Tall Dark and Wicked: The Wickeds Book 5

by Ayers, Kathleen

  Petra tilted her chin back. There was still a shadow clinging to the line of his jaw. Possibly Woods hadn’t shaved him close enough or more likely, Morwick hadn’t cared to shave at all. A grimace graced his full lips as he returned her regard. Really, she was starting to consider it more of a smile. A surge of delight filled her at the sight of him.

  “Hello, Perfect Petra.” The raspy voice tripped over her skin.

  “Good evening, Lord Morwick.” A sudden unsteadiness caused her to rock toward him in a most alarming manner, as if she were on board a small boat buffeted by a wave. Her pulse beat wildly, her body thrilled to be in close proximity to his. In desperation to restore her sanity, Petra attempted to move aside, unsurprised to find the lace of her bodice caught in the button of his coat.

  Of course the bloody button was caught. She’d been consistently ruining her clothing since leaving London.

  “Do not bother to help. The gown is one of my favorites and I would be quite unhappy were it to be damaged. Stay still.”

  His eyes darkened to indigo, the bits of gold surrounding his pupils glittering in the light of the hallway lamps. Morwick had the most beautiful eyes, like a lake sparkling with sunlight to illuminate the depths below. She found herself wishing to drown in those eyes and not bother to save herself.

  Get ahold of yourself, Petra.

  “There are some occasions, Petra, when the tearing of a dress is warranted.”

  The skin of her arms prickled awash with heat.

  “I’m not certain there is any instance in which the tearing of a lady’s dress is warranted.” Only an inch separated she and Morwick. If another guest were to come upon them, the worst would be assumed and Petra would be immediately ruined. At the very least, there would be talk and possibly a scandal.

  Morwick certainly knew such a thing. Possibly he didn’t. He wasn’t much of a gentleman.

  “When you are annoyed or considering something, your nose scrunches up like a rabbit,” he murmured in a soft voice. His breath stirred the small hairs around her temple.

  Petra worried the bit of lace stuck on his button, her fingers brushing against his shirt, becoming more clumsy by the second. At last the lace came free. Her hands immediately flew down to clasp before her. “An unwelcome comparison to a creature with prominent teeth and large ears,” she stuttered, sounding like the pea-wit she was often accused of being.

  Morwick leaned over, words vibrating against the skin of her neck. “I happen to like rabbit.”

  Petra’s body arched as if on command, drawn to the low, erotic suggestion in his voice.

  Bollocks. She was beginning to understand the usefulness of cursing. It helped to center a person.

  A small, rather smug grin graced his mouth before he straightened. He turned toward the stairs without a backward glance, as if he’d only told her it was raining outside or some other mundane comment.

  A wonderful ache spread down Petra’s body. She cleared her throat determined to sound unaffected and unmoved by his sudden appearance. “Really, Morwick. You cannot say such a thing to me and then walk away.”

  He halted and looked over his shoulder. Flames burned in the depths of his eyes, now more black than indigo. “Why not? Are you going to be petulant, Petra?” His gaze flicked down the length of her before returning to her face.

  “I dislike you,” Petra threw back at him. She felt gloriously alive for the first time in days.

  The big shoulders rippled in a careless manner. “Unfortunate, as I happen to like you very much. Petulance aside.”

  Petra opened her mouth, knowing now was the time to say something incredibly witty in return. She hadn’t seen him in over a week. He’d kissed her madly under a tree, insulted her, then fled to Buxton in effort to avoid her. She was terribly confused by his manner. And happy.

  Contrary, complicated beast. Heart fluttering madly, Petra lifted her skirts, and made a great show of stomping past him toward the landing.

  “Petra, darling.” Mother was just at the base of the stairs, annoyance clear as she spotted Petra. “There you are. Finally. I thought I would need to fetch you myself. Come, greet the rest of the guests.” A small gasp popped out of her mouth as Morwick stepped out of the shadows of the hall to spy down on her. “Oh, Lord Morwick. You’ve arrived.”

  “Indeed, I have, Lady Marsh.” Morwick glided past Petra to gracefully make his way down the stairs. He was such a beautiful, elegant animal in his evening clothes, the sight of which banished all memory of his usual dusty, wrinkled appearance.

  Upon reaching the bottom step, he bowed low and took Mother’s hand, tucking her fingers neatly into his elbow.

  Mother’s lips parted and then shut, for once not knowing what to say. The top of the ostrich feather in her coiffure trembled even as she nodded to Morwick. Mother was wearing a deep purple gown embroidered with butterflies across the skirt. She looked like a tiny, overstuffed plum.

  “Allow me to escort you to the drawing room. It would be my greatest pleasure.”

  Somehow Petra doubted that. What was Morwick about besides completely unsettling her before dinner?

  He turned to look up at Petra, who was midway down the long staircase. His eyes followed the movement of her body with a hungry look. “And you as well, Lady Petra.”

  Petra reached the bottom of the stairs, fingers trembling as he took her hand. She’d hoped the affect Morwick had on her would have…dissipated. She was wrong. The attraction was stronger than ever.

  Bollocks.

  * * *

  Brendan was behaving like the savage he was often accused of being. Polite gentlemen didn’t stare at a woman as if she were a delicious bit of roast. And he’d called her petulant, which he knew irritated her. The best part had been taking the arm of the annoying Lady Marsh. Petra’s eyes had widened in shock as he took her mother’s fingers.

  I blame the dress. The bloody green dress.

  Petra wore the same pale green dress which had first launched his unwanted desire. The same dress she’d worn the day of her brother’s wedding. He’d spent endless nights fantasizing about peeling the green silk from her shoulders and pulling the dress from her body. Then she’d gone and pressed those small, delectable breasts against him, smelling of sugar cookies and roses. His mouth had watered with hunger. Brendan wanted to devour her and he was tired of pretending he didn’t.

  Clarity, when such a thing happened, could change many things. A lifetime of avoidance, for example. Such a thing meant nothing when watching the delicate pink flush come over Petra’s cheeks as her fingers fumbled over the lace caught on the button of his shirt. He’d been uncertain, until that very moment, what Petra’s feelings were toward him. He’d told himself the entire time in Buxton that she was merely having cold feet over her marriage to Simon.

  But when her lips had parted and Brendan had seen the pink of her tongue peek out, the way her head had tilted, begging to be kissed, his heart had beat more firmly. He felt lust, of course—for God’s sake, she smelled of cookies and roses—but something else hovered between them. Brendan considered it the most gentlemanly act of his life he hadn’t dragged her back to his room and ravished her. Because he wished to. He wasn’t sure how he would get through the dull dinner before him without falling on her like a madman.

  Damn. She had an extensive wardrobe. Why that dress?

  Petra’s fingers trembled, vibrating against his forearm as he escorted her and her mother to the dining room, catching up with the other guests just now going in. The slow burn of her touch stoked his arousal. Thank God for his coat.

  “I fear we’re to be the last ones in,” Lady Marsh, ever conscious of social propriety, twittered.

  “A shame to be sure.” Brendan answered politely, pleased he’d missed the requisite sherry before dinner. Watching all of Pendleton’s guests bestow false smiles on each other while they discussed nothing of importance was a waste of time.

  Gazes lifted as he entered the room with Lady Marsh and Petra
. Brendan smiled at his good fortune.

  Simon was absolutely furious.

  16

  Lady Cupps-Foster, Marissa to her friends, watched her son lead in the Marsh ladies much to the dismay of Simon and his harpy of a mother. She and her son were not exactly welcome guests at this gathering, and by escorting Lady Marsh and Petra, Brendan was guaranteed to tweak the nose of his host.

  Katherine eyed Petra with unforeseen malice.

  This was going splendidly.

  Had she not been certain of Brendan’s feelings before toward the lovely Petra, Marissa was definitely sure now. There was no mistaking the possessive way his larger body hovered over Petra as he led her to her seat, nor the darkening of his eyes as they lingered over the girl. The attraction between the two was difficult to miss, as evidenced by the pout on Lady Marsh’s face.

  The same attraction had lit the air at Arabella’s wedding. Brendan had watched every move the girl had made. Even Nick had commented to Marissa privately on Brendan’s interest. When she had confronted her son, suggesting Brendan possibly call on Petra, he had grown angry. Dismissive. He had called Petra a pea-wit.

  A sure sign of his attraction to her.

  Guilt filled her. Her grief over Reggie, witnessed by Brendan and his brother, had distorted their view of love. Maybe to most people, that wouldn’t have mattered. Marriages weren’t usually based on love, but her own with Reggie had been, brief though it was. She wouldn’t trade that time with him, no matter his loss. Unfortunately, she’d not impressed such a thing upon her children.

  Brendan must come to terms with his fears or loose Petra—something Marissa didn’t think he was prepared to do. She hoped she was wrong about such a thing, as she would hate to interfere without Brendan’s knowledge, as she had with Arabella.

  But first, she must get through the tedium of Lydia’s house party.

  With a sigh, Marissa pasted a smile on her face and waved for the footman to fill her wine glass. Perhaps it was time she took another lover. While Marissa was certain she’d never fall in love again, she did adore masculine companionship. She missed having a handsome rogue look at her the way Brendan now eyed Petra. Perhaps once she returned to London.

  Contrary to what her sons and nephew surmised, Marissa was not solely devoted to her family. While she adored her children, it was difficult to allow herself to be thought of as a woman well past any physical desires or needs simply to spare their feelings. She did take lovers, discreetly, careful never to allow her very overprotective children to find out. Her last lover had been a dark, gruff Welshman in Twinnings where she’d joined Arabella in exile last year. There was also the problem of her nephew, His Grace, the Duke of Dunbar. Nick would pretend amusement should he find out she’d taken a lover, but in reality, she feared her nephew would take matters into his own hands and her lover would discreetly disappear. Lord Cupps-Foster, cad that he was, had suffered such a fate. She’d no idea what a misfired pistol could do to someone.

  Her eyes ran over Lord Pendleton. Simon. A priggish boy grown into a rigid, unbending man. Simon would destroy Petra and make her miserable within a few months. He would suppress the wild nature Marissa suspected lay beneath Petra’s ladylike manner, which would be a terrible pity. Lady Marsh seemed set on the man mainly because she wanted the prestige of having an up-and-coming politician connected to the Marsh family at the expense of her daughter’s happiness.

  Marissa didn’t dislike Lady Marsh, and in fact empathized with the woman who’d never gotten over the death of her eldest child. But she was far too controlling. Lady Marsh and her domineering nature were suffocating Petra. Anyone could see it.

  Marissa sipped her wine, pretending to listen to something Lydia droned on about. The woman was dropping names and hints about her vast wealth, boasting about Simon’s accomplishments and the stature of the Pendleton’s. It was laughable, truly. As she looked up, glass hovering at her lips, Marissa caught the eye of the man seated to Petra’s left. Lord Haddon.

  Haddon toyed leisurely with the stem of his wine glass, as his eyes lowered and fell to her lips. After a moment he looked directly at her again, a lazy smile on his lips. The corners of his eyes crinkled in the most becoming manner.

  Heat rushed up Marissa’s cheeks. Goodness. She hadn’t blushed in ages.

  17

  Simon’s dark eyes held no hint of welcome for Petra as she entered the dining room and approached the mahogany table laden with silver and fine porcelain. A black, murderous look was thrown in the direction of Morwick. Simon gave a stiff tilt of his aristocratic chin to Petra as she took her seat and adjusted her skirts. Mother received a pursing of Simon’s lips which may have passed for welcome.

  A soft chuckle sounded from Morwick as he left Petra at her seat, clearly enjoying the disruption he had created.

  The moment Morwick’s warmth left her side, Petra ached with his loss. She’d not realized how much she missed him until he’d appeared again. She went over their brief conversation in her mind, trying to discern what he had hoped to gain from teasing her in such a way. Her eyes searched out Morwick as he sat down, but he looked away and instead began speaking to Katherine.

  Petra looked down at her plate, pretending to admire the spray of blue roses circling about the edges. Given Simon’s mood and Morwick’s amusement over angering his host, Petra again considered that perhaps she was only a means for him to annoy Simon. Perhaps this was a game between the two men and she nothing but a pawn.

  That’s not at all a comforting thought.

  The mood in the dining room became tense as Morwick deliberately took his time in finding his seat. Only Katherine looked at Morwick with welcome. Far too much welcome.

  Petra’s hands clutched tightly in her lap. She studied her plate and wished to be somewhere else.

  Thank goodness for the Divets.

  As dinner was served, the couple carried the bulk of the conversation around the table, regaling those present with their travels across America. Mr. Divet resembled a well-dressed monk, with a fringe of snow-white hair surrounding a bald pate. He laughed uproariously at his own jokes, and drank far too much wine, much to Lady Pendleton’s displeasure.

  Petra thought him marvelous.

  Mrs. Divet was a tall, willowy woman possessed of pale blue eyes, with hair the color of copper. The contrast between their appearances couldn’t have been more pronounced. Mr. Divet would have gone unnoticed had he been walking about the docks or sitting in a tavern, while Mrs. Divet was fine-boned and aristocratic in appearance. She clearly adored her shorter, plumper husband, gazing at him in adoration as he spoke. The Divets were completely in sync, finishing each other’s sentences or reminding one another of a forgotten tidbit. Their eyes caught and held while they talked and every so often, Mr. Divet would lift his glass in his wife’s direction and tilt his head, with a murmured, ‘Hear, hear, Mrs. Divet.’ The Divets were an odd pair, mismatched in every way, but clearly in love. When the conversation steered to Simon and Parliament, Petra caught Mr. Divet winking lustfully at his wife, who batted her eyes in return.

  “They are quite a pair, aren’t they?” Her dinner companion to the left, Lord Haddon, commented with a grin. “My late wife was great friends with Edith.” He pointed a fork discreetly. “Mrs. Divet. I’ve known them for ages. She’s a great help with the girls when called upon for a more feminine hand than I can offer. There was no one happier to see her return from her travels than I.”

  “How many daughters do you have, Lord Haddon?” Haddon was an attractive man, especially when he smiled.

  “Four. Jordana,” he pointed to a lovely girl who was seated next to Mrs. Divet, “is the eldest. It’s nearly time for her first Season.” He took a sip of his wine, and the tiny lines around his eyes deepened. “I shall be buried in laces and fripperies, drowning in gloves and petticoats. The air around me constantly scented with lavender. I had to purchase two male bulldogs so I shouldn’t feel so outnumbered.”

  Petra laughed. Ha
ddon was quite charming. “Your situation appears dire, my lord.”

  “Indeed. I’ve not spent much time in London in the last few years as matters here required my attention. And I haven’t enjoyed a Season since I courted my wife.”

  Lord Haddon possessed a dry wit, a handsome face, and was a wealthy widower. He should probably be more concerned about his Season rather than his daughter’s. She doubted he’d remain unscathed. Haddon would be like a fat goose dropped into the lap of the ton.

  “Jordana is beside herself to visit London.” He shot an indulgent glance to the dark-haired girl across the table. “I do hope she’s not disappointed.”

  “I enjoyed my time in London immensely,” Petra assured him. It was only a partial lie.

  “I assume that’s where you met Pendleton.” Haddon lifted his chin in Simon’s direction. “He’s highly regarded in Parliament.”

  “Yes, he is.” The Cornish hen turned to dust in her mouth. She’d not thought Simon’s neighbors would realize Simon’s intent, but of course they would. Why else would she and her mother be at Brushbriar? Petra stared at her plate for the longest time; her interest in the dinner, never strong to begin with, became non-existent.

  “Have I said something wrong, Lady Petra?” He shot her a curious glance.

  “No, of course not.” Petra chewed slowly. “I was only remembering all Jordana has to look forward to. Some of the Season can be a bit daunting.”

  Lord Haddon nodded as if considering her response. “I may seek your mother’s council, Lady Petra.”

  “She will be happy to help, I am sure.”

  “You know, as long as I’ve known Morwick, tonight is the first time I’ve actually met his mother, Lady Cupps-Foster.” Haddon’s gaze drifted to the other end of the table where Lady Pendleton sat regarding her guests with a regal tilt to her head. His eyes passed over Katherine but lingered on Lady Cupps-Foster. “Are you acquainted?”