assume her no more than a bland bit of fluff from London incapable of attracting a man like Morwick. “Take for instance, Lady Whitfield, your dress.”

  “My dress?” Katherine’s dark brow knit in confusion.

  “It’s beautiful, of course, and as I said, the color suits you much more so than black.”

  The barb struck home, politely said though it was. Katherine’s eyes hardened into bits of onyx. “How kind of you to say.”

  She gave Katherine a perfect, ladylike smile. Petra already possessed the most difficult sister-in-law in all of London, and didn’t feel the need for a second, should things come to that.

  Before Katherine could offer a rebuttal, her brother was announced.

  Simon strolled into the drawing room like a king, resplendent in formal evening wear, his dark hair brushed back from his temples and gleaming in the candlelight. The light aroma of his soap wafted from his freshly shaved cheeks, scenting the air. His waistcoat sparkled with silver thread and his cravat had been tied into an expert knot. Every inch of Simon was burnished and shiny, like a newly minted coin. Not a curl out of place, nor a wrinkle in his clothing.

  Altogether and entirely…too perfect.

  Not a skip of her heart greeted his appearance, but Petra smiled brightly at him all the same. He was terribly handsome. Simon had none of Morwick’s rough, wild beauty, but he was still a very attractive man. The first time they’d danced together at Lady Upton’s ball, Petra had floated on a cloud of happiness and barely remembered if they spoke.

  “I am the luckiest man alive.” Simon bowed. “I’m to sup surrounded by the loveliest ladies in all of England.”

  “Ever the charmer.” Lady Pendleton offered a genuine smile to her son. It was clear she adored him.

  With an incline of his head, Simon took his mother’s arm then took Petra’s and tucked her fingers into his elbow. “You look lovely tonight,” he said, taking in the pale yellow of her gown, the modest neckline and simply styled hair. “Perfect, in fact.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Perfection, she was rapidly beginning to understand, was overrated. Mother had chosen the gown with its incredibly modest neckline. And though her breasts were small, Petra had a sudden notion that they should be seen. Simon had barely glanced in the direction of her bodice. She cast a sideways look at Simon wondering why he’d never noticed her breasts. Or ogled them.

  Morwick had done both.

  As Simon led her forward, Katherine and Mother conversed quietly, falling in line behind them. It was all perfectly pleasant. Ordered. Polite. Boring.

  Dinner, something overcooked and not to Petra’s liking, passed in exactly the same tedious, intolerable manner.

  Everyone at the dinner table took Petra’s engagement to Simon for granted, including Mother. No one seemed concerned with whether Petra had accepted him or not. Petra’s two Seasons were dissected in excruciating detail, down to her dancing partners at various functions. Lady Pendleton seemed determined to ensure Petra had done nothing remotely scandalous or inflammatory to eventually infect her brilliant son.

  Mother, in her effort to reassure Lady Pendleton of Petra’s innocence, recounted every bit of the last two years, discussing Petra as if she weren’t even at the table.

  Petra had never been so horrified.

  Katherine listened to the conversation swirling about the table with mild interest, interjecting a comment or two only when necessary. Her dark eyes glanced every so often at Petra with something akin to pity.

  Petra ate sparingly, almost wishing her stomach ailment would return so she could excuse herself from the table, but she wasn’t that lucky. Her resentment grew, along with her hatred of the mashed turnips on her plate.

  “Tell me, my lord,” she spoke up, startling the entire table into silence with her words. “What has occupied you since our arrival?”

  His nostrils flared slightly at her questioning of his whereabouts. “This and that,” Simon answered, his nod to her indulgent, as if she were a small child asking after the existence of fairies. “I’ve an important bill I must finish to present to Parliament. I don’t wish to bore you with the details.” He smiled at the table. “I’m sure you ladies would prefer to discuss other things far more interesting.”

  “But, I am interested, my lord,” Petra challenged. “I should like to know more. You must have been quite busy while I was ill at Somerton.” She deliberately left the unvoiced question lingering in the air.

  Simon took her meaning as evidenced by the slight reddening of his puffed cheeks. “It’s fairly complicated and the subject is not fit discussion with such charming company.”

  “Hear, hear.” Lady Pendleton agreed with her son. “The theater is what I miss most about not being in London. I was privileged to see the great Edmund Kean in MacBeth years ago.”

  “Magnificent,” Mother agreed. “I, too, was privileged to see him on stage.”

  Petra gritted her teeth as Lady Pendleton deftly steered the discussion into theater, Covent Garden, Edmund Kean and his son. What Simon meant in his pretty speech was the women present couldn’t possibly understand the principles of his important work or his bloody bill. She turned to Simon. “I am fairly up to date on many of the issues facing the reform of —”

  “Later, perhaps.” Simon stabbed his roast, pulling the chunk of meat from his fork with relish.

  “Petra,” Mother announced from her place at the table as their plates were taken up and fruit and cheese was brought out. “We should relate to Lady Pendleton your experience visiting Gray Covington.” At Lady Pendleton’s exclamation of delight, Mother continued, “We are friends of Lord Cambourne, you see. I cannot begin to tell you of the gardens. The Dowager Marchioness planned them out herself. Simply divine, though there are no more midnight roses in any of the beds.”

  “Oh, for shame,” Lady Pendleton remarked. “Midnight roses were once the most sought after blooms in all of England. What happened to destroy such a treasure?”

  “Aphids.” Mother lowered her voice. “I’m told Lady Cambourne was most distraught at the infestation. Expert gardeners were brought
in, but to no avail. The bushes all had to be destroyed lest the entire garden be ruined. Even without the roses, the stories told of the sweeping gardens do not do Gray Covington justice. Am I right, Petra?”

  Petra nodded dully, shaking her head at a footman’s offer of berries. After her mother’s recitation of the magnificence of Gray Covington, Petra’s dinner companions took it upon themselves to plan out her future with Simon. Each time Petra tried to say something, Mother answered for her until eventually, Petra ceased trying. No one seemed to care that Petra hadn’t yet said yes to Simon’s offer, especially Simon. He directed none of his conversation at her, probably in a fit of pique for her earlier insinuation he’d been too busy to check on her when she’d been ill.

  As the dinner dragged on, the conversation continued about her. Petra, still like the perfectly demure lady she no longer was, with her hands clasped in her lap, came to a startling conclusion about the evening. Any of the other young ladies of Petra’s circle could be sitting in this same chair, dressed in a similar dress and no one, especially not Simon, would note the difference.

  I am virtually interchangeable with half of the girls in London.

  The irony, thought Petra, was though Morwick had called her a pea-wit, he’d never actually treated her as if she were a mindless ninny. Simon, for all his posturing and respectful treatment of her, assumed Petra’s intelligence to be that of the mashed turnips served for dinner. She didn’t blame Simon, necessarily. Petra had been so in awe of Simon and so careful to do as Mother had instructed, she had difficulty recalling if she and Simon had ever been alone together let alone engaged in an honest conversation.

  Pleading exhaustion after dinner, much to the dismay of her mother, Petra retired to her rooms. Her reservations about marrying Simon had multiplied tenfold during dinner. She’d been right to insist on a visit to Brushbriar, and asking her father to delay signing a betrothal agreement. How could she marry a man who wouldn’t even discuss his interests with her? She thought many women probably did, but until lately Petra hadn’t realized how such a thing would matter. Simon must cease treating her as if she were a child.

  When she finally sought her bed, after much pacing and wringing of hands, Petra didn’t rest well. She tossed and turned, dreaming of the giant oak tree and Mam Tor. She scaled the oak up to the top in her dreams, and dangled from a branch, but she wasn’t afraid.

  Morwick stood below waiting to catch her.

  11

  “Well, where have you been?” Mother barely looked up as Brendan entered the breakfast room. Taking a seat at the head of the table he tried without success to hide the wince as he sat. His ribs hurt like the blazes. Possibly at least one was broken or cracked. Danvers could throw a mean punch when he’d had too much ale. The man’s fists were like fleshy sledgehammers.

  “Buxton, Mother. I told you. I needed to go to Buxton. A meeting with a gentleman who wished to discuss the methods for surveying his property on the other side of Castleton. Mr. Wilcox.”

  “Hmm.” Mother looked up, her eyes shrewd and knowing. “The discussion took the form of a beating? You’ve a cut on your lower lip and a bruise beginning to bloom on your cheek. You look like a prizefighter who’s lost his last match. Please tell me the other man looks far worse?”

  The beating had taken the form of a fight at the Whistling Pig tavern which Brendan, were he being honest, had instigated. “One of the miners took exception to the way I played cards.”

  “You were accused of cheating? Brendan, please remember you are an earl.”

  “Not exactly. Danvers simply didn’t care for the fact that I beat him fair and square.” There was also the small matter of the barmaid who had draped herself over Brendan’s shoulders like a well-used cloak, though he’d tried, unsuccessfully, to shoo the woman away. Danvers was sweet on the barmaid, and had objected strenuously to his woman flirting with Brendan.

  “Well, I suppose that’s something.” She took the small, circular pair of glasses from her nose and laid them down along with the letter she’d been reading. “The heir to Dunbar has been born. Henry, they’ve named him. Nick is beside himself with happiness. His duchess is well and healthy, as is the babe.”

  “I’m glad. Nick deserves every happiness, after all he’s endured.” Brendan and his cousin Nick were good friends. Brendan was pleased to know Nick had found peace and contentment. “And grandfather would be pleased to have the young lad named for him, I think.”

  “Yes, he would.” Mother sipped at her tea and gave him a hard look. “You know, no amount of beating is going to help your situation.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” He knew exactly what she meant. He detested Mother’s Dunbar intuition for it showed itself in the most inopportune times. Brendan raised a cup of tea to his mouth, ignoring the stinging of the hot tea on his cut lip.

  “Psh.” Mother waved a hand. “Petra,” she said firmly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” His heart thudded dully. The last person he wished to discuss Petra with was Mother. “I merely offered her and Lady Marsh our assistance and hospitality, nothing more. I’ve met her exactly twice in my life. I barely know the girl and what I do know of her is not favorable.” Unless you liked sassy young ladies who could climb trees.

  “Brendan.” Mother reached out and took his hand, frowning at the scraped knuckles. “I am sorry.” She squeezed his fingers. “I am the one to blame for the mess you find yourself in.”

  The words surprised him. “What are you sorry for?”

  “My grief over the loss of your father.” She looked away and cleared her throat. “I’ve known for some time my unhappiness did something to you and Spence. Perhaps, altered your view of affection between a man and a woman. You must understand, I was young and twice widowed, with one young son clinging to my skirts and another in my arms.” A sad laugh escaped her. “I found myself somewhat tragic. I was scared.”

  “Mother —”

  “It pains me that I have given you both an unfavorable impression of love. Had I ever anticipated such a thing…” She shrugged. “Perhaps I would have been a bit more careful to keep my grief hidden from you.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Mother,” he lied. “I’m perfectly fine, as I’m sure Spence is. My little spat in Buxton had nothing to do with Petra. I merely ran afoul of a very hostile miner. Petra is destined to marry the illustrious Pendleton and live in a whirl of social activity in London. Besides, she’d shrivel and die in the Peak.” He thought of Petra, dangling from the tree and knew he was at least partially incorrect. But Brendan had spent the better part of of a week getting into fights, digging in the earth, and drinking until dawn in order to forget the feel of Petra in his arms. And he’d done a decent job, until Mother and her intuition had begun sniffing about.

  “Don’t be too sure.” Mother patted his hand. “I’ve a feeling there is more to Petra than meets the eye. At any rate, you should go and get cleaned up.” She placed the glasses back on her nose and picked up the letter again. “I’ve already instructed Woods to pack your things.”

  “Am I going somewhere, Mother? I’ve only just returned from Buxton.”

  “No.” She laughed. “We are going somewhere. An invitation has come from Brushbriar. A small house party. Dinner and dancing.”

  Brendan waved over the footman holding a rasher of bacon, gesturing for the man to load up his plate. “No. Absolutely not.” He detested the way his pulse quickened at the thought of Petra. Apparently, not even a decent brawl was going to help his affliction.

  “I’ve already accepted for the both of us, Brendan.” Her eyes glinted like steel, before they softened. “I ask you for very little, my love, and I don’t wish to attend alone without escort. Do this small thing for me. I find I am in the mood to socialize. And think how much your presence will annoy Simon.”

  Damn.

  “I dislike house parties.”

  A trill of laughter escaped his mother. “We all do, dear. Best hur
ry and wash up. I’d like to be there in time for tea.”

  12

  Petra urged her horse forward, enjoying the feel of the wind blowing through her hair. Several pins holding together the carefully constructed bun at the back of her neck loosened and bounced off her shoulder. A tendril of hair, now free, bounced jauntily against her upper back. Air rushed past her ears, muffling the sound of the horse behind her. The smart little hat decorated with a spray of violets flew off the top of her head and went sailing out over the moors.

  Mother would be quite upset. Hysterical, maybe. The hat had been designed to accompany the deeper lavender riding habit, and the ensemble had cost a small fortune. While Petra wasn’t overly fond of the color, as anything with a hint of purple was usually reserved for Lady Marsh, the riding habit did set off Petra’s slender form to perfection and managed to make her bosom appear more generous, an amazing feat.

  Would Simon notice?

  Morwick would.

  Petra hastily pushed all thoughts of the dark and alluring Morwick out of her mind. She was not at Brushbriar to dwell on him but to decide if Simon would make her a good husband. At the moment, things didn’t look too promising.

  The sour look on Simon’s face as she galloped past him should have made her pause in her mad gallop through the heather. In London, Petra had appreciated Simon’s manner toward her, thinking his treatment meant he held her in high esteem. Respected her. Now Petra suspected his aloof manner was more dismissive than respectful. He still laughed easily enough at her observations, when he deigned to have an actual conversation with her. But his amusement was more indulgent, like that of a parent’s toward a child. A mere six weeks had passed since Simon had left London to return to Brushbriar, but his earlier courtship felt like a lifetime ago. The Petra he’d said goodbye to was not the woman who now rode crazily across the moors.