When She Was Wicked (Honeycote #1)

by Anne Barton

  The day couldn’t arrive soon enough.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Nap: (1) The raised part, or pile, of a fabric such as velvet. (2) What one requires after a long night of criminal or otherwise nefarious activity.

  Over the next four days of the house party, Owen respected Anabelle’s wishes. He did not seek her out.

  Which may have been the most difficult, selfless thing he’d ever not done.

  Each day, she grew more confident, more beautiful. She played the part of companion perfectly, keeping a close watch over Rose and Olivia while deflecting attention from herself. At the picnic this afternoon, she chatted with the older women, fetched drinks and fans, and attempted to blend in with the shrubbery. But Owen noticed her.

  And he wasn’t the only one.

  “It’s very odd—is it not?” Miss Starling asked. She clung to the sleeve of his jacket as they walked a trail that bordered the lake and meandered through a series of miniature temples. She took excruciatingly small steps. If Owen’s calculations were correct, maintaining their current pace on the footpath would ensure their return to the picnic in the fall of 1820. “Miss Honeycote sits at the dining table with us as though she is a lady born and bred. But she is far from a lady, Huntford. Two months ago she was hemming my gown.”

  Owen counted to three, drew up short, and faced her. “It almost sounds as though you’re questioning my choice of chaperone for my sisters.”

  Miss Starling tossed a few tresses of her blond hair. He’d admit she was beautiful—in a cold and predictable sort of way. “I am merely suggesting that perhaps you should find out more about the mysterious Miss Honeycote. You’ve entrusted your sisters’ welfare to her. What do you know of her background or family?”

  He glared and remained silent for several seconds. “Plenty.” Miss Starling overstepped her bounds.

  “Then I’m sure you know best,” she pouted. “I just can’t help feeling that she’s hiding something.”

  “Aren’t we all?” he challenged.

  Her blue eyes opened wider. “I’ve nothing to hide. If there’s anything you wish to know about me, you need only ask.”

  She gazed at him expectantly, but no burning questions came to mind. About her.

  Smoothly, she said, “Perhaps you’d be interested in a bit of gossip I overheard.”

  Dread slithered down his spine. Rumors had led to his mother’s desertion, his father’s suicide, and a certain extortion note. In a tone as uninterested as he could muster, he drolled, “Gossip?”

  “Concerning Olivia and Rose.”

  He abruptly stopped again and raised a brow.

  To Miss Starling’s credit, she didn’t cower. “Yesterday, while your sisters were in Lord Danshire’s boat out there”—she nodded toward the lake—“his brother said that your sisters, though lovely, seemed to lack the grace and bearing required of a countess.”

  Owen growled. Tossing Danshire and his idiotic brother into the lake would give him great pleasure.

  As though privy to his thoughts, Miss Starling patted his arm and said, “A display of your temper would only make matters worse. You cannot bully those gentlemen into accepting your sisters.”

  Couldn’t he? He pictured the cretins trodding onto the shore of the lake, their fine jackets tinged green from algae, their expensive boots covered in silt… “I suppose not.”

  “Likewise, you cannot buy their acceptance. I assume you have spent a small fortune for Miss Honeycote’s exclusive dressmaking services. What has it gotten your sisters? The enviable wardrobes they gained are offset by their odd friendship with the seamstress. The more time they spend with her, the more people talk.”

  Owen seethed. “My sisters are happy.”

  Miss Starling clucked her tongue. “The poor dears don’t know any better. Now, I could see that your sisters are truly embraced by the ton. Under the right set of circumstances, that is. My influence is limited now, but…”

  Owen did not miss her meaning. She could help his sisters—would help them—if she became his wife. He didn’t normally tolerate attempts to manipulate him, but Miss Starling was a shrewd woman clearly intent on becoming the Duchess of Huntford. He might have admired her dogged determination—if he hadn’t been the object of it.

  It was high time he married. He supposed he should summon a modicum of enthusiasm for the task, but he couldn’t. Now, if he could marry someone like Anabelle… but that was not even within the realm of possibility.

  He might as well marry someone who could help his sisters. Miss Starling possessed the necessary qualifications, and half the ton already seemed to think they were betrothed. He would probably offer for her.

  But not yet.

  Not here, at the house party, in front of Anabelle. He couldn’t do that to her. Or himself.

  “Huntford?” Miss Starling tapped her toe and pulled him toward the mock ruins on the sloping shore of the lake. The artfully crumbled columns and the flawless lawn surrounding the folly left a sour taste in his mouth. What was the sense in erecting a new structure that looked ancient? And what was the point of plopping it onto a perfectly manicured lawn? Wouldn’t a real ruin have a few weeds sprouting up around it, for God’s sake?

  Precious little in his world was genuine and true.

  “We should return to the picnic,” he said.

  “I only wanted to explore a little.” She boldly placed her palm on his chest. “Are you worried my reputation will be sullied by a few minutes inside the ruins?”

  “Of course I’m concerned for your reputation. And I’d like to check on my sisters as well.” He offered his arm, but she folded hers.

  “Will you answer one question?” she asked.

  “If I can.”

  “Am I foolish to discourage other suitors? Am I wasting my time with you?”

  “That was two questions.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed to slits. “I deserve answers.”

  Owen gazed across the glinting water to the dots of color darting back and forth across the lawn. The stationary light blue dot on the edge of the gathering was Anabelle, cheering on his sisters as they played cricket. He’d tried to persuade her to join in the game, but she declined, saying it wouldn’t be seemly. For a companion.

  “I’m waiting, Huntford.”

  He swallowed and forced himself to look at her. “The answers are”—somehow, he forced the words past the chokehold around his throat—“no and… no.”

  After dinner that evening, all the guests gathered in the drawing room for musical entertainment. Several young ladies—and not-so-young ladies—were called upon to play the piano and sing. Anabelle pasted on a smile and clapped politely after each performance. She was delighted to discover, however, that Rose was quite talented at the piano keys. When she perched herself on the piano bench in front of everyone, accompanying Olivia as she sang a few lively ballads, Anabelle’s heart beat fast with admiration and wonder.

  Owen, who was seated between Miss Starling and her mother, had looked miserable during the earlier performances, but when he heard his sisters, he leaned forward, mesmerized—and looked proud enough to pop a button off his jacket.

  Unable to contain her own joy, Anabelle smiled at him.

  He smiled back.

  Her entire body tingled.

  While she and Owen sat stiffly in a drawing room crowded with ladies and gentlemen, she imagined their souls floating above the room, in perfect harmony with the music, connecting them on a higher plane. She felt so close to him in that moment that they might have been embracing, skin to skin. The frisson that ran through her was frightening in its intensity, making her blush from the roots of her hair to the hollow of her throat. How she missed him.

  Owen swallowed, and his green eyes took on the hue of a turbulent sea. He wanted her, too.

  How foolish of her to think keeping her distance from Owen would banish him from her heart. They may have avoided conversation with each other, but as long as he was in the sam
e house, she couldn’t help but be aware of his every move, or, indeed, his every thought.

  It was torture to be so near him and not be with him.

  And so, she’d stayed up late working the past several nights. She had to finish embellishing the dresses before the conclusion of the house party. She’d completed work on all but two—the gowns for Rose’s debut ball. They’d be Anabelle’s most stunning creations, more beautiful than Olivia and Rose had even dreamt.

  When Anabelle and the girls finally retired to their rooms that evening, she helped ready them for bed. Olivia, in particular, was animated after their performance. “Was James looking at me while I sang?”

  “Of course he was,” Anabelle assured her, hoping it was true. She’d been preoccupied with Owen. “Everyone was quite impressed with the pair of you.”

  “I don’t care about everyone,” Olivia said petulantly. “Just James. Did you hear him talking about taking a trip to Egypt? He’s so worldly, and I know practically nothing about the country. Other than it’s the location of dusty pyramids housing dead people. I must find a book and learn all I can so I can speak intelligently on the subject.”

  Rose nodded in agreement, and Olivia rambled on about Mr. Averill, examining every tilt of his head, every casual comment. At last, she climbed into bed, yawning. Rose lay sprawled across the counterpane beside her, reading a book of poetry.

  Anabelle hung their dresses in a small armoire, walked to the window, and pushed back the heavy drapes. Pressing the tip of a finger to the cool pane, she traced the haphazard paths in which rivulets of rain trickled on the other side.

  “It’s been raining for hours,” Olivia said. “It will make for a muddy walk to the village tomorrow.”

  Anabelle let the curtain fall back into place and wrapped an arm around a post at the foot of the bed. “I love the soothing patter of rain at night.”

  “You should turn in early,” Olivia said. “Forgive me for saying so, but you look rather tired.”

  Despite the weariness that made her limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated, Anabelle had work to do. “I won’t stay up too late,” she lied.

  “Oh, you’re working on our ball gowns, aren’t you?” cried Olivia. “Do you think we could have a peek?”

  Anabelle laughed. “No, you may not. You will not see them again until every embellishment is complete and every thread has been trimmed.”

  “You are cruel beyond measure!”

  “Yes. Be careful, or I will cover the bodice of your gown with a dozen ostrich feathers.” She pressed a finger to her chin, as though she were considering something. “You don’t suppose Mr. Averill is allergic, do you?”

  Rose laughed, a wonderful sound. Olivia hurled a throw pillow in Anabelle’s direction, which she easily dodged. In all her pillow fights with Daph, Anabelle had yet to lose.

  “Do you need anything before I go?” Anabelle asked.

  Olivia pulled the coverlet up to her chin, nestled her head into her pillow, and smiled. “No, thank you. I intend to close my eyes and dream about a certain handsome solicitor.”

  Rose, who was braiding her glowing auburn hair into a thick rope, rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  With a chuckle, Anabelle said good night and walked to her bedchamber. She penned a quick note to Daphne, taking care not to let her heartache spill onto the page. Instead, she inquired after Mama and wrote how glad she was to be coming home soon.

  After finishing the letter, she closed the door leading into the suite. She planned to add crystals to the sleeves of Olivia’s gown and would not put it past her to saunter by an open door in order to catch a glimpse.

  Anabelle couldn’t wait to see the looks on Olivia and Rose’s faces when the finished gowns were unveiled.

  It would be a day full of joy… and sorrow, because she’d say good-bye.

  Afterward, they might exchange the occasional letter or converse in Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop, but they wouldn’t be able to visit or socialize. Even if the difference in their stations didn’t prohibit it, seeing Olivia and Rose would be much too painful.

  They would only serve to remind her of Owen and of the life they might have had if she’d been more like Miss Starling. If Mama hadn’t been from a common family—or if Anabelle’s paternal grandparents could have overlooked Mama’s humble origins—Anabelle might have been raised as a true lady. She would have spent leisurely summers at her grandfather’s country estate and made her come-out in a lovely white gown when she turned sixteen. Best of all, she’d have sewn for the pure pleasure of it—not because she needed to put food on her family’s table.

  Silly, stupid, pointless thoughts.

  And they ran through her mind, tormenting her, into the wee hours of the morning.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Rose Sherbourne listened to her sister’s even, peaceful breathing. She was probably already dreaming about James. Rose envied her, in a way. Olivia, who expended every ounce of energy she possessed during the day, always fell asleep soon after laying her head on the pillow. Rose tossed and turned, her head full of what ifs, whys, and hows.

  At least every night brought her closer to seeing Charles. She’d be at Huntford Manor within the week; they’d be together again. Her heart tripped lightly in her chest.

  Until then, she could occupy herself with helping Olivia. Taking care not to bounce the mattress, she slid off the bed and slipped into her robe. Quietly, she padded across the bedchamber, entered the sitting room, and found it empty. Perhaps Anabelle had taken Olivia’s advice and had gone to sleep early. No, a soft light shone beneath her door. She must be working on the ball gowns.

  Rose raised a fist to knock on Anabelle’s door, but hesitated. It was only a trip to Lord Harsby’s library. He’d told the girls to avail themselves of all the dusty tomes they wanted. They’d already borrowed several items from his collection, and Rose knew the exact shelf where the travel journals were housed. It would be a simple matter to return the volume of poetry she’d borrowed and select a book or two on ancient Egypt for Olivia.

  The house party represented a week of firsts for Rose, and in spite of the awful sense of foreboding she’d felt upon learning that the Earl of Winthrope was a guest, nothing untoward had occurred. The earl had been the model of civility all week long, doting on his wife and their daughter, Margaret.

  So much time had passed since the fateful night Rose stumbled into her mother’s room. Sometimes she wondered if her overactive, adolescent mind had imagined the whole sordid thing.

  But every couple of months, she awoke in the dark of night, fists clutching the sheets. In her nightmares, she relived every awful detail: the earl’s flabby, pale chest, glistening with sweat; his mistress’s head, bent over his lap; her mother lying prone as the earl pawed at her breasts. The spectacle was all the more shocking because Rose had believed her mother the perfect lady. Never before had she seen her mother with her hair down. The air was thick with their bodily scents. And no wonder they hadn’t heard Rose’s gentle knock—the bedchamber had echoed with the primitive moaning and grunting of wild beasts.

  The most haunting part of the dream, however, was when Mama turned her head, opened her heavy-lidded eyes, and stared directly into Rose’s. Alarm, denial, and self-loathing flicked across Mama’s face in quick succession. She must have known there was no way to explain her behavior. Before she could try, Rose fled. She left the house and the estate and ran and ran, as though running could erase the horror of the scene from her mind and perhaps undo it completely.

  That image of her mother was the one she remembered most clearly. There’d been happier times—walks in the park, ices at Gunter’s, and skating on the river. But those memories were colorless and unfocused, like she was viewing them through gossamer. No, the sharpest recollection Rose had of her mother was from that terrible night.

  The last time she ever saw her.

  Rose shook her head to clear it and breathed deeply. She was no longer a green girl but a woman, an
d it was time for her to face the truth. Life was sometimes ugly and unpleasant. But she didn’t have to dwell on those bits.

  Instead she imagined how delighted Olivia would be to see a book on James’s favorite subject—Ancient Egypt—beside her bed when she woke.

  Rose quietly retrieved her slippers, clutched the book of poetry to her chest, and headed for the library. The corridor was dark; one lamp flickered halfheartedly on a small table at the top of the landing. She picked up the lantern and tiptoed downstairs, grateful that the entire household seemed to be asleep.

  Running into someone when she was alone was… awkward. They would politely greet her, and she would murmur something unintelligible, smile, and nod.

  Her sudden withdrawal from the world over two years ago was a source of grave concern to Olivia and Owen, and she regretted worrying them. But something inside her had fragmented that night.

  She vaguely recalled having been a happy, whole person before. Sometimes, in her dreams, she was transported to a time when she’d laughed with Olivia and Owen, hugged Papa, and played the piano for Mama. But the memories were murky and distorted—as though she gazed at her reflection in a muddy, swirling lake.

  She hadn’t yet figured out how to put herself back together again. Some days, when her emotions were calm and quiet, she felt certain it was only a matter of time before she’d be able to fill the cracks and return to the person she’d been before. Other days, it seemed there wasn’t enough paste in the world to mend her, especially without either Mama or Papa there to help her.

  She entered the second-floor room, inhaling the familiar musty smell all self-respecting libraries possessed. Lord and Lady Harsby’s collection was impressive, and the room was well-appointed—thick carpets begged one to walk barefoot and plush armchairs invited one to test their soft cushions.

  The travel guides stood in militarily neat rows on a bottom shelf, ready to serve. Finding a couple of books about pharaohs and mummies was an easy matter. Tucking them under an arm, she proceeded to the large bookcase dedicated to poetry. She returned the volume she had and plucked another—a rich leather volume of Donne’s.