When She Was Wicked (Honeycote #1)

by Anne Barton

  The information she’d gleaned at the shop might be valuable.

  Two days later, after much deliberation and drafting her List of Nevers, she composed her first extortion note, demanding thirty pounds from the earl in return for her silence concerning his romantic involvement with the Duchess of Huntford. The money had kept Mama, Daphne, and her from starving, and so she’d never really thought about who else might have been impacted by the events of that night.

  Years later, she now knew, and it made her heart ache. The person who had stumbled into the duchess’s bedchamber on the night of the house party had been the duchess’s innocent fifteen-year-old daughter.

  Rose.

  Anabelle put on her spectacles. The freckles on her nose came into focus in the mirror. It was too early for anyone but the servants to be stirring, so she didn’t bother to change out of her nightrail or brush out her braid before creeping into the workroom and pulling back the drapes to let in the morning light. If stitching the embroidery on Olivia’s dress made her drowsy, she’d be able to slip back into bed for a nap.

  But the task of embroidering scallops along the hem provided a welcome distraction. As long as she worried about keeping her stitches even and the spacing of the half-circles consistent, there was little time to worry about other things, like her mother’s health, Rose’s fragile state… or Owen’s kisses.

  She’d made it most of the way around the hem when she heard a knock at the door. Heavens. She’d no idea how much time had passed, but the sun was high in the sky, and she still wore her nightgown. It was probably Rose or Olivia, and she hoped they had some news of Mama. Now that they knew she was ill they both seemed determined to help. Anabelle set down the dress and her needle and thread, padded across the room in her bare feet, and stood close to the door.

  “Who is it?” she called.

  The door swung open and Anabelle took a quick step back to avoid being hit by it. Owen strode into the room looking almost as surprised as she.

  “I didn’t give you permission to enter,” she said with exasperation.

  “I grew tired of waiting. And this isn’t a bedchamber.” He raked his gaze over her. “For God’s sake, why are you dressed like that?”

  Anabelle bristled. It seemed he was always criticizing her manner of dress. Although, she thought, glancing down at her nightrail, this morning he actually had a point.

  “Never mind,” he muttered. He walked to a corner of the workroom where much of the nursery’s furniture had been piled to make room for the tables. He opened a trunk and withdrew a blanket which he wrapped around her shoulders.

  The gesture was sweet, more so because of the desire that simmered in his eyes.

  “How is your arm?” she asked.

  “It’s fine.” Odd; she’d expected a clever retort. Something along the lines of “still attached to my shoulder.”

  “Are you certain? I have a needle and thread here,” she teased.

  “We need to talk,” he began, gesturing toward the window seat. “Please. Let’s sit.”

  His civility in itself was rather alarming, but when she noticed the pinched lines on his face, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. She was certain this had to do with Mama, and that the news wasn’t good. “What?” she demanded. “This is about my mother, isn’t it?”

  “She’s fine. At least, Dr. Loxton thinks she will be.” He grasped her upper arms, gently guided her to the bench seat, and sat beside her. “He examined her last night and spoke with your sister at length about the course of treatment Conwell has prescribed. Your mother is a very sick woman.”

  “I know that.” She battled back tears of frustration. “Can Dr. Loxton help her?”

  “Maybe. He’s instructed Daphne to wean your mother off her medicine.”

  “What? That is ridiculous.” Anabelle stood, threw off the blanket, and headed toward her room to dress. Clearly, she needed to go home and see to matters herself. She was not going to sit idly by while some strange doctor withheld the medicine that was keeping Mama comfortable. And alive.

  “Anabelle.” Owen was two steps behind her. “Let me explain.”

  She turned to face him, hands fisted at her sides. “She can’t stop taking the medicine. You should have seen what she was like before. She coughed so violently that I feared her ribs would crack; every breath was torturous, and she was delirious with fever. I won’t subject her to that again. I won’t!” Her voice screeched, even in her own ears. Why couldn’t he understand?

  She would have closed her door, shutting him out, but he grabbed her shoulders. “The medicine that Dr. Conwell prescribed may have helped her in the beginning. Now it’s doing nothing but sedating her. The dosage is much too strong. Not only is it taking away your mother’s appetite, she’s become dependent on it.”

  Panic thudded through Anabelle’s veins. She pressed her fingertips to her lips to keep the scream in her throat from escaping. She wanted to trust Owen and knew he had nothing to gain by lying to her. Except, perhaps, to exact revenge for her extortion attempt. But she didn’t think he would do that. Through the thin fabric of her nightgown, his hands felt warm and firm. His steady and solid presence calmed her.

  “Are you saying,” she said slowly, “that the medicine she’s been taking isn’t making her well? That it’s doing her more harm than good?”

  He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Yes.”

  “Then… then why did Dr. Conwell keep prescribing it?”

  “I suspect he figured that as long as your mother was sick, you’d keep paying for his visits.”

  Now her head was really spinning. “No, that’s not possible. Dr. Conwell was highly recommended by our apothecary, Mr. Vanders.”

  “It’s likely the two of them conspired to swindle you. I do know that Conwell isn’t a licensed physician. I haven’t even been able to track him down at his address. Odds are, he heard I was looking for him and left Town.”

  Anabelle went still. Blood pounded in her ears.

  She’d believed that Conwell was the thin thread keeping her mother alive. She’d put all her trust and hope in the man and risked everything she had—her life, in fact—to pay him. If her mother never recovered, she would find him and strangle him with his own stethoscope.

  But he wasn’t the only one to blame. She’d been a fool, blindly accepting his falsehoods.

  “Are you all right? I think you should sit down.” Owen clasped her hand and led her back to the window seat. “You couldn’t have known he was a fraud. This isn’t your fault.”

  She blinked and adjusted her spectacles. “How did you know I was thinking that?”

  With a sheepish smile, he said, “Because if I were in your position, I would have thought the same thing.”

  She dragged her eyes away from his handsome face and studied the dappled sunlight dancing on the drapes. “I suppose the real question is how to make Mama better.”

  “Exactly. I’ve asked Dr. Loxton to check in on her every day and monitor her health. He wants Daphne to slowly cut back on the amount of medicine and tell your mother that she must eat at least a little broth before she gets another dose. Loxton thinks she’ll improve rapidly.”

  The optimistic prognosis was almost cruel. Anabelle wished it were true, had prayed for it every day, but wishes and prayers were futile. “She has consumption. If she seems better, it’s likely because the disease is in the final stages. It would take a miracle for her to recover.”

  Owen encased her hands in his and forced her to look into his eyes. “Loxton isn’t convinced she has consumption. It may take a while for him to properly diagnose her. But she may have had the croup or scarlet fever instead.”

  Anabelle wrangled with the idea that her mother might not be dying after all. Croup and scarlet fever were not trifling illnesses, but they were vastly preferable to consumption. It was just too much to hope for. She laid her head against Owen’s chest and burst into tears. Not the pretty, feminine sort of tears one cries after h
earing a moving bit of poetry, but the awful, body-wracking sobs that blindside a person when emotions are too raw for anything else.

  Owen didn’t shush her or tell her not to cry. Maybe he knew it wouldn’t have done a whit of good. To his credit, he gently pried off her spectacles so she could cry that much harder. She clutched his shirtfront and sobbed until the fine lawn was soaked with tears. He didn’t seem to mind.

  He rubbed her back and arms, ran his hand down the length of her braid, murmured little things that sounded sweet even if she couldn’t make out the words over her own pitiful howling.

  She cried until her body was limp with exhaustion and then sniffled and hiccupped for a few more moments. When at last she felt she could sit up without clinging to him, she did, instantly missing the starchy yet masculine smell of his shirt.

  Owen withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it with a heart-stopping smile. She gratefully dried her face.

  “I don’t want to raise your hopes too high.” He took her hands in his, making her stomach flutter happily. “But Dr. Loxton has tended to me since I was a boy, and to my father before me. I’d trust him—have trusted him—to care for my own sisters. Maybe he can help your mother.”

  “I feel like such a fool for taking Conwell at his word. I’m not sure what to say… except thank you.”

  They gazed at each other for several moments, not saying anything. His thumbs made sweet little circles on her palms, and desire welled up inside her. Her nipples tightened, and she was suddenly very aware that she wore no corset, no chemise, nothing beneath her thin nightgown. And although it was very wanton of her, she didn’t care.

  She liked being the object of his attention, and she would enjoy it for as long as it lasted. With boldness she hadn’t known she possessed, she raised herself onto her knees so that her face was level with his, took his scratchy cheeks into her palms, and kissed him.

  Not out of gratitude, or obligation, or to prove something.

  She kissed Owen simply because… she wanted to.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Darts: (1) Tucks used to remove extra fullness from a garment. (2) A sharp projectile similar to an arrow, employed by Cupid to induce wanton, foolish behavior.

  Owen vaguely recalled a promise he’d made to himself before looking for Belle to tell her the news he knew would unsettle her. He was fairly sure the promise involved kissing. Or not kissing. Right. Under no circumstances was there to be kissing.

  It wasn’t that he was opposed to the idea—quite the contrary.

  But he’d suspected that she was going to be upset, and he didn’t want to take advantage of her distress. Only a scoundrel would try to seduce a woman who’d just received momentous news.

  He supposed “scoundrel” was an apt description for him. In his defense, she’d started it… and his body had thought it a capital idea.

  When he’d tasted the salt of her tears on her cheeks and lips, he’d wanted to wash away her sadness. Even with her puffy eyes and pink face, she was utterly irresistible. He couldn’t imagine that she showed this vulnerable side very often, but she had for him, and he was strangely humbled.

  Telling Belle she’d been swindled had been harder than he’d thought. It shouldn’t have been. After all, her mother was going to receive proper care now and could conceivably recover. But Belle’s family was everything to her, and, ridiculous as it seemed, she felt she’d let them down. He’d seen it in the shock and anger that flitted across her face. He’d seen her normally proud shoulders slump in defeat.

  And he wanted to make her feel good again, to remind her that she wasn’t just a daughter, sister, or seamstress. She was all of those things and more—a woman, young and vibrant, with dreams and desires of her own.

  He wanted to make them all come true.

  Her lithe body pressed against him, taunting and torturing his senses. Her tongue teased the corner of his mouth, and for a brief moment, Owen considered laying her back against the soft window seat cushions and seducing her until she begged him to take her—honorable promises be damned. The sight of her pebbled nipples jutting toward him made him want to lay claim to every inch of her until she was crying out his name.

  “Owen,” she murmured.

  At last. She’d said it. Not “Your Grace” or even “Huntford,” but Owen.

  He let one last sweet kiss linger before he pulled away. “You are so beautiful,” he said, smoothing a few wisps of hair away from her face, “that I forget myself. You don’t know how badly I want you.”

  She blushed. “I like kissing you.”

  Since the current conversation was not cooling his ardor, he needed to do the sensible thing and put some space between them. He stood, raked a hand through his hair, and walked to his old globe on the shelf where he’d abandoned it decades before. He spun it and let his fingers trail over the oceans and continents until it slowed to a stop.

  “There’s something else I need to tell you, Anabelle.” Upon seeing the stricken look that crossed her face, he quickly added, “I think you’ll be pleased.”

  She looked rather doubtful but smiled bravely.

  “Circumstances being what they are,” he said, “I’d like to propose that we amend the terms of our agreement.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He shrugged, a feeble attempt to appear casual when he felt anything but. “I’m sure you’d like to be with your mother right now, and though Olivia and Rose will be sorely disappointed, I can have someone else make their gowns. If you’d like to go, you’re free to do so.”

  He held his breath as he awaited her response. He’d hoped for at least three months with her, but that was selfish. For some time now, he’d known that she presented no threat to society, and yet, he’d wanted her to stay. To help him understand his sisters; to challenge him when he behaved badly; to brighten the whole damned house.

  But he couldn’t keep her here like she was some prisoner. He spun the globe again.

  She nibbled on her bottom lip. “You’re releasing me from my debt?”

  It sounded so final. “Yes.”

  “That’s very generous, but… I can’t allow you to do that.”

  “I already did.”

  “I owe you too much. It wouldn’t feel right after all you’ve done for my family and me. I know I’ll never be able to repay you—not unless I discover that I’m an heiress to a long-forgotten fortune.”

  “Duly noted. However, if you should become an heiress, I’ll come to collect your debt. With interest.”

  “That seems reasonable,” she said seriously.

  He was teasing, for God’s sake. “Anabelle, there is no more debt.”

  She strode toward him and placed her palm on the globe, stopping it on its axis. “I won’t accept outright charity.”

  He snorted. Couldn’t help it. “You were willing to extort money from me. How can you object to charity?”

  Her gray eyes flashed at him, and he had his answer. Pride.

  “We made a deal, and I intend to honor it. It’s the least I can do.”

  She stood so close that he could smell the soap she used to wash her hair—citrusy and sweet—and her hand lay next to his, somewhere near the North Pole. “Fine.” He managed a light tone, as though he couldn’t care less one way or the other.

  She’d made it clear she was only sticking to their agreement out of a sense of obligation, but at least he knew she wouldn’t disappear from his life altogether. Not yet. He exhaled, took her hand from the globe, and held it lightly in his. He had one other option to offer.

  “If you’d like to return home and be with your family, you may. You could work out of your apartment or Mrs. Smallwood’s shop, finish Olivia’s and Rose’s wardrobes, and fulfill your end of the bargain.”

  He held his breath and waited for her answer.

  She let go of his hand and drifted around the room, pausing now and then to inspect various items. Ethereal in her pale nightgown, she ran her fingers over th
e fabric piled on the tables, ribbons strewn across an old desk, and a yardstick leaning against the window seat. When at last she’d circled the room and stood in front of him once more, she said, “Would you prefer it if I left?”

  “No.”

  She nibbled the tip of her index finger. “There’s little I’d be able to do for Mama at home, and I know she’s in excellent hands with Dr. Loxton. Daphne can keep me informed of her progress, so… I think I’d like to stay.”

  “You would?” He dared to hope he was the reason. Or, at least, a reason.

  “This room is so spacious and bright, and everything I could possibly need is here. If I were to work at the shop, I’d be distracted by customers and other projects. It could easily take me a year to complete the assignment. If I stay, I’ll be able to make the dresses more quickly and confer with Rose and Olivia whenever I need to.”

  “It’s settled then. You’ll remain here.” He spoke quickly, before she had the chance to change her mind. It pricked a little that she was only staying for the conveniences and not because she’d miss him, but at least she was staying. “You may visit your mother and sister whenever you wish.”

  She beamed. “Thank you, Owen.”

  “However,” he said sternly, “you will not walk there unescorted.”

  “But I am accustomed to walking alone to the dress shop each day. I promise not to attempt another evening visit.”

  “That is comforting,” he said wryly. “I must have your word that you will not go anywhere, especially to your home, unescorted. You may take a footman or, if you can bear it, you could take me.”

  She opened her mouth to object, but then appeared to stop herself. “You’d walk me to my house?”

  “I’d prefer to take the coach. But yes.”

  “I’m sure you have many more important matters to tend to.”

  “Not really.” Most days he didn’t even have time to read a newspaper, but he had time for her.