Practically Wicked

by Alissa Johnson

  “I’m sorry. No, I don’t…That is, I am not an amiable drunk…Well, I am, in truth. I’m quite good-natured when in my cups, in fact. But the implication made last night—”

  She held up her hand. “I understood the implication, and I accept the apology.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.” He let out a small puff of air, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Now then, I’ve a question for you. Are you truly Lucien and Gideon’s half sister?”

  “Yes, I am.” And now that they were no longer at odds with each other, she no longer felt compelled to pretend she wasn’t fazed by the sudden change in her circumstances. “I don’t fault you for not believing it straight off. It is strange, as you said before. I can still scarce believe it myself. But I have the proof, if you’d like to see it—”

  “I would.”

  “Oh.” She blinked at that, felt the spark of hope dim a little. She’d only made the offer conversationally. “Right. Well.”

  Max had the decency to look a little sheepish. “Please understand, I am grateful for your forgiveness, of course, and happy to have peace between us. But the truth is, Miss Rees, I don’t know you. Aside from your purported desire for a dog, and the fact that you’ve laid a claim on the Haverston family—a family to whom I owe a great deal—I know next to nothing about you.”

  She saw the sense in his argument and understood the reasoning behind it, but the words still pricked. After Mrs. Culpepper, Max probably knew more about her than any other person in her life. They were the only two people who knew of her dream to buy a country cottage. And he was the only one to know of her silly wish for a hound.

  Which, now that she thought on it, was a sad state of affairs, indeed. She had no better claim to friendship outside of Mrs. Culpepper than a man with whom she’d spent such a nominal amount of time? And who had been ready to toss her bodily from Caldwell Manor only yesterday?

  Surely she had more depth of character than what could be mined in the course of an evening. She did not begin and end with her dreams of a thousand pounds, a hound, and a home. She was vastly more complex, far more interesting than that. She had to be. The alternative was too depressing to entertain. Almost as depressing as never having known a friend who’d not been paid to keep her company. But that, at least, could be changed.

  She had no intention of spending her visit defending herself to Max, but she could certainly spend her visit coming to know him and Engsly. She could at least try. There were a thousand reasons for why she might ultimately be unsuccessful—her lack of experience making friends being foremost in her mind—but that wasn’t an acceptable excuse for not making the effort.

  If she’d intended to be isolated and friendless for the rest of her life, she should have stayed at Anover House. And if showing Max the proof of her lineage would help create a foundation of trust between them—a necessary beginning to any friendship, surely—then she was willing to oblige.

  She brushed her hand down her waist in a smoothing manner. “The proof is in a contract, along with a journal and several correspondences between the late marquess and my mother. I presume Engsly’s man of business still has the contract. You may ask to see it, if you like. I’ll not oppose it.”

  “And the letters and journal?”

  “I retain them, though Engsly’s man has seen them and can verify the existence of the pertinent content. And no, you may not see them. There is much in them that is private.”

  “You wish to protect your mother?”

  At the moment, she wished she could use the journal to beat her heartless mother about her scheming head.

  “My mother is not the only person who would be adversely affected should the contents of her journal and letters be made public.”

  “I’m not going to make them public—”

  “The answer is no, Lord Dane.” It wasn’t often that she felt compelled to put her foot down on a matter, and it was unfortunate that she had to do so with Max, so soon after determining that they might become friends, but there was no way around it. The journal and letters were filled with material she had no right to share.

  Max’s mouth turned down at the corners, but he nodded. “Fair enough. The contract will do. But tell me this—are the Haverstons counted amongst those who might be adversely affected?”

  “The letters are from the late marquess to a woman who was not his wife,” she pointed out. “If nothing else, it would be further insult to the late marchioness.”

  “I see,” he said grimly. “Is there any chance I could convince you to destroy those letters?”

  “Yes. I’ll gladly do so at the first opportunity.”

  “Is immediately not an option?”

  “They are proof of my parentage,” she said by way of answer.

  “And you need the proof to get the thousand pounds.”

  “Yes,” she answered and lifted her chin. If he expected her to apologize for the need to feed and house herself, he was in for quite a wait.

  He bobbed his head. “Sensible.”

  “I…Yes.” She’d not been expecting such ready agreement. “It is.”

  His lips twitched. “You were waiting for me to condemn you.”

  “…Perhaps.”

  “As I said, we do not know each other well.”

  “No, we do not,” she acknowledged. “Do you mean to stay on at Caldwell?”

  “For a time,” he replied.

  It took all her courage and determination to meet his eyes. “Then we’ve time to know each other.”

  She’d issued exactly two invitations for friendship in her life, both of them to Max. God willing, this one would fare better than the last.

  His smile was slow and perfect. “I do look forward to it.”

  This time, when he offered his elbow, Anna took it without suspicion or argument.

  Chapter 8

  In retrospect, it may have been wise for Anna to have put up a small argument because two minutes later, she stumbled when her foot met with a sharp rock and he immediately bent down, slipped an arm under her knees, and swung her up against his chest. Apparently without consideration as to whether or not she might appreciate the help.

  She did not appreciate the help.

  “Put me down,” she demanded, even as her arms went around his neck to steady herself.

  “So you can further injure yourself? Or trip, fall, grab at me in a blind panic, and injure us both?”

  She sputtered at that bit of silliness. “I…Blind panic?”

  “As I said, I don’t know you all that well.”

  “Oh, this is ridiculous. If you would just—”

  “If you continue to struggle,” he told her casually, “I might well drop you.”

  “I highly doubt the fall would prove fatal.”

  “No.” He shifted her weight in his arms. “Tremendously embarrassing, though.”

  She considered that. If he dropped her now and she wasn’t able to get her feet under herself in time…

  “Wise decision,” Max murmured when she went perfectly still.

  She wasn’t certain it was wise, but it was preferable to being dropped on her backside. And, in truth, once she allowed herself to relax in his hold, she discovered that it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant experience.

  It reminded her of when she was little and, having fallen asleep in the library window seat or her favorite overstuffed chair, being scooped up by Mrs. Culpepper to be carried back to the nursery.

  She’d felt warm and light in those moments, as if she’d been floating.

  The rest was, of course, completely different. There had been unconditional love and security in Mrs. Culpepper’s strong arms. Max’s arms promised an entirely different kind of warmth. While she could admit that she found that promise as intriguing as she had the first night they’d met, she made the decision to put aside those feelings for now and concentrate on the simple, more manageable task of simply getting to know the man.

  She could do that, she told hersel
f. She wasn’t her mother, to be guided blindly by passion. She could separate a carnal interest from an intellectual interest. They could be friends. With a mental nod of determination, she settled as comfortably as she might in Max’s hold and studiously ignored the small voice in the back of her head that called her a liar and a fool.

  Max shifted Anna in his arms and sidestepped an exposed root from a nearby walnut tree.

  She felt good in his arms, a pleasant weight. At first. After a solid ten minutes of walking and making polite small talk, however, the weight became less pleasant and more…weighty.

  Her scent still teased him, roses and sugar biscuits, same as it had been in the nursery of Anover House. And the soft curves of her legs tempted his imagination toward all manner of ill-advised but delightful imagery. But nine stone was nine stone and the muscles in his arms began to protest the burden before too long. It was a fine reminder of the hidden costs of chivalry and the price of getting one’s own way. It had, after all, been his idea to carry her back to the house.

  With the slim remainder of his pride hanging in the balance, he ignored the strain in his arms and back and focused on the pleasurable details of holding Anna Rees—that teasing scent and those soft curves, and the amusing way she held herself stiff and still, pulling away from him as far as her confined situation allowed. To ease aching muscles—and, admittedly, to please himself—he shifted her in his arms, drawing her closer.

  Her features remained utterly passive, but he could feel the tension in her body increase threefold. While he found her primness entertaining, he wasn’t looking to make her miserably uncomfortable.

  “Enjoying your first visit to the country?” he inquired in an effort to put her at her ease.

  The question was so patently absurd under the circumstances that it immediately drew a laugh from her. The sound of it set his skin alight. He’d forgotten how much he’d liked that laugh.

  “It has been…” She tilted her head, searching for the right word. “Enlightening.”

  It was the perfect word.

  Four years he’d spent believing a lie. For four years, he’d thought the worst of her.

  But Anna hadn’t refused to see him. She’d not ignored his letters.

  There was the possibility of her lying, of course, but he didn’t believe it. There was too little to be gained by the subterfuge. She already had Engsly. She didn’t need his good opinion.

  She had it nonetheless.

  You’ve been uncommonly loutish in our encounters.

  He’d been a lout and more. Their first meeting at Anover House didn’t trouble him overmuch. While he’d not count it amongst his finest hours, he was by no means ashamed of his behavior. It had been a good night and, if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Wrayburn, would have made for one happy memory in the midst of misery. But most importantly, Anna hadn’t complained. She’d begged his promise to return. She would have met with him again.

  Without doubt, there was nothing wrong in what had passed between them at Anover House.

  Yesterday, however…

  Max was thoroughly ashamed of his behavior in the billiards room. More so when he held it up against Anna’s in comparison. He’d thought she’d played him for a fool and he had treated her with derision and scorn. She’d thought he’d broken his promise and she’d remained perfectly polite…until he’d become a boor, but she could scarce be blamed for that.

  It occurred to him as they reached the edge of the back lawn that Anna was, by far, a greater lady than he was a gentleman. He’d have liked to tell her so but feared it would sound disingenuous so soon after their row.

  Forgiving and patient would have to do for now. They weren’t, in his opinion, the defining characteristics of a lady, but they seemed to please her, and he couldn’t ask for more.

  Well, he could, and likely would in time. But for the duration of their walk—

  “Oh, no,” Anna gasped suddenly, jerking in his arms. “Set me down. Set me down this—”

  “Easy.” He tightened his grip. “I thought we’d been through this.”

  “They’re watching. Set me—”

  “Stop squirming. Who’s watching?”

  “Someone in the house, of course.” She unwound an arm from his neck to point. “Didn’t you see the curtains move?”

  There were, at best guess, thirty sets of curtains visible from the back side of the house. “No. I confess I did not.”

  “Well, I did. Now—”

  “What difference does it make if someone sees?”

  “They’ll talk.”

  His eyes widened in mock amazement. “Discuss the marquess’s recently discovered and only just arrived half sister who is purported to be the daughter of the Mrs. Wrayburn? Never say.”

  She merely sniffed at that. “The fact that there is substantial talk already occurring is not a reason to encourage even more—”

  “We’re not encouraging anything. Unless it’s a muscle spasm of crippling proportions,” he amended. “You’re not as light as you look.”

  There was a long, weighted pause before she responded. “Charming.”

  He wasn’t concerned with charm so much as distraction. It was a good deal easier to carry the woman when she wasn’t struggling. “At least you’re not wearing one of your bejeweled gowns.”

  She was visibly taken aback by that comment. “I…What? I haven’t any bejeweled gowns.”

  “The diamond dress?”

  “The what?” she asked with a small, surprised laugh.

  “The ball gown with the diamonds sewn into the sleeves.” That gown had been all the talk for weeks.

  “The…” A small line formed between her brows as she searched her memory. “That light blue bit of nonsense with the cream ribbons along the hem?”

  “If it had diamonds sewn into the sleeves, then yes, that one.”

  “What nonsense. They were paste, of course. Who told you they were diamonds?”

  “I don’t recall if I was told, exactly. It was simply assumed as the truth.” He was confident it had been Mrs. Wrayburn who’d spread the rumor, but Max rather thought Anna had heard enough about her mother lying for one day.

  “By everyone?” she asked.

  “Was there a jeweler in attendance who was allowed a closer inspection?”

  “No.”

  “Then yes, everyone.”

  She slumped a little in his arms. “Diamonds sewn into the sleeves. Good Lord, the demimonde is gullible. I wish I could have brought that gown along. I’d have worn it to Bond Street before leaving London and sold it to the first idiot who called it the diamond dress.”

  He sidestepped a muddy patch of ground. “Why couldn’t you bring it along?”

  “It’s not mine. It’s my mother’s.”

  Mrs. Wrayburn was both taller and notably more ample in the bust than her daughter. “You shared gowns with your mother?”

  “I suppose one might call it that. She had ball gowns made for me to wear but not to keep. She took them back.”

  “To reuse the material,” he guessed.

  “One would assume.”

  Clearly, she had her doubts. “But you—?”

  She gave him a patronizing look. “Don’t think I’ve not recognized your attempt at distraction, Lord Dane.”

  “Max,” he encouraged. “And I wasn’t attempting to distract you so much as occupying your mind until we reached the house.”

  “That is the very definition of distraction.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face. “No, it’s not.”

  “It…” She opened her mouth, closed it. “Yes, it is—”

  “Not at all.”

  “How can you—?”

  “Not the least bit alike.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re just being—”

  “Care to put a wager on it?”

  “You may stop now. I’ll not ask you to set me down again.” She looked up at the house. “Not much point to it now.”
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  “None at all,” he agreed. They’d already reached the steps of the back terrace.

  “But you’ll not be carrying me inside.”

  “Certainly not,” he agreed, but only because opening the door with his hands full would be an exercise in physical comedy.

  Instead, he climbed the steps and set her down in front of the door, keeping one hand at her waist longer than was strictly necessary. He hadn’t intended to draw the moment out, he just couldn’t seem to stop himself. He felt compelled to retain that simple connection with her, his hand one tantalizing inch above the gentle curve of her hip.

  “Will you require assistance to your chambers?”

  “I didn’t require assistance to the house,” she reminded him and took a step back, disconnecting from him entirely.

  Because he wanted to reach for her again, he caught his hands behind his back. “You’re welcome.”

  She accepted the lighthearted reprimand with good grace. “I thank you for coming to my aide.”

  “It was my pleasure.” His arms would be sore for it tomorrow.

  “Well.” Her eyes shifted to the door and back. “I should…”

  “You’ve plans for the remainder of the day?” he asked quickly. He didn’t want her to leave. Not quite yet.

  “To be honest, Lord Dane—”

  “Max,” he encouraged again. “Please.”

  “Max, then,” she agreed with a smile. “To be honest, I’d planned on being well on my way to Mrs. Culpepper’s sister. It was not my original intention to stay on at Caldwell. I’d thought…Well…”

  “You thought you’d take your thousand pounds and go.”

  She squared her shoulders defensively. “I had assumed that would be the marquess’s preference.”

  “And I assumed that would be your assumption. I meant no offense.”

  “I…” She blew out a small breath. “It will take some effort, this coming to know each other.”

  “It’s not the knowing, I think. It’s the trusting.”

  And trust, once lost, even through no—or, in his case, partial—fault of one’s own, could be difficult to regain. For reasons he wasn’t yet ready to look at too closely, Max wanted that trust back, for both of them. But it was going to have to wait a little longer.