Twice as Wicked

by Elizabeth Bright

  She despised him.

  And he had quite simply lost his words.

  Why and wherefore such passionate feelings against him? They had never laid eyes on each other before the evening prior. But hate him she did, that was undeniable. Even given his…unique family situation, he had never before been the recipient of such a hostile look.

  Yet, she had done him a kindness in the very same moment. When she realized he had been struck dumb, she had asked him again, but in a way that allowed him to answer without words. She had not laughed, and he hadn’t detected even a note of mockery in her tone or eyes. No, just abhorrence.

  Why should she be kind when she hated him so?

  He did not pretend to understand her.

  He watched her from the safety of his rose-colored chair. She, too, sat on a rose settee. Was there a single item in this entire room that wasn’t a shade of pink? The mauve carpet, he allowed, had a border of dove gray. And wasn’t that a bit of gray trim on that cushion, there? Even so, it was a very pink room. It was a room clearly decorated by a lady who did not have a man’s opinion to take into account.

  Miss Bursnell, he noted, was not wearing mauve, nor any shade that could remotely be considered pink. She was wearing a dress of dark green, and he was glad of it. Pastels would not suit her, at all. She needed deep colors to bring warmth to that milk-white skin.

  She was speaking, he suddenly realized, and looking at him. He ought to pay attention to her words, instead of admiring her complexion. If she asked him a question, he would not be able to answer. Although perhaps, given his response to the tea, she would expect that of him.

  “I do so hope it will be fine tomorrow,” Miss Bursnell said. “I am so very tired of all this rain. If I don’t take some exercise out of doors soon, I shall scream.”

  “Oh, Alice,” the baroness murmured reproachfully. “Do not exaggerate. Ladies do not scream.”

  Miss Bursnell bit her lip, lowering her gaze to the teacup on her lap. The girl was undeniably high-spirited. He doubted that Lady Shaw had meant to hurt her feelings—she seemed genuinely fond of her niece—but he couldn’t help flinching on Miss Bursnell’s behalf. He knew what it was to feel as if one never quite fit.

  The next instant, she raised her head and he felt his soul reeling back from the angry flash in her eyes. Deuce take it, he hadn’t even spoken! Why did she sit and glare at him so?

  Wessex, oblivious as always, looked toward the window. “I see the clouds clearing even as we speak. Tomorrow promises the return of the sun, mark my words. Perhaps you would care to join us for a morning ride tomorrow, Miss Bursnell?”

  Us?

  Nathaniel choked on his tea. He greatly valued his morning rides. They provided solitude at best and, at worst, an amusing conversation with Wessex. He had no intention of spending it in the company of Miss Bursnell. She might not threaten the same sort of danger as the simpering young misses who entered the marriage mart every year, but he was not safe from her. No, indeed, he was not.

  And yet he could not very well abandon her to the charms of Duke Wessex, either.

  It was a quandary, to be sure.

  Baroness Shaw delicately cleared her throat. Wessex looked at her and immediately understood the problem. “I will send word to your friends, Lady Claire and Miss Benton, to join us. Lady Claire’s mother will chaperone, I’m certain.”

  Nathaniel was in an agony of suspense. Would Miss Bursnell say yes? Would she say no?

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. “A ride sounds absolutely lovely.”

  And then she turned to Nathaniel and did the very last thing he expected. She smiled.

  Damnation! What did she mean by that?

  Chapter Six

  The moment Nathaniel stepped from the dowager baroness’s home and onto the walking path he felt lighter. It was a relief to be free of Miss Bursnell’s violent stares. They made his stomach shake and filled his mouth with sand. But now he was out in the brisk air, and Wessex was right. The sky was slowly turning from gray to blue, and the steady downpour had become a half-hearted drizzle.

  It meant they could ride tomorrow morn.

  “You are welcome,” Wessex said suddenly.

  Nathaniel shot him a baleful look. “And for what do I owe you thanks, pray tell?”

  Wessex’s gray eyes widened. “Why, for arranging the pleasure of Miss Bursnell’s company, naturally.” He grinned and slapped Nathaniel on the arm. “Do not try to say it won’t be a pleasure. You could not keep your eyes off her. Any fool could see you are infatuated with the gel. And I, my friend, am no fool.”

  Nathaniel frowned as they walked. “I do not trust her, Wessex.”

  “As you trust no one, that is of little consequence.” Wessex waved his walking cane dismissively.

  “That is not true,” Nathaniel protested. “I trust you.”

  “Just another example of your poor judgment. I am not to be trusted, I assure you. I can give you a long list of women who will verify that.”

  Nathaniel just laughed. Wessex might be a skirt chaser, but once his good opinion and friendship were earned, his loyalty was unwavering. They had been instant chums at Oxford. When Wessex had inherited his title at nineteen, he’d become quite maudlin for a period, mourning the death of his beloved father. When a classmate had said that Wessex should be a good deal more cheerful now that he was a duke, Nathaniel had given him a sound thrashing for his heartless comment. Nathaniel did not take familial deaths lightly.

  Wessex had returned the favor the following year, when Nathaniel was accused of cheating on an exam. The duke defended him, and the professor, deciding that he would rather not make such a powerful enemy, allowed he was mistaken. A professor could be mistaken, now and again. A duke could not.

  Even now, several years later, the memory rankled. Nathaniel had not cheated.

  “And is Miss Eliza Benton on that list of women?” he teased.

  Wessex grimaced. “Yes, indeed, although I am sure I don’t know why. She has never willingly spent more than five minutes at a time in my company. Whenever I enter a room, she is sure to leave it.”

  Nathaniel arched an eyebrow. “And yet, you will invite her to ride with us tomorrow. Interesting.”

  “I couldn’t resist, dear fellow. I simply could not resist.”

  Wessex looked so remorseful that Nathaniel was almost inclined to believe his friend might actually harbor feelings for the girl. He shook the thought away. Wessex didn’t have feelings—not of that particular nature, anyway.

  “Tell me, then,” Nathaniel said. “If you invited Miss Bursnell on my behalf, and Miss Benton for your own interests, then what, pray tell, is the purpose of Lady Claire?”

  Wessex gave a weed a vicious whack with his cane. “Isn’t it obvious, dear fellow? Can you imagine a ride with Miss Benton’s cruel wit and Miss Bursnell’s remarkable ability to topple a man? We need a buffer. Miss Bursnell and Miss Benton are both quite terrifying.”

  Nathaniel would have laughed if it weren’t so very true. Miss Bursnell was terrifying—and fascinating, in the manner of a praying mantis.

  He must take great care not to lose his head tomorrow.

  Chapter Seven

  “Do you think, Miss Bursnell, that my horse is too tall for a lady?” Lady Claire clutched the sleeve of Miss Bursnell’s deep-blue riding habit. “Surely, they have something smaller. If I fell from such a height, I would break my ankle, and then what? I would be in need of rescue, and the day would be spoiled.”

  It was the next morning, and the small riding party had gathered in front of the stables at Wessex’s London townhouse, close to the park.

  Lady Claire’s horse, Nathaniel noted, was only slightly taller than a large pony.

  Miss Bursnell closed her eyes briefly before answering. Unless he was very much mistaken, she was counting to ten. “The horse is just the right size,” she said. “She is barely five hands. Anything smaller and your feet would drag in the dirt.”

  �
�You are a horsewoman, Miss Bursnell?” Wessex asked.

  “I enjoy the animals a great deal, Your Grace.” She gave her dappled gray a firm pat on the neck. “But my father once told me that anyone who called himself a horseman was sure to be thrown that very day. I think I shall try to avoid that particular fate.”

  Miss Benton joined them with a large bay. “Oh, I do hope that means you intend to go faster than a walk. I am desperate for exercise.”

  “Indeed, I do.” Miss Bursnell smiled. “I—”

  “Oh, but I do think a walk in Hyde Park would be just the thing,” Lady Claire interrupted. “Surely, it is not safe for us to go at a faster pace. It is so crowded today.”

  Miss Benton gave Lady Claire a haughty look. “I will gallop.”

  “Surely not.” Lady Claire looked appalled.

  Miss Benton did not budge. “Surely, I will.”

  “Surely not.”

  Nathaniel, seeing no end to the argument, decided it would be best to leave the ladies to their disagreement and go see about his mount. To his surprise, Miss Bursnell followed him. He could feel her eyes on him as he took the reins from the groom.

  Why did she not speak? Was she trying to drive him mad?

  “Good morning, Lord Abingdon,” she said finally. “It’s a lovely day for a ride, is it not? I daresay the rain was afraid to show its face after the duke promised it to be fair.”

  Nathaniel was halfway up to the saddle when she spoke. His left foot was in the stirrup, bearing nearly all his body weight, one hand at the horse’s neck with the reins, and the other on the back of the saddle. He froze where he was, neither on the ground nor fully mounted, and stared down the other side of the horse at Miss Bursnell.

  And said nothing.

  She raised both eyebrows. “My lord?” she said uncertainly.

  He felt such a fool, dangling from the saddle by one leg, but he couldn’t muster words for the life of him. Her loathing had surprised him yesterday, and now he felt it again, even as she stood there uttering banal pleasantries. Her words were gentle, her lips smiled, but oh, her eyes! How they said everything her words did not!

  What he had done to deserve such animosity?

  So, he stayed mute, standing on one stirrup, hovering above the saddle, his right leg not yet swung over to the other side, staring down at her with what he imagined was a very stupid expression on his face.

  She stared back at him assessingly. Finally, she broke her gaze. “I believe I shall go assist Duke Wessex in settling the disagreement between my friends,” she murmured. “Excuse me.”

  Nathaniel was flooded with relief. She had again spared him the seemingly impossible task of speaking in her presence.

  It was at that exact moment he felt himself no longer supported. He slid to the ground in a heap, still holding the saddle in his hands. He stared up at the sky. How was it that he was here, on his back in the dirt, instead of in the saddle where he belonged? He seriously regretted his decision to get out of bed that morning.

  He felt himself relieved of the saddle’s weight a moment later. Miss Bursnell’s white face and black hair gazed down at him, aghast.

  “Lord Abingdon,” she said gravely. “Are you unharmed?”

  “Quite,” he said as haughtily as possible, given that once again he was prostrate at the woman’s feet. No matter. At least he had recovered his voice.

  She set the saddle down and offered him her hand. When he hesitated, she said, “I am strong enough, my lord. I won’t let you fall.”

  Still he hesitated, staring into her black eyes, and considered her offer.

  He could not. No, he could not.

  “Miss Bursnell, please go away.”

  She set her lips in a thin line and dropped her hand to her side. “Very well, my lord. I withdraw my offer.” She turned her back to him and immediately engrossed herself with combing her fingers through the horse’s mane.

  He bit back a growl. He had angered her by refusing her help. But why the devil had she offered to begin with? Could she not see how that would simply humiliate him further? A man’s pride could only take so much.

  Still, he had been abominably rude. One did not tell ladies to go away.

  He gathered himself to his feet, dusted himself off, and turned to her. Her back was still to him, but he could see her shoulders shaking. Dear God, had he made her cry with his rudeness?

  He cleared his throat. Miss Bursnell seemed not to have heard. Her shoulders still shook.

  “Ahem,” he said, and cleared his throat again. She did not turn. He gingerly laid a gloved hand on her shoulder. Even with the riding habit, he could feel the shape of her bones and muscles, soft and round, yet firm and strong. She was small, but she was not fragile.

  She turned with a start. Her face was dry. Her eyes were not red, but sparkling. Miss Bursnell wasn’t crying, at all. She was laughing.

  At him.

  “Excuse me,” he said stiffly. He took a quick step back. “Carry on with your mirth, by all means.”

  And so she did!

  His face heated as waves of rollicking giggles bubbled out of her. If she had been Wessex, he would have joined in. But Miss Bursnell wasn’t Wessex. She was a harpy sent to destroy him. Or at the very least, embarrass him. While a tease from Wessex could be considered all in good fun, he did not feel the same way with Miss Bursnell laughing at him.

  He swiftly turned away from her and picked up the saddle. He brushed it off and examined it carefully. The girth had given out. That was why the whole saddle had slid off with his weight.

  “Abingdon! What sort of blasted trouble have you gotten yourself into now?” Wessex demanded, striding over. Then he noticed the lady. “Begging your pardon, Miss Bursnell. I certainly wouldn’t have used such language if I had known a lady was present.”

  Miss Bursnell merely waved her hand. She was still laughing too hard to respond.

  “I require a new saddle,” Nathaniel said. He showed Wessex the damage.

  The duke’s smile was immediately replaced with a frown. They locked eyes. Wessex opened his mouth to speak, but Nathaniel shook his head, nodding in the direction of Miss Bursnell.

  Wessex understood. He turned to a groom. “You there! We require a new saddle before our ride.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The groom bowed and ran off toward the stable.

  Nathaniel followed him, setting his mouth in a grim line. If someone had planned to do away with him today, he—or she—was in for a disappointment. “Thank you. But I prefer to choose my own.”

  Chapter Eight

  What had that been all about?

  Alice rode beside Eliza. Behind them was Lady Claire, at a very sedate walk. Ahead of her were Viscount Abingdon and Duke Wessex. She watched the viscount thoughtfully. Again, she asked herself, what was that all about? Why had Abingdon been so upset by the damaged saddle?

  Leathers sometimes wore out from use, as everyone knew. And while it was grossly irresponsible for the groom not to have examined them before tacking up the horse, it had looked like just that—an irresponsible accident. She’d given the girth one sharp glance when Lord Abingdon showed it to Duke Wessex, and it didn’t appear to her to be a clean cut. It had simply looked worn through.

  But if it was an accident, why had they acted so strange? The duke had looked so very serious when he saw the rip. Did he suspect foul play?

  More important, was there any way to use the incident to her advantage?

  Wessex and Abingdon drew their mounts to a stop. “We have come to a split in the path,” Wessex said. “Ladies, the choice is yours.”

  “Shall we continue the path?” Lady Claire said behind them. “If we turn, the path is not so full of friends. We shall be quite alone with our little party.”

  Alice gazed wistfully at the turn. If they stayed on their current path, they would continue at this abominable speed, or perhaps even slower, as they would be obliged to stop every three steps to greet acquaintances. If they turned, howe
ver, they might be able to trot a pace, or perhaps even canter.

  As if reading her mind, Miss Benton grinned. “Then, by all means, let us turn at once.”

  “Oh, Eliza, you don’t truly mean to gallop, do you?” Lady Claire protested. “You can’t! Galloping is forbidden in the park.”

  “Then perhaps you should keep quiet so we are not caught.”

  Seeing a return to the earlier argument, Alice rolled her eyes heavenward and gritted her teeth. It was the first sunny day in a fortnight of rain. Likely, it would be followed by another fortnight of rain. This was not how she wished to spend her morning exercise.

  She signaled her horse to the turn and urged it to a trot, and then a canter, which was an easier gait to ride when one was inhibited by a sidesaddle. The trot, though slower, was much rougher on a body.

  For a moment, she simply enjoyed the sharp wind on her face and the easy rocking of her mount. Then she pulled to a gentle stop and sighed. If she were at home, she would have spent the morning galloping the fields of Colworth, her family estates—astride if there was no one to see her. But she was not at Colworth, she was in London, and her friends were waiting for her, likely still arguing.

  She heard hoofbeats approaching and turned around. Lord Abingdon drew up next to her and stopped.

  “Lord Abingdon,” she murmured. “I suppose you were sent to reprimand me?”

  “Not at all. Lady Claire was sure your horse had run away with you and that you were in need of assistance.”

  “Ah.” Alice grimaced. Lady Claire had perhaps dissolved in hysterics. She seemed the type. “I do hope she did not swoon.”

  Lord Abingdon’s mouth twitched, but if he noticed her imitation of Lady Claire’s whine, he did not say so. “She did not swoon. Although she did say this was what came of ladies riding tall horses.” His lips twitched again.

  Alice stared at him. Was he trying not to laugh? No, Lord Abingdon was devoid of humor. He could barely string a sentence together. How such a dull man had seduced her sister was beyond her comprehension. Although, to be sure, Adelaide preferred moody heroes to humor, so perhaps Lord Abingdon had suited her quite well.