When She Was Wicked (17 page)

“I feel like such a fool for taking Conwell at his word. I’m not sure what to say… except thank you.”

They gazed at each other for several moments, not saying anything. His thumbs made sweet little circles on her palms, and desire welled up inside her. Her nipples tightened,
and she was suddenly very aware that she wore no corset, no chemise, nothing beneath her thin nightgown. And although it was very wanton of her, she didn’t care.

She liked being the object of his attention, and she would enjoy it for as long as it lasted. With boldness she hadn’t known she possessed, she raised herself onto her knees so that her face was level with his, took his scratchy cheeks into her palms, and kissed him.

Not out of gratitude, or obligation, or to prove something.

She kissed Owen simply because… she wanted to.

O
wen vaguely recalled a promise he’d made to himself before looking for Belle to tell her the news he knew would unsettle her. He was fairly sure the promise involved kissing. Or not kissing. Right. Under no circumstances was there to be kissing.

It wasn’t that he was opposed to the idea—quite the contrary.

But he’d suspected that she was going to be upset, and he didn’t want to take advantage of her distress. Only a scoundrel would try to seduce a woman who’d just received momentous news.

He supposed “scoundrel” was an apt description for him. In his defense, she’d started it… and his body had thought it a capital idea.

When he’d tasted the salt of her tears on her cheeks and lips, he’d wanted to wash away her sadness. Even
with her puffy eyes and pink face, she was utterly irresistible. He couldn’t imagine that she showed this vulnerable side very often, but she had for him, and he was strangely humbled.

Telling Belle she’d been swindled had been harder than he’d thought. It
shouldn’t
have been. After all, her mother was going to receive proper care now and could conceivably recover. But Belle’s family was everything to her, and, ridiculous as it seemed, she felt she’d let them down. He’d seen it in the shock and anger that flitted across her face. He’d seen her normally proud shoulders slump in defeat.

And he wanted to make her feel good again, to remind her that she wasn’t just a daughter, sister, or seamstress. She was all of those things and more—a woman, young and vibrant, with dreams and desires of her own.

He wanted to make them all come true.

Her lithe body pressed against him, taunting and torturing his senses. Her tongue teased the corner of his mouth, and for a brief moment, Owen considered laying her back against the soft window seat cushions and seducing her until she begged him to take her—honorable promises be damned. The sight of her pebbled nipples jutting toward him made him want to lay claim to every inch of her until she was crying out his name.

“Owen,” she murmured.

At last. She’d said it. Not “Your Grace” or even “Huntford,” but
Owen
.

He let one last sweet kiss linger before he pulled away. “You are so beautiful,” he said, smoothing a few wisps of hair away from her face, “that I forget myself. You don’t know how badly I want you.”

She blushed. “I like kissing you.”

Since the current conversation was not cooling his ardor, he needed to do the sensible thing and put some space between them. He stood, raked a hand through his hair, and walked to his old globe on the shelf where he’d abandoned it decades before. He spun it and let his fingers trail over the oceans and continents until it slowed to a stop.

“There’s something else I need to tell you, Anabelle.” Upon seeing the stricken look that crossed her face, he quickly added, “I think you’ll be pleased.”

She looked rather doubtful but smiled bravely.

“Circumstances being what they are,” he said, “I’d like to propose that we amend the terms of our agreement.”

“I don’t understand.”

He shrugged, a feeble attempt to appear casual when he felt anything but. “I’m sure you’d like to be with your mother right now, and though Olivia and Rose will be sorely disappointed, I can have someone else make their gowns. If you’d like to go, you’re free to do so.”

He held his breath as he awaited her response. He’d hoped for at least three months with her, but that was selfish. For some time now, he’d known that she presented no threat to society, and yet, he’d wanted her to stay. To help him understand his sisters; to challenge him when he behaved badly; to brighten the whole damned house.

But he couldn’t keep her here like she was some prisoner. He spun the globe again.

She nibbled on her bottom lip. “You’re releasing me from my debt?”

It sounded so final. “Yes.”

“That’s very generous, but… I can’t allow you to do that.”

“I already did.”

“I owe you too much. It wouldn’t feel right after all you’ve done for my family and me. I know I’ll never be able to repay you—not unless I discover that I’m an heiress to a long-forgotten fortune.”

“Duly noted. However, if you should become an heiress, I’ll come to collect your debt. With interest.”

“That seems reasonable,” she said seriously.

He was teasing, for God’s sake. “Anabelle, there is no more debt.”

She strode toward him and placed her palm on the globe, stopping it on its axis. “I won’t accept outright charity.”

He snorted. Couldn’t help it. “You were willing to extort money from me. How can you object to charity?”

Her gray eyes flashed at him, and he had his answer. Pride.

“We made a deal, and I intend to honor it. It’s the least I can do.”

She stood so close that he could smell the soap she used to wash her hair—citrusy and sweet—and her hand lay next to his, somewhere near the North Pole. “Fine.” He managed a light tone, as though he couldn’t care less one way or the other.

She’d made it clear she was only sticking to their agreement out of a sense of obligation, but at least he knew she wouldn’t disappear from his life altogether. Not yet. He exhaled, took her hand from the globe, and held it lightly in his. He had one other option to offer.

“If you’d like to return home and be with your family,
you may. You could work out of your apartment or Mrs. Smallwood’s shop, finish Olivia’s and Rose’s wardrobes, and fulfill your end of the bargain.”

He held his breath and waited for her answer.

She let go of his hand and drifted around the room, pausing now and then to inspect various items. Ethereal in her pale nightgown, she ran her fingers over the fabric piled on the tables, ribbons strewn across an old desk, and a yardstick leaning against the window seat. When at last she’d circled the room and stood in front of him once more, she said, “Would you prefer it if I left?”

“No.”

She nibbled the tip of her index finger. “There’s little I’d be able to do for Mama at home, and I know she’s in excellent hands with Dr. Loxton. Daphne can keep me informed of her progress, so… I think I’d like to stay.”

“You would?” He dared to hope he was the reason. Or, at least,
a
reason.

“This room is so spacious and bright, and everything I could possibly need is here. If I were to work at the shop, I’d be distracted by customers and other projects. It could easily take me a year to complete the assignment. If I stay, I’ll be able to make the dresses more quickly and confer with Rose and Olivia whenever I need to.”

“It’s settled then. You’ll remain here.” He spoke quickly, before she had the chance to change her mind. It pricked a little that she was only staying for the conveniences and not because she’d miss him, but at least she was staying. “You may visit your mother and sister whenever you wish.”

She beamed. “Thank you, Owen.”

“However,” he said sternly, “you will
not
walk there unescorted.”

“But I am accustomed to walking alone to the dress shop each day. I promise not to attempt another evening visit.”

“That is comforting,” he said wryly. “I must have your word that you will not go anywhere, especially to your home, unescorted. You may take a footman or, if you can bear it, you could take me.”

She opened her mouth to object, but then appeared to stop herself. “You’d walk me to my house?”

“I’d prefer to take the coach. But yes.”

“I’m sure you have many more important matters to tend to.”

“Not really.” Most days he didn’t even have time to read a newspaper, but he had time for her.

“I’d love to visit Mama this afternoon,” she said timidly. “Just to see how she’s getting on without her medicine. But there’s no need to rearrange your schedule. I could ask Roger or another footm—”

“How is four o’clock?”

She blinked. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“I’ll see you then.” He gave a cursory bow and turned to leave. If he had to stay in that room alone with her for one more minute he might lock the door, strip off her nightgown, and show her there was much more between them than a simple business arrangement. She was more than his employee, and he was more than a deal to be fulfilled.

He just needed the chance to prove it to her.

Much later that evening, after most of the household had been in bed and dreaming for hours, Anabelle was
back in the workroom. One of the sleeves on the dress she was making for Rose had turned out to be puffier than its partner, and she’d decided the only hope of correcting it was to remove the flawed sleeve entirely and start over. Normally, fixing her own mistakes put her in a surly mood.

But as she carefully snipped the threads along the shoulder seam she was unusually content.

She liked the coziness of the night—the inky sky hanging outside her window, the silence that had settled over the house like a warm blanket, and the solitude that gave her imagination free rein. Thoughts of Owen had occupied her all evening. She knew she was foolish to daydream about him, but she gave herself license. Dreaming was less dangerous than doing, and the day had been too magical to stick it in the back of a drawer like a pair of torn stockings and forget about it.

Owen had taken her home for a visit, as promised, and had been most gracious from start to finish. After they’d ridden across Town in his coach, he’d surprised her by escorting her upstairs. He sat patiently in the parlor while she chatted with Daphne in Mama’s room, waiting for her to wake. When she did, Anabelle brought Owen into the bedroom and introduced him. Mama kept saying that she must be having visions if there was an honest-to-goodness duke—and a handsome one at that—in her bedchamber. Owen laughed good-naturedly and presented Mama with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. The smile on her face had melted Anabelle’s heart like a pat of butter on a hot plate.

There’d been no more kissing since that morning, but there had been moments of… giddiness. Mortifying as it was to admit—even to herself—Owen could make her
belly turn a somersault without even saying a word. All it took was his heavy-lidded stare, his hand on the small of her back, or the ironic smile he shot at her when no one else was looking.

Despite her intent to keep their relationship on a purely business level, she couldn’t deny that it had evolved into something more complicated. She wouldn’t delude herself that he’d offer marriage—the very idea of a duke courting a seamstress was laughable. And yet, the unfairness of it all made her want to scream. Or hurl a porcelain vase at the wall. Why was she less worthy of Owen’s love than a gently bred lady? She might not be perfectly at ease in the company of titled lords and ladies, but she had good manners, which was more than she could say for Miss Starling.

Anabelle sniffled and swiped at her eyes. The anger and sadness gnawed at her insides like a rat chewing through a rope. She mustn’t let the hurt fester, turning her relationship with Owen into something rotten and putrid. She’d rather enjoy the tenuous truce they’d achieved—and the occasional kiss—for a bit longer.

She’d removed the offending sleeve and was preparing to reduce its puffiness when she heard something in the hallway outside the workroom. Footsteps.

Her breath hitched in her throat. Luckily, she was still dressed. After Owen’s unexpected visit this morning, she’d surmised that working in her nightgown was not prudent. Her plain, yellow gown was comfortable enough, and her usual cap kept wisps of hair from falling into her eyes as she worked. The only concession she’d made to the late, or actually, early hour was kicking off her slippers.

She put them on now. And pinched her cheeks for a little color.

She’d heard Owen was attending a ball tonight, but maybe he’d—

“Anabelle?” Olivia whispered through the crack of the slightly ajar nursery door. “Are you still working?”

She rushed to the door, tamping down her disappointment and eyeing the clock as she passed it. “I am,” she said, waving Olivia in. Rose tiptoed behind her; both girls were clad in their nightgowns. “What are you two doing up at this hour?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Olivia said with an impish grin. “So I checked on Rose, and she was awake, too.” Rose rolled her eyes and Olivia quickly added, “Well, she was sleeping so lightly she may as well have been awake. We decided we’d sneak down to the kitchen and help ourselves to a snack. When we noticed your light, we made a detour. Let’s go, shall we?”

“What?” Anabelle glanced over her shoulder at the one-sleeved gown, a pitiful sight if ever she saw one. “Oh, no. I can’t. I’m in the middle of fixing a—”

Rose grasped Anabelle’s forearm and pulled her firmly behind as she began walking down the hall. For a quiet, subdued girl, Rose really was very strong. Anabelle stumbled a little as they rounded a dark corner, and Olivia giggled.

On the way down the stairs, Anabelle whispered, “Do you do this often?”

“More often than Owen knows.” Olivia led the way to the kitchen, and when they entered the dark room that still smelled of savory stewed vegetables Anabelle realized she was, indeed, hungry.

Rose lit a drip-covered candle in a rustic pewter holder and set in on the sturdy kitchen table. Copper pots gleamed above the range, a teapot dangled at a jaunty angle over the fireplace, and clean white aprons hung from nails beside the door. No grand paintings or silver-plated serving pieces in sight, thank goodness. Every item in the room was blessedly utilitarian. Anabelle approved.