Tall Dark and Wicked: The Wickeds Book 5

by Ayers, Kathleen

  “You wouldn’t dare, Petra.” Her nostrils flared at Petra’s rebellion.

  “Try me, Mother.” She crossed her arms.

  A sputtering noise, like a teapot, came from her mother’s lips. “I do not care for this behavior Petra. I simply do not. We shall discuss your…intractability, on the morrow.”

  Petra sailed toward the door. “Indeed we shall. Are you coming?” Not bothering to wait for an answer, she strode down the stairs to the sound of music below.

  My God, that felt good.

  21

  Brushbriar’s ballroom was filled with society from Castleton, Buxton and the surrounding area. Liveried servants passed through the swirl of skirts and snapping fans. The smell of pomade and lavender filled the ballroom even as the doors to the rear were thrown open to allow in the evening’s cooler air. A flurry of names and faces passed before Petra as introductions were made. She danced first with Simon, then Baron Haddon. Mr. Divet twirled her about the floor, laughing when she stepped accidentally on his toe. A young gentleman, a squire’s son from Castleton, next claimed her. Then Dr. Stubbins questioned her health while spinning her about.

  Her eyes constantly peered into the corners of the ballroom and through the small crowd, searching for an overly tall man with a mop of unruly ebony curls. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t do such a thing but seemed unable to stop looking for Morwick. Surprisingly, Katherine did appear, alone, resplendent in a gown of dove gray silk decorated in lace and black jet. Even as a widow she far outshone every woman in the room.

  Petra hastily looked away from her, lest the other woman see the jealously erupting like a wound torn open. At least Morwick wasn’t at her side.

  Lady Pendleton surveyed the dancing from her place against a far wall. A chair covered in red velvet had been placed upon a raised dais, and there, Queen Lydia perched. A group of older women, including Petra’s mother, clustered about Queen Lydia, hanging on her every word.

  Lady Pendleton bestowed indulgent smiles to her small court, waving her boney gloved hands and flapping an overlarge fan at her bosom. Laughter erupted from the group and Petra heard her mother.

  Lady Marsh glared back at her daughter, eyes gleaming with future retribution for Petra’s disobedience. She shot a pointed look at the skirts of Petra’s gown.

  Petra didn’t give a fig.

  Her mother had ruled Petra with an iron fist for the vast majority of Petra’s life. Rules piled upon rules. Constant supervision. Everything decided for her without due consideration for Petra’s opinion. She was like a small country who had finally thrown off the yoke of petty dictatorship.

  Oh, that’s quite good. Unfortunately, I can’t share such a thing with Simon to prove my ability to understand simple politics. Morwick, though, would find the comparison amusing. Petra ignored the brief stab at her stomach, thinking of the intimacy she’d witnessed last night. He was involved with Katherine. She must accept their relationship and acknowledge their brief flirtation was at an end.

  The day alone, sitting and watching the moors while reading about rocks and minerals, had given Petra plenty of time to think without interruption. While her future was now uncertain, Petra was very sure of what she did not want. She recalled the conversation she’d had so long ago with the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne. She’d made a promise to the elderly woman to follow her heart.

  Yes, but follow it where?

  Simon claimed Petra for a dance, expertly twirling her about, executing each move with precision. He kept a proper distance between the two of them, careful not to hold her too close, his gloved fingers resting lightly on her waist. He danced with her exactly as he had in London, but now Petra felt none of the thrill she had before. Every so often, Simon would lean in and instruct her to lift her skirt a bit or mind her step.

  The guests in the ballroom, observing she and Simon, would incorrectly assume he was whispering endearments in her ear as they danced. Or perhaps Lord Pendleton was taking the opportunity to eye his dancing partner’s bosom, so delightfully displayed in the slightly daring neckline of the gown. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Petra felt as if she were whirling about the floor with the dancing instructor from her youth. He’d been so much more charming in London.

  Once the dance ended, Simon returned Petra to the group of women surrounding Lady Pendleton, bowed low and brushed his lips against her knuckles. “I think I’ll play cards for a bit, my dear. I’ll be sure to find you before the buffet is served and claim you for another dance.”

  Petra dipped. “Of course, my lord.” She rather hoped he’d play cards all night.

  “Lord Pendleton doesn’t care for your dress.” Mother hissed below her breath as Simon walked away toward the card tables. “I could see the disapproval in his eyes from where I stand.”

  Petra gave her Mother an unconcerned look. “Well, then, it’s a good thing he’s not wearing it.”

  22

  “May I have the honor of this dance, my lady?”

  Marissa nodded in agreement with a polite smile. The conversation amongst the ladies surrounding Lady Pendleton and her throne was becoming tiresome. Brendan had yet to make an appearance this evening, though thankfully Katherine was in the ballroom and dancing with a score of lovestruck gentlemen. Marissa was much relieved, for it meant Brendan was not sequestered with Katherine in a guest room somewhere. She’d been very certain of her son’s regard for Petra and didn’t wish to be proven wrong.

  She extended her hand to Squire Turley. “Delighted.” While she had little desire to be hefted about the floor by Squire Turley, Marissa didn’t refuse. She liked to dance, even if her partner was a somewhat round, beefy man. Unfortunately, the musicians began the waltz and Marissa resigned herself to feel the press of the squire’s sweaty palms against the fine damask of her ballgown. A shame. She liked this gown but it would likely be ruined after dancing with Turley.

  Droplets of moisture hovered above Squire Turley’s upper lip and beaded on the man’s forehead.

  Good Lord. Was he unwell?

  With a clumsy turn, the squire pulled her into the cluster of other couples circling the dance floor. Hard to believe the waltz was once so scandalous, for she didn’t feel anything but terror while dancing with Turley. If he stomped on her foot, he may well break it.

  “How are you enjoying your stay, Lady Cupps-Foster?” His eyes assessed her.

  Marissa had seen that look before, more times than she cared to. Turley was looking for a wife. “It has been very pleasant.” She bestowed a polite smile on his glistening face. Every man assumed a widowed woman couldn’t wait to have the shackles of marriage bestowed upon her again. Not Marissa. Three marriages was quite enough, thank you. Besides, her husbands had a propensity for dying quite soon after saying their vows. And Turley was not to her taste.

  Turley spun awkwardly and Marissa stumbled, but he caught her swiftly enough, managing to draw her closer to his sweating body at the same time. A practiced move on Turley’s part.

  Marissa attempted to pull back, but he clutched her firmly. The dress would definitely be ruined. No amount of brushing would remove the sweat stains. “Mr. Turley—”

  “May I cut in?” The cultured masculine voice inquired.

  Eyes the color of quicksilver cut across Marissa’s breasts, lingered for a moment in the exact location of her nipples, then moved down to her still slender waist before returning to her face with singular intensity.

  The blush of Haddon’s regard rose up to pink her cheeks before Turley could even answer.

  “Haddon, the lady and I—”

  “Thank you, Turley.” Haddon smoothly brushed off Turley’s response. “That’s a good sport.” Before the puffing squire could say more, Marissa found Haddon smoothly gliding her about the floor without missing a step. Strong fingers wrapped around Marissa’s waist and pulled her a bit closer than was strictly polite. He smelled deliciously of sandalwood soap and tobacco.

  Turley clenched his fis
ts, indignant, but bowed at being politely vanquished and stumbled off the dance floor.

  “That was rather abrupt. Possibly unkind,” Marissa said, though she couldn’t deny the relief she felt to be out of Turley’s grasp.

  Haddon had the most curious eyes. Silver gray, but now that she was closer, Marissa could see the hint of green around the edges of his pupils. He used those glorious eyes to make an impression upon women, if any bit of the gossip in London were true. Just now, with her skirts wrapping around the hard, lean lines of his body as they danced, Marissa thought the gossips hadn’t done him justice. Haddon was a splendid, handsome beast. It was surprising to Marissa they’d never met before tonight.

  “Ah,” Haddon spun her about expertly, “you looked as if you were in need of immediate rescue.” The silver of his eyes glittered in the light of the chandelier. “Was I wrong? I can always call back Turley. Even now he is eyeing you like a cherry tart. No, wait, my apologies. It’s only that the desert table is behind your shoulder.”

  Marissa raised a brow at his wit. “You’re rather incorrigible.” Haddon was also charming and at least ten years her junior. They’d not spoken directly since being introduced the previous evening before dinner, though she’d noticed his regard for her during the meal.

  “I am, aren’t I? You, though,” his voice lowered to an erotic growl, “are stunning.”

  Goodness. A heated blush rose up her chest for the second time.

  Haddon had been a rake before his marriage, and quite a successful one if the rumors were correct. Marissa was, unfortunately, well-versed in rakes. Her first husband had cut quite a swathe through London before their marriage. And after their marriage. Kelso had seduced her and in a burst of honor, married her. Reggie, whom she loved, had also been a bit of a rogue. Cupps-Foster was a mistake. She’d fallen into bed with him and then found herself married. At any rate, Marissa no longer found such men held appeal for her in the long term, though a brief dalliance was certainly an option.

  “I appreciate the compliment. Will you next extol the virtues of my eyelashes? My cheekbones? Perhaps the curve of my ear?”

  Haddon laughed, a great masculine sound which send wonderful shivers down her spine. “I thought the tip of your nose, or perhaps your wrist. I am partial to wrists.”

  Haddon’s reputation was well-deserved. His wit paired with the dark, sable hair and silver eyes would make him irresistible to most any woman. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. No padding in the jacket, either.

  The fingers at her waist pulled her closer to the broad expanse of his chest. A delicious ache started just below her breasts, something she hadn’t felt in quite some time. Haddon also had the appeal of being far from London and the eyes of her nephew. A very brief dalliance could be had before returning to Somerton.

  The silver gaze lingered on her mouth.

  When Haddon asked her to take air with him on the terrace, which she knew he would do, Marissa would say yes.

  * * *

  Brendan watched the ballroom from the shadows, his eyes lingering on Petra. She looked stunning tonight, for once not wearing a gown of some pale hue he despised. The neckline appealed to him as well, much less modest than usual. He kept imagining trailing his fingers beneath the silk while kissing her.

  Petra was making him mad with hunger.

  As she swirled about, Brendan imagined the legs beneath the silk and how exactly he would peel off her stockings, careful to press a kiss to each inch of exposed flesh, before pushing her thighs apart. Worse than the lust was the knowledge that he missed her—desperately. Solitary creature that he was, Brendan didn’t want or require companionship. At least he hadn’t. Besides, Petra was bound to attempt climbing again. He needed to be there, lest she needed rescue.

  Christ. He sounded like a lovesick lad.

  Grabbing a glass of wine off the tray of a passing servant, Brendan tossed the dark liquid back in one swallow. The wine tasted French and slightly pretentious.

  Petra avoided Katherine, though Katherine greeted her politely and with a smile. Even from where he stood, Brendan saw the flash of dislike on Petra’s normally polite features, along with the sheen of jealousy.

  He was terrible. He liked that Petra was jealous.

  Brendan grabbed another glass of the French swill and wondered if the shadow he’d seen in the hallway last night hadn’t really been a shadow, but a person, namely Petra. He’d checked, discreetly of course, where Petra’s room was located. She was a mere four doors down on the right from his room. Had Simon guessed at Brendan’s obsession with Petra, Brendan was certain he would have been sequestered in the stables.

  Petra’s eyes flashed murder at Katherine, before she was whisked off to another dance by one of Turley’s son’s. The boy was holding onto her a bit too tightly, practically pawing her. Brendan pushed back from the wall, setting the empty wine glass down. His fists clenched automatically.

  Brendan wasn’t possessive by nature. He’d never had a reason to be.

  Until now.

  23

  The evening passed far too slowly for Petra’s taste. Had she once looked forward to such events? Enjoyed them? Odd how without Morwick’s presence, the entire evening had gone gray and colorless. She hadn’t realized how profoundly she’d wanted him to see her in this particular gown.

  Petra danced with nearly every gentleman in the ballroom at least once and dared not dance more for fear of creating a small scandal. Bored, and not wishing to join the women hovering around Lady Pendleton, Petra spoke for a time with Jordana. The poor girl danced awkwardly, almost as if she couldn’t hear the music, and blushed profusely every time she missed a step.

  “I shall be a country girl with nothing to recommend me, neither dancing nor conversation,” Jordana muttered. “I don’t even wish a husband.”

  “You don’t?” Petra questioned.

  “But I do want to go to London. I’ve plans, you see.” Her gaze was full of determination, clearly intent on something only she could see.

  As she suspected, Jordana wasn’t near as well-behaved as she pretended. Feeling a kindred soul, Petra wondered what her plans were. She opened her mouth to ask Jordana, but Mrs. Divet, her face wreathed in smiles, requested her attention. A young gentleman from Buxton wished an introduction.

  Jordana shot Petra a woeful glance but allowed herself to be led away.

  Bored after Jordana’s departure and feeling profoundly mutinous, Petra decided to leave the ballroom. Mother was fairly howling with laughter at something Lady Pendleton related to her and wouldn’t notice her absence. At least, not immediately. Sadly, Petra doubted anyone would notice she was gone. Simon had yet to return from the card tables.

  If she’d thought far enough ahead, and had something more interesting to do, Petra would have clothed a dressmaker’s dummy in the buttercup yellow gown her mother had wished her to wear, and positioned it in a corner next to a plant, and no one, including her mother would have been the wiser.

  Strolling around the edge of the ballroom, she wondered again where Morwick was and immediately chastised herself for continuing to seek him out. A moment of respite from the noise and brittle laughter of her mother was what Petra desired. She moved toward the open terrace doors, thinking to walk the gardens. A couple lingered by the doors, whispering to each other, their heads bent together, before escaping into the darkness.

  Lady Cupps-Foster and Baron Haddon.

  A smile teased Petra’s lips. She’d noted Haddon’s interest in Lady Cupps-Foster over dinner the previous evening. Unfortunately, Petra could no longer escape to the gardens, though she was happy for Morwick’s mother.

  Petra moved through a small hallway at the opposite side of the ballroom from where her mother stood speaking with Lady Pendleton. The first place Mother would look, should she notice her daughter’s disappearance, would be the guest room Petra occupied.

  Sconces lit the hall and the sound of the musicians became somewhat muted. She’d not been dow
n this way before, though from the positioning of the hall, she thought it might take her to the library. She could sit out the remainder of the evening there in relative peace.

  Katherine’s laughter, throaty and seductive, floated toward Petra.

  Thinking Katherine was in the midst of an assignation with Morwick and not wishing to be seen, Petra opened the first door on her right. Relieved to find it unlocked, and she quickly ducked inside. The very thought of witnessing the pair together again made her ill. She shut the door with a quiet click.

  The room was dark but appeared deserted. Heavy curtains were open to allow the pale moonlight to stream through the windows. The bit of light illuminated various dark lumps which Petra took to be low chairs and tables. She could just make out a couch by the window next to another dark mass which she took to be a wing-backed chair. The couch was a perfect spot to look out across the moonlit moors.

  Making her way to the couch, she carefully spread the skirts of her gown to avoid undue wrinkling and settled herself on the plump cushions of the couch. Her feet ached from dancing and she kicked off her slippers, wiggling her toes blissfully. Her hands automatically crawled from her sides to clasp in her lap, but Petra forcefully pulled her arms apart. How often had she sat quietly, hands perfectly clasped, while Mother instructed her?

  Not anymore.

  “Are you hiding? A woman who climbs trees to look at Mam Tor can’t possibly be a coward.”

  Petra’s hand flew over her mouth to stifle a scream. What she’d taken as a large misshapen chair was actually…not. A bubble of excitement pushed up from her heart at the raspy voice. “You scared the bloody daylights out of me. And I am not hiding. I needed a moment of respite.”