A Heart So Wicked (The Dark Regency Series Book 6)

by Chasity Bowlin

  “I can’t wear something scandalous! People already talk about me like I’m a harlot!” Kit protested.

  “Not because you’ll look like a harlot, but because you won’t look like you’re wearing something plucked from the rag bin! If she sees her plan is a failure, she’ll abandon it— and you—to rot here!”

  Of course, Vera was right. Patrice was nothing if not small, petty and vindictive. “Fine. But if it’s indecent—.”

  “You’ll look every inch the lady, as you ought,” Vera answered. “I’m going to trim down the skirt and the fabric I take from there, I’ll use to create gussets for the bodice. It’ll be fine. I promise! Now, get your bath done so your hair will dry in time.”

  Uneasy and with a growing disquiet about the whole affair, Kit still followed Vera’s edicts. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d been given a choice. Her cousin had essentially demanded that she attend. Nothing good would come of it. Nothing good could come of it, she thought bitterly. The people of Lofton would never forgive her for her perceived transgressions and any protestations of innocence would only be met with derision. It was a fact she’d learned the hard way.

  Chapter 5

  The Assembly Rooms in Lofton left a great deal to be desired. Of course, he wasn’t particularly well acquainted with Assembly Rooms in general. In his previous life, he would hardly have been invited to such events. In his current life, he could only imagine that he would tire of them quickly. Taking in his surroundings, he imagined he would tire of them before the night was through.

  The space was short on luxury but offered more than enough room for the occupants to freeze long before any heat from the stingy fire laid in the hearth could ever reach them. Weak lemonade and stale biscuits comprised the only refreshments, but that had not dissuaded every respectable resident of Lofton from trotting out in their finest clothes.

  It was a bore and a deuced uncomfortable one at that. Still, Malcolm thought as he clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, this was the most likely way for him to make the formal acquaintance of his vandal. In a controlled, social environment where she could feel relatively safe and where they would both have to moderate their behavior accordingly. It was his only option, he thought.

  Convincing the local hostess extraordinaire, Lady Elsingham to include Mrs. Patrice Hampton had been difficult. Convincing her to include Mrs. Hampton’s cousin, the Wicked Wexford, had not been nearly impossible. Thanks to Lytton, a well placed hint with the woman’s maid that most London hostesses had taken to inviting at least one scandalous person to every ball just so that guests would have something to talk about reinforced Malcom’s original suggestion, and she’d come around.

  From across the room, Lady Elsingham caught his gaze and offered a brilliant smile. She was thoroughly enjoying her foray into scandal mongering. It caused him a moment of guilt that he was in essence throwing Miss Katherine Wexford to the ravening and gossip-hungry wolves, but it was his only option. There was no other way, aside from a public assembly, that would allow him to speak to her without raising alarm or having people question how they’d come to be acquainted with one another. Also, it was very likely that she would spook and run. Recalling his statement to her in the woods, it was easy enough to discern how she might have misinterpreted his words and perceived them as a threat.

  Every call he’d paid, each gossip session he’d endured with every nattering old bat in the entire village had resulted in him being regaled with stories of Katherine Wexford’s wickedness and her attempts to seduce a good man in spite of his betrothed status. Malcolm had not pointed out the truth— most men were quite willing and even eager to be seduced, betrothed or not. The other truth that he’d wisely kept to himself was that any woman with a pair of breasts as fine as Miss Wexford’s would not have to work nearly as hard as most. She was undeniably appealing, and she was also an enigma to him. Was she a victim of vicious gossip, or was she indeed the femme fatale that everyone reported her to be?

  The object of his musings entered the room then, on the heels of the most miserable looking, dour creature he’d ever beheld. It must be the cousin, he thought, Patrice Hampton. The bitter turn of her mouth and the permanent furrow of her brow despite the painfully tight coiffure that tormented every salt and pepper strand on her head told him all he needed to know of her. She was a mean-hearted and vicious creature. The steel in her gaze told the truth of it. And behind her, Miss Katherine Wexford stood in a borrowed gown, for surely if she’d been dressed in rags when he met her, she would not own anything so fine. The blue silk complimented her fair skin and dark hair, but the bodice, quickly altered to fit her, no doubt, did little to conceal her generous figure. Even as he thought it, she lifted her fan to her rather daring decollate to preserve her modesty. A faint blush crept up her neck and stole into her cheeks. It was hardly the behavior of a practiced seductress.

  “Can’t believe she’d have the nerve to show her face here!”

  The hushed whisper came from the gaggle of women to his right. A second woman in the group tittered nervously while the third let out a loud harrumph before adding, “Being bold as brass has never been a problem for that one!”

  “He’ll be here… he and his wife are coming!” the first woman hissed. “That poor dear. To be confronted with the sight of that hussy!”

  “That poor man!” the third woman replied. “Being confronted with his mistakes right here in front of everyone! Imagine how humiliated he’ll be when people see them in the same room together… especially when one considers just how far she’s fallen! I hear Lady Hampton works her like a dog in the kitchens just so she’ll be too exhausted to go cavorting with the footmen!”

  He’d heard enough. Glancing over his shoulder at them, he gave them a look that told them in no uncertain terms what he thought of their gossip. “Vicious harpies,” he spat out, and they scattered like crows.

  Turning his attention once again to the entryway, he watched her as her gaze finally came to rest upon him. The expressions on her face shifted rapidly—shock, recognition, fear, anger, and finally resolve. He knew that she’d accepted her fate then, that at one point during the night, one way or another, they would have a confrontation. But he doubted that she had any inkling of just how it would go. With the small cup of weak lemonade that had somehow made its way into his hand, he lifted his glass to her and smiled. Her answering glare made the gesture completely worth it.

  Walking into the Assembly Rooms was tantamount to walking willingly into a nest of vipers. But vipers were content to bite and let the poison do its work. The people of Lofton were not so merciful. They wanted to flay the flesh from her bones while she screamed. Or perhaps that was her cousin, she thought bitterly.

  Patrice had not been happy with the adjustments made to the gown, but then again, Kit hadn’t expected her to be. No matter what she’d done, the dress would have been either too unflattering or too revealing. As it was, Patrice had scolded her for taking a perfectly decent evening gown and turning it into something that a doxy would wear. The short ride, trapped in her cousin’s carriage, being taken to task incessantly, had seemed to go on forever.

  And now, as she surveyed the small group that had already gathered, noting how so many of them watched her with eager and vicious smirks on their lips, she knew that the evening was going to go poorly. That thought was punctuated by a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as her gaze suddenly latched onto one of the very last person she wished to see. It was him. The new Lord Hadley was there, in the flesh. As he raised his cup in a mock toast, it became quite clear that there was no hope that he had not recognized her. He knew precisely who she was. That thought was followed by an even more painful one. There would be no getting out of it. At some point during the night, she would have to speak to him and then everything would come crashing down around her ears.

  “Stand up straight!” her cousin hissed.

  “If I stand up straight, I’m drawing too much attention to my
bosom… or so you said only a moment ago,” Kit muttered under her breath.

  Patrice turned her head sharply. “What did you say?”

  “Only that it must be a terrible burden for you to have to remind me again as you just did a moment ago,” Kit answered, pasting a false smile on her face. Still, she opened her fan wider and pressed it against a décolletage that on any other woman would have been perfectly acceptable. On her, because of her physical attributes, but primarily because of how people perceived her, the garment would be judged harshly, but not nearly as harshly as the wearer. Every sharp eyed and sharper tongued old bat in the room was watching her to see if she made even the tiniest misstep.

  Patrice walked in with her head held high, as if daring anyone to say a disparaging word against her. It was a trait that Kit envied. Walking behind her cousin, Kit had a moment of wistfulness. At one time, she’d have been the belle of any ball in Lofton or in London. With a fine dress that had been made just for her, her hair done up and everyone in the room vying for her attention, she’d have laughed and danced the night away.

  Patrice came to a halt. “That’s him, isn’t it? The new Lord Hadley?”

  “I would think so,” Kit replied vaguely. “He’s the only unfamiliar face in the crowd.”

  Patrice lifted a quizzing glass that was more appropriate to a woman of twice her age. No one had ever embraced the crotchety nature and uncomfortable frankness that came with old age with such premature enthusiasm as Patrice.

  “I don’t like the looks of him,” she said. “He looks a bit wild to me… like a pirate.”

  Kit did not roll her eyes. Patrice had never left Lofton in all of her life to even have an inkling of what a pirate looked like. “I’m sure he’s a perfect gentleman, cousin. One mustn’t judge a book by its cover!”

  “Does that mean that we shouldn’t call you a harlot even though you clearly dress like one?”

  Kit’s spine stiffened visibly. She knew that voice as well as she knew her own. At one time, that voice had whispered secrets to her and she’d held them dearly as friends do. They’d giggled together, learned to flirt with boys together, but while the voice was familiar, the vitriol in it would never be, regardless of how many times she heard it. Georgiana would spend the entire evening making certain that no one would ever forget or forgive Kit’s many sins. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it was that Georgiana had grown so vicious. It had predated their falling out, she knew that.

  The urge to defend herself, to whirl on the woman who’d once been her dearest friend and let loose with a string of truths that would upend the entire village burned inside her. Of course, it would no good. Kit knew that. Defending herself had never done anything but spur the gossips on. But Kit didn’t have to face her attacker or utter a word in her defense. For once, her kinship to Patrice was simply a blessing and not a mixed one. The older woman whirled, pinning the other woman with an icy glare.

  “Remember yourself, Georgiana. We are in public and anything you do here will reflect poorly upon your husband and your children,” Patrice reminded her coolly.

  “She has no right to be here!” Georgiana protested. “Look at her, standing there like the Whore of Babylon. Everyone in this room knows what you are and what you’ve done. All of London knew it too. It’s why your father ate a pistol ball for dinner and waited for you and your brother to come find him.”

  The words themselves didn’t shock her. They were nothing that hadn’t been said to her or about her many times before. Even the things said about her father were only too familiar. It was the glee that she displayed, the way that her one-time friend gloried in her cruelty that shocked Kit to the point of speechlessness. Thankfully, her cousin was not.

  Patrice raised her chin and squared her shoulders. The cold, clear gaze that she leveled on the other woman would have grown men quaking in their boots. Patrice had always been a force to be reckoned with. Courting her displeasure was not for the faint of heart. “Then neither does your husband. Is he not guilty, as well? How easily swayed from your side he was, Georgiana! Do you really wish to remind everyone in this room that your own charms were so lacking that you couldn’t maintain his interest?”

  Georgiana’s jaw clenched, her perfectly formed lips drawing into a sharp, hard line. “Very well. Parade yourself about in here as if you have the right. I’ll not stop you! But don’t think for a single moment that anyone will forget what you are, Katherine Wexford! Blood tells and the Wexford blood is strong in you!”

  Kit watched as Georgiana turned away in a whirl of heavily flounced skirts and walked away. “That was unpleasant.”

  Patrice harrumphed. “A megrim is unpleasant.”

  “Why couldn’t she and Ned just stay in Birmingham?”

  Patrice shrugged. “They come and go from Lofton to there. She avoids London now, oddly enough. At one time, I’d have thought she’d make for the capitol and stay there… Our Georgiana is not the social butterfly she once was. She socializes with very few now. I’d bet she’s only here tonight because Lady Elsingham let it drop that you’d been invited. You were led like a lamb to slaughter.” The last was accompanied by a laugh, as if the whole thing was a great amusement to her. But then Patrice grew serious again and said, “That exchange, my girl, was a bloodletting… it’ll be the first of many tonight. Be prepared.”

  The warning washed through her leaving a chill in its wake. Patrice hadn’t brought her there to reintroduce her to society at all. She’d brought her there to remind her of her place, to cement firmly in her mind and everyone else’s that she was the architect of her own ruin.

  Malcolm watched the exchange. He didn’t need to be close enough to hear their words to know they’d been cross ones. It was apparent in their body language. The stiff set of her shoulders, the jut of her chin, and the tight line of her lips as she smiled in spite of everything told him more about her than she might have imagined. Just as the lovely Miss Wexford was easy to read, the bitterness of the woman she’d accompanied was abundantly clear, as was the jealousy and defensiveness of the woman who’d confronted her. The wife, he surmised, of the man she’d allegedly tried to seduce.

  It would work in his favor. She’d be desperate to change her life, desperate to escape the drudgery and disapproval of being a servant in a judgmental relative’s household. Desperate enough that she would agree to marry a stranger, or so he hoped. In truth, she was his only option. He’d discovered during his week of paying calls that there were very few eligible women of good family and breeding in the small village of Lofton. It was either Miss Wexford or some horse faced chit with a crossed eye. If a man had to choose between a woman with a poor reputation and one with a poor face, he’d prefer the one he could stand to look at across the breakfast table.

  Decision made, Malcolm still faced the difficult task of finding a way to get her alone and discuss it with her. He would not humiliate himself by asking her to dance, firstly because he had no idea how and secondly, he was fairly certain she’d give him a resounding rejection. It was that lowering realization that left him lurking by the refreshment table waiting for an opportunity to snatch her away.

  It didn’t take long. Within a quarter hour of their arrival, she was there, filling small cups with vaguely lemon flavored water and glaring at him as she did so.

  “You’re staring,” she accused.

  “You’re very easy to stare at,” he replied. “Funny that you don’t look like a window breaker in that gown.”

  She blushed. “It was an accident!”

  “So it was,” he capitulated. “But recompense must be made. If you’d care to meet me on the balcony, we can discuss it.”

  “No, I do not care to meet you on the balcony,” she hissed in a low whisper. “Everyone in this room has their eagles’ eyes trained on me, just waiting for any hint of mischief!”

  “Then you will come to Rosedale Hall tomorrow,” he said. He didn’t phrase it as a question. Refusal wasn’t an option for either
of them.

  She turned toward him with a hard expression. “You know I haven’t a shilling to my name. You’ve listened to enough gossip here tonight to already to know that I’m poor as a church mouse!”

  “And if money is of no interest to me?” he asked.

  If her gaze had been hard before, it became glacial then. “Contrary to what you may have heard, Lord Hadley, I am not for sale, nor can I be had.”

  “You’ve a dirty a mind, Miss Wexford,” he pointed out. “I merely said I had no interest in money. The impropriety was borne in your own imagination.”

  “I find that difficult to believe, my lord. You intentionally made an inflammatory statement and now you’re attempting to lay the blame for taking the bait solely at my door!”

  Malcolm ducked his head to hide a smile. He had and he was, and it tickled him that she’d taken him to task for it in spite of their current situation. “Come to Rosedale Hall, Miss Wexford. I will be the soul of propriety, I assure you.”

  “Promises from men mean little to me,” she snapped.

  “It’s a promise from me, Miss Wexford, and that is worth more than gold because I do not give them easily. You will leave with whatever virtue you enter with,” he assured her. He meant it. She did not know him, but he’d never made a promise that he didn’t keep. His intentions toward her were as honorable as a man’s could be when he meant to use her to gain control of the estate before the solicitors bled it dry. But he wouldn’t hide that from her, nor would he lie to her about his reasons for marrying her. There would be no false protestations of love. Just a healthy dose of lust and a mutually beneficial arrangement. In her current situation, what more could Miss Wexford ask for?

  “Very well, Lord Hadley. I shall see you tomorrow.”

  “When can I expect you?” he pressed.

  “When I arrive,” she replied sharply. “I am not at your beck and call, my lord.”

  No, he thought, not yet.