Practically Wicked (Haverston Family Trilogy #3)

by Alissa Johnson

  I could talk the devil out his tail.

  Anna was right. Men were outrageously arrogant creatures.

  Strangely, the more he went over things in his mind, and the more he realized how shortsighted he’d been, the less convinced he became that all hope was lost.

  There had to be hope. He had to be able to fix this. What was the bloody point of realizing you’d been wrong-headed if you couldn’t make things right again?

  What was the point of anything, if he couldn’t make things right with Anna?

  “Stop!” He banged on the ceiling. “Stop the carriage! Turn it around!”

  Anna stared out her carriage window at the wet and dreary countryside that rolled by. Soggy as her pillow, she thought ruefully.

  She brushed impatiently at a tear that slipped down her cheek. One would think after having spent the better part of a night weeping into that pillow, she’d have run dry. Yet somehow the view out the carriage window was blurred, not by the day’s gloomy light and halfhearted rain that pattered on the roof, but from the seemingly endless reservoir of misery that welled up inside and filled her eyes.

  She wanted to turn the carriage round again. Only there was no point. Max had already left for London. He’d left while she’d said her own good-byes to the Haverstons.

  Leaving them had been painful as well, and exhausting as Lucien and Gideon had tried their best to convince her to stay on, then dragged a thousand promises from her to visit regularly and write often and accept a shockingly generous allowance before they agreed to let her go. The pain of saying good-bye to them, however, was dulled by the more acute wound of her parting with Max, rather like procuring a nasty cut and not really feeling it for one’s head being on fire.

  Anna swiped away another round of tears as the carriage lurched in a rut.

  This was not how things should have ended with Max. She’d known they couldn’t be together from the start, how could she have been so ill-prepared for the end? How could she have bungled it so terribly?

  Surely there was something she might have done differently, something that would have allowed them to part as friends. Now there would be no word from him, no letters or visits. It certainly would not be Max who brought her Hermia.

  Anna shook her head, resolute. It was for the best that their separation was quick and thorough. What would visits do but torment them both? What ridiculousness to think they could go from lovers to friends the way a lady might change from a ball gown to an old night rail.

  One could not take one’s feelings on and off for the sake of convenience and easy good-byes.

  If one could, she wouldn’t be so damnably in love with Max.

  She brushed away the next tear, took a ragged breath. She was in love with Max. It was surprising how natural it felt to admit it, rather like admitting one had lungs or a heart. Perhaps because a part of her had always known she loved Max. Just as all of her had known that, in the end, it changed nothing.

  Love wasn’t a vital organ, for pity’s sake. She could live without it. Surely. Maybe.

  God, she honestly didn’t know if she could. It bloody well felt as if something vital had been removed—ripped clean out of her chest.

  And while the sensible, pragmatic side of her insisted that sometimes love was simply not enough, the rest of her—and the painful hole in her chest in particular—demanded to know why the devil it shouldn’t be.

  Why couldn’t love be enough for her?

  It was enough for other people, wasn’t it? To hear her mother tell it, the road to Gretna Green was thick with fools who chose love over all else. Many of them, Anna thought with a new kind of discomfort, likely facing obstacles greater than her own.

  She heard Max’s words from the night before.

  If the gentleman feels the hand of my niece is not worth the courage it would take to find his own way, then good riddance to him.

  She wasn’t that gentleman, of course. The circumstances were entirely different. She had found her own way. Just as Max had found his. Their ways took them in opposite directions, that was all.

  Because she hadn’t the courage to find another way.

  Anna shook her head at the unbidden thought but found she couldn’t break free of it.

  Other people found a way. When it mattered, when something was worth it, they found a way.

  Why hadn’t she? Was she that afraid of a few more stares and whispers? She’d managed before. She’d stood in the face of them for years because it had been necessary. Couldn’t she do it now because it was necessary in order to be with Max?

  She was aware of her stomach tightening at the thought of returning to London, but rather like saying good-bye to the Haverstons, the discomfort seemed . . . more manageable now compared to the pain of losing Max forever.

  So, why on earth she had chosen the most painful path for the future?

  “I’m a fool,” she whispered. “I’ve been a coward.”

  But maybe she could fix it, she thought with dawning determination. Maybe they could find another way together. She had to at least try.

  She stretched up to pound on the ceiling. “Stop! Stop the carriage!” Ignoring the misting rain, she stuck her head out the window to shout at the driver. “Turn us around! Quickly! We need to catch up to Lord Dane!”

  Anna withdrew herself from the window and blew out a long, hard breath. She was doing it. She was really going to chase after Max, all the way to London if need be.

  As it happened, it didn’t need to be. The driver had turned the horses around and taken them no more than five minutes down the road before the carriage rolled to a stop.

  “What on earth?” Anna stuck her head out the window once more. They couldn’t have possibly caught up to Max so quickly.

  But there, stopped and facing her in the middle of the muddy road, was Max’s carriage. For the space of a few heartbeats, she simply stared at it, caught between elation, fear, and simple astonishment.

  He must have been coming for her. It was the only thing that made sense.

  Then his carriage door flew open and Max bounded out, breaking the spell. He came striding toward her with a determined air, and without another thought, she threw open the carriage door and jumped down into the mud and sprinkling rain.

  She hurried to meet him halfway, and then . . . stopped short, as he did, suddenly unsure how to bridge the last six feet that separated them.

  She didn’t know what to say to him. She’d not thought that far ahead. It should be something eloquent, something unforgettable and apologetic and very, very convincing, and—

  “I love you,” she heard herself say. “I am completely, utterly in love with you.”

  Max went very still, except for his hands. She watched them clench and unclench at his side. Please, please, please, she thought, let that be a good sign.

  She kept her own hands gripped in the material of her skirts while the air backed up in her lungs. “I thought . . . I thought you ought to know, because—”

  “We should travel,” he cut in suddenly.

  “I’m sorry?”

  He took a cautious step forward. “We can go to Europe, if you like, or the Americas. That’s excitement enough for me and you can be free of the gossipmongers—”

  She moved closer as well as hope began to fill that hollow spot in her chest. “I don’t need that. I want it, I do, but I’ll give it up. I’ll stay in London if that’s what you need, or—”

  “We can try everything. Every continent, every country, every damn city and town, if we want. Why not?” He stepped closer, near enough that she was certain he could feel the longing that came off of her in waves. “There’s a place for us, Anna. I know it. We can try the country and see if it suits us, then London if we decide it doesn’t. Maybe Scotland. Freddie swears by the Scottish countryside. Paris or Rome or Boston after that. We can emigrate or travel indefinitely. We’ll look—”

  “And if there is no place for us?” The question slipped out before could b
ite it back. “If there is nowhere we can both belong?”

  “I don’t care. I don’t care if I spend the rest of my life searching for the perfect place. I don’t care if I die having never found it . . . as long as I’m searching with you. As long as the last thing I see on this earth is you. This . . .” At last he stepped close enough to touch. He took her face in his hands. “This is what I need to be happy. This is where I belong. I love you, Anna Rees. You are all I need.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but yelped instead when the sky, so doggedly determined to leak all morning, decided to open up at last and let loose a great flood of water.

  Max laughed as they were both instantly drenched from head to foot. He pulled her into his arms, lifted his voice above the roar of the sudden downpour. “Will you travel the world with me, Anna Rees?!”

  She heard her own laughter over the sound of the rain. “Yes! Absolutely, yes!” Her fingers dug into the sodden fabric of his coat. “Will you take me to Gretna Green, Max Dane?!”

  She felt, rather than heard the groan that originated from deep in his chest. “Yes. By God, yes!”

  He bent his head and kissed her then, and the gray world around her spun away, taking with it the last vestiges of doubt. He loved her. She loved him. Whatever came next, whatever adventure awaited them, they would meet it together.

  Epilogue

  The marriage of Viscount Dane to the Miss Anna Rees was the talk of London for months.

  Theories as to how the grasping little minx had landed the dashing rapscallion (and whether or not it was in some way connected to Mrs. Wrayburn’s sudden emigration to Norway) were bountiful. Speculation as to where the viscount had run off to with his new bride after the nuptials was rampant.

  Society had seen neither hide nor hair of the happy pair. They were believed to be making a tour of Scotland, but only the Haverstons and Dane’s cousin, Mr. William Dane, knew for certain, and they remained annoyingly tight-lipped on the subject.

  Terribly bold of the girl to have reached so far above her station, it was said. Foolish of the viscount to have so carelessly tossed aside his responsibility to the title, they whispered. Probably, they’d run off to the continent in shame, it was agreed.

  The whispers ballooned initially, but tapered after a time, and then somebody heard that Lord Truch’s daughter had been caught sneaking out her window to meet with a merchant’s son in her own garden, and talk turned to that. And then, three weeks later, turned again when Eliza Tomlison was caught attempting to set fire to a rival’s home in a pique of professional jealousy.

  By the time Lord and Lady Dane returned to London, a full year after their nuptials, they were no longer the talk of the town.

  There were still whispers, as was to be expected. But before there was even a chance of the talk becoming widespread, the pair moved on to Caldwell Manor to welcome the birth of Lord Engsly’s first child, a daughter, and then to McMullin Hall for his cousin’s marriage, and then . . . And then all but their closest friends stopped paying attention to what the couple was doing. They were seen about here and there—at the theater, an exclusive dinner party, Lord Dane at his club and Tattersall’s, and their names popped into conversation from time to time.

  Have you heard Lord Dane’s sister has been made a widow at last? I do wonder if she plans to return home.

  But for the most part, the pair was no longer so interesting as to require particular attention from society. It was last noted that the couple had purchased a moderate country home outside the village of Menning, but that they were planning a trip to Venice, or possibly Rome.

  What did it matter, really, when everyone who was anyone was talking of something else.

  ALISSA JOHNSON is a RITA-nominated author of historical romance. She grew up on Air Force bases and attended St. Olaf College in Minnesota. She currently resides in the Arkansan Ozarks where she spends her free time keeping her Aussie dog busy, visiting with family, and dabbling in archery.