by Anne Barton
His body tensed. “Amelia.”
She broke apart then, whimpering as release took her. Her body clenched around him, pulling him deeper until he cried out too and spent himself inside her.
They lay together, panting, and it was several minutes before either one of them had the strength—or inclination—to speak.
“That was beautiful,” he murmured sleepily. “You’re beautiful.”
Amelia nuzzled her head in the crook of his neck and threw an arm across his chest. “That was amazing. And exhausting. You never warned me about that.”
“You should sleep for a bit—you’ll need the energy for later tonight,” he added wickedly. He extricated himself from her cozy embrace, got up, walked to the washstand, and brought her a damp cloth. After she’d washed, he covered her with the soft counterpane and slipped back into bed beside her, pulling her close.
They fell asleep just so—nose to nose, skin to skin—and utterly content.
* * *
Amelia was awakened from the most blissful sleep she’d ever known by a distinct thump.
“Miss Amelia!” A whisper from beyond the door—loud and urgent. The door rattled in its frame.
She bolted upright in bed. Dear God.
“Stephen.” He lay beside her, snaking an arm around her thigh, even as he slept. She shook him.
“’Morning.”
“Yes, it is. Morning!” she whispered. “Cicely is at the door. Hide!”
Amelia sprang out of bed, scooped her robe off the floor, and shoved her arms into the sleeves. Stephen picked up his clothes and boots and hurried behind the door. “I thought my days of fast getaways were over.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Your robe is inside out.”
So it was. Blast.
She opened the door a crack and Cicely immediately pushed her way in, nearly crushing Stephen with the door.
“Your mother is home.”
“What?”
“She’s in the drawing room. Mr. Giles is doing his best to prevent her from coming upstairs. If Lord Brookes hurries, he should be able to get past the first landing without being seen. He can depart through the rear door. Meanwhile, we must make you presentable.”
Cicely marched passed Stephen to the armoire, apparently unimpressed by the fact that he was shirtless and fastening his breeches.
“Hurry,” Amelia hissed, more to herself than anyone.
Stephen pulled his boots on smoothly but quickly and shrugged into his jacket. He jammed his hat on his head, then clutched his balled-up shirt in one fist and his waistcoat in the other. “I’ll call on you later,” he promised, and kissed her lips so softly and sweetly that Amelia almost forgot Mama could climb the stairs at any moment.
“Put this on.” Cicely tossed Amelia a morning gown—the primmest in her wardrobe. A wise, if not entirely fitting, choice.
Stephen stood by the door, grinning and hesitating as though he wanted to watch her shed her robe.
“Go!” Amelia waved him away.
She didn’t bother with a corset—simply threw on a chemise and the dress. Cicely made a quick pass over the room and clucked her tongue as she picked up a long white cloth off the floor. “He left his cravat.”
Before Amelia could formulate a response, her maid walked to the window, pushed up the sash, and called out, “Lord Brookes!” before unceremoniously tossing the cravat out the window.
Turning to Amelia, she said, “There’s no time to properly fix your hair. Let me braid it quickly and wind it around your head.”
Cicely was done in a trice and Amelia stood before the mirror. “You know,” Amelia said, “I have missed Mama. I don’t think I realized it until just now.”
“It’s been awfully quiet around here without her,” the maid answered diplomatically.
Amelia gathered Cicely into a hug. “Thank you for everything.”
“There’s no time for sentimentality! You must go rescue Mr. Giles at once.”
Throwing a shawl around her shoulders, Amelia flitted down the stairs. Mama’s wobbly, high-pitched voice carried out of the drawing room. “I don’t wish to see the post right now, Giles. I wish to see my daughter—you remember, the lovely but defiant young woman who lives here? The one who stays in her room all the time and refuses to take a husband—just to spite me? I want to see her. Now. But first, tell Mrs. Boggs that I require tea and a bit of sustenance.”
When Amelia entered the drawing room, Giles’s shoulders slumped with relief. She shot him a grateful smile.
“Mama!” Amelia bent to kiss her mother’s round, rouged cheeks. “You’re looking very well. Bath must have agreed with you.”
“What has Cicely done with your hair? It looks a fright.”
“I told her I didn’t want her to fuss with it this morning.”
“Well, you’ll never snare a gentleman if you insist on wearing your hair like a milkmaid.” Mama pressed a hand to her belly. “You see? This is just the sort of thing that causes me distress.”
“Let me open a window.”
Before Amelia had crossed the room, Giles cleared his throat from the doorway. “Pardon me, Mrs. Wimple, but you have a visitor.”
“Who would dare to call at this time of the day?”
“Lord Brookes, ma’am.”
Mama’s jaw dropped. She began blinking furiously. “What has been going on here in my absence?”
“Well…” Amelia’s face flamed.
Giles cleared his throat again. “Shall I show him in?”
“He’s the brother of a marquess.” Mama’s tone suggested her patience was terribly thin. “Of course you shall.” She turned to Amelia. “I’d wager you’re regretting the milkmaid hairstyle just now.”
When Stephen strode into the drawing room, Mama brightened instantly. “Why Lord Brookes, to what do we owe this pleasure?”
He was fully dressed, thank heaven. And he carried a fistful of roses, tulips, and other assorted flowers.
“Good morning, Mrs. Wimple, Miss Wimple,” he said with a crisp bow. He walked right up to Mama and handed her the flowers. “For you.”
“Oh, how lovely. It’s been an age since I received flowers from a handsome young buck.” She narrowed her eyes at Stephen. “Although I regret to inform you that your cravat is woefully askew.”
Amelia worried her lip and considered crawling under the settee.
He flashed a dazzling smile, and Mama seemed placated—both the unorthodox calling hour and crooked cravat forgiven.
“I hoped I might be permitted a word with you, Mrs. Wimple—in private.”
Mama shot her a questioning glance, but Amelia was already heading for the door, happy to let Stephen handle this particular matter. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll just get something to put the flowers in.”
She left them and quickly enlisted Cicely’s help in finding a vase. When she returned, she pressed an ear to the drawing room door, desperate for some sign of how Stephen fared. She heard him approaching just before the door opened and jumped back to get out of the way.
He emerged from the room alone—and apparently unscathed.
“Well?” she asked.
He pulled her away from the door, hauled her body against his, and claimed her mouth with a searing kiss. “She has agreed to be my mother-in-law.”
Amelia’s heart pounded wildly. “She did?”
He smiled smugly. “No woman can resist me.”
“What’s she doing now?”
“Planning the engagement party, if I had to guess. I asked her for a few minutes alone with you, so I could do this.” He dropped to one knee. “Amelia Wimple, I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Of course I will.”
“You’re willing to forego all the advantages of the single state?”
“Absolutely. Are you?”
“For you? Yes. A million times, yes.”
He stood and swept her into his arms, then spun her around till she was
dizzy.
“Where on earth did you get the flowers?” she asked breathlessly.
“Your neighbor’s garden. Otherwise known as my dressing room.” He pointed to his cravat. “What do you think of this particular knot?”
She raised a brow. “I confess, I’ve never seen it before. What do you call it?”
“This,” he said quite seriously, “is known as ‘the wicked rake’s garden knot.’ Not every gentleman can pull off the look.”
“I should think not.” She patted the back of her head. “Nor can every woman pull off the milkmaid braid.”
“Maybe they’ll write about our deplorable lack of style in your gossip rags.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps they will. We’ll be too busy living our lives to care.”
“Oh, we’ll be busy, all right.” He pulled her closer, letting her feel the evidence of his desire. “I plan to keep you very busy. Starting… right… now…”
About the Author
Anne Barton began swiping romance novels off her mom’s bookshelf as a teenager, so when she had the chance to spend a semester in London—home to her favorite heroes—she packed her bags and promptly fell in love with the city, its history, and its pubs. She dreamed of writing romance, but somehow ended up a software analyst instead.
Fortunately, a few years and a few careers later, Anne found her way back to writing the stories she loves and won the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award for Regency Historical Romance. She lives in Maryland with her husband and three children, who try valiantly not to roll their eyes whenever she quotes Jane Austen. Her weaknesses include reality TV, cute-but-impractical shoes, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
Learn more at:
www.AnneBarton.com
Twitter, @_AnneBarton
Facebook.com/AnneBartonAuthor
Don’t miss the first book in the sexy Honeycote series from award-winning author Anne Barton!
Desperate times lead London’s leading dressmaker Anabelle Honeycote to desperate measures—and into the arms of a devilishly handsome duke!
See the next page for an excerpt from
When She Was Wicked.
Chapter 1
Alteration: (1) A change made to a garment in order to improve the fit or style. (2) A change in plans, often necessitated by misfortune, as when one is unexpectedly apprehended during the commission of a crime.
London, 1815
“Extortion” was an ugly word. It put one in mind of a villain who fleeced the pockets and slandered the names of hapless victims.
What Miss Anabelle Honeycote did to support her family was most certainly not that.
Perhaps her actions met the crudest definition of the word, but she preferred “accepting coin in exchange for the solemn promise to safeguard secrets.” Much less nefarious, and a girl had to sleep at night.
The primary location in which Anabelle harvested secrets was not a seedy alley or gaming hell, but a small reputable dress shop situated on Bond Street where she worked as a seamstress. Mama would be appalled if she knew about the money-making scheme, but, truth be told, Anabelle would have extorted money from the Archbishop himself to pay for Dr. Conwell’s visits. He was Mama’s only glimmer of hope—and he wasn’t cheap.
Someone in their household had to be practical. That someone was Anabelle.
She wiped her sleeve across her damp brow and swept aside the muslin curtain that led to the workroom in the back of Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop. Bolts of fabric stacked neatly upon shelves lining one long wall created a colorful patchwork that never failed to tickle Anabelle’s imagination. While some material would become serviceable underclothes for a spinster aunt, some might be destined for the train of a duchess’s gown, lovely enough to grace the Queen’s Presentation Chamber. Anabelle liked thinking such a leap in social standing—from modest workroom to St. James’s Palace—was possible. Not that she had grand ambitions, but being pinned to her current station in life like a butterfly to an entomologist’s collection rankled.
She glided past a large table laden with dress parts set out like the interlocking pieces of a puzzle. The disembodied sleeves, collars, and skirt panels lay lifeless, waiting for her to transform them into something vibrant—something more than the sum of its parts. After all, anyone could make a functional dress. The challenge was to create a garment that felt magical—the fabric texture, the gown’s lines, and the embellishments blending in perfect harmony.
Though occasionally, she mused—plucking a perfectly simple yet elegant white silk ball gown from the rack of her current projects—a dress required less rather than more. The creation she held, Miss Starling’s newest ball gown, was a fine example. Anabelle twirled it in front of her, checking for loose threads and lint. Satisfied, she walked briskly through the workroom and into the shop’s sitting area with the gown draped over her arm. When she held it up for Miss Starling to see, the young woman’s face lit with pleasure.
“Why, Miss… Honeycut, is it?”
“Honeycote.”
Miss Starling gave a smile that didn’t reach her emerald eyes. “How talented you are. This gown is magnificent. I must try it on.”
Anabelle nodded demurely and led the beautiful woman toward the dressing room located at the end of the shop away from the front door. Miss Starling’s mother hopped up from the chair where she’d been sipping tea and toddled behind, calling out over her daughter’s shoulder. “Is that the dress for the Hopewell ball? Gads. It looks awfully plain, darling. Money is no object. Have the girl add a few bows or some trim, for goodness’ sake.”
Anabelle opened her mouth to object but caught herself. If her clients wanted frippery, who was she to deny their wish? Mrs. Smallwood had taught her the importance of pleasing her clients, no matter how garish the outcome. At least she knew her employer valued her skill and dedication.
The problem was that even though Anabelle toiled at the shop day after day, she earned a meager ten shillings a week. If she only needed to pay for her own food and lodging at a boarding house, her salary would be enough. But Mama was too ill to move from the small rooms they let in Russell Square, and her medicine was dear.
It had been three months since Anabelle had last written an anonymous note demanding money in exchange for her silence. On that occasion, Lady Bonneville had paid thirty pounds to prevent the details of her torrid affair with her handsome butler—who was half her age—from appearing on the pages of London’s most widely circulated gossip rag.
The outspoken viscountess was one of her favorite customers, and Anabelle disliked having to threaten the woman; however, the money she’d paid had seen Anabelle’s family through the spring months. Mama’s cough even seemed a little less violent after she inhaled the medicated vapor Dr. Conwell prescribed. But their money had run out, and a stack of bills sat upon the table in their tiny parlor.
Yes, it was time to act again. Papa, God rest his soul, had been a gentleman, and her parents had raised her properly. Though her scheme was legally and morally wrong, she wasn’t entirely without scruples. She adhered to a code of conduct, embodied by her List of Nevers. She’d written the list before issuing her first demand note nearly three years ago:
Never request payment from someone who cannot afford it.
Never request an exorbitant amount—only what is necessary.
Never request payment from the same person on more than one occasion.
Never reveal the secrets of a paying customer.
And finally, most importantly:
Never enter into any form of social interaction with a former customer.
This last rule was prudent in order to avoid detection but was also designed to prevent her from having to engage in hypocrisy, which she found unpalatable in the extreme.
Just running through the List in her mind calmed her. As usual, she’d listen intently this morning for any gossip that might be useful.
The most fertile ground in the shop was the dressing room, which was re
ally just a large section of the shop’s front room partitioned off by folding screens draped with fabric, providing clients ample privacy. The centerpiece of the dressing area was a round dais which had been cleverly painted to resemble a cake with pink icing. Anabelle’s mouth always watered at the sight of the wretched thing, and since she’d had nothing more than a piece of toast for breakfast, today was no exception. A large, rectangular ottoman in one corner provided a perch for mothers, sisters, friends, companions, and the like. Miss Starling’s mother made a beeline for it, and Anabelle helped the younger woman remove her fashionable walking gown and wriggle into the new dress.
The small puffs of sleeves barely skimmed the debutante’s shoulders, showing the lovely line of her neck to advantage, just as Anabelle had hoped. Some adjustments to the hem were necessary, but she could manage them in an hour or so. Miss Starling stepped onto the platform and smoothed the skirt down her waist and over her hips.
The rapturous expression on Mrs. Starling’s face told Anabelle she’d changed her mind about the need for embellishments. The matron slapped a gloved hand to her chest and gave a little cry. “Huntford will find you irresistible.”
Miss Starling huffed as though vexed by the utter obviousness of the observation.
Anabelle’s face heated at the mention of the Duke of Huntford. He’d been in the shop once, last year, with his mistress. His dark hair, heavy-lidded green eyes, and athletic physique had flustered the unflappable Mrs. Smallwood, causing her to make an error when tallying his bill.
He was the sort of man who could make a girl forget to carry her tens.
“The duke will be mine before the end of the Season, Mama.”
Anabelle knelt behind Miss Starling, reached for her basket, and began pinning up the hem. As she glanced at her client’s reflection in the dressing room mirror, she avoided her own, knowing her appearance wouldn’t hold up well in comparison.