When She Was Wicked

Chapter Seven

Bolt: (1) An amount of fabric wrapped around a cylinder. (2) To flee; one’s natural inclination after behaving like a lightskirt.

After getting off to a slow start, Miss Honeycote finally seemed to be earning her keep. Owen had last seen her taking a leisurely tea with his sisters in the nursery, of all things. But in the three days since, he’d received impressive reports of her industriousness from Mrs. Pottsbury and Olivia. If one believed the housekeeper, Miss Honeycote rarely slept and had to be reminded to stop and take her meals. Olivia gushed over the seamstress’s sketches as though she were an artistic genius—nothing short of Gainsborough with a needle and thread. Most surprising, though, was that Rose—who was an excellent judge of character—was purported to like Anabelle immensely.

Anabelle.

The extortionist-turned-seamstress had a name. Olivia had reasoned that since the three women would be spending the next several weeks together, they should be less formal.

Owen grunted to himself. He didn’t give a damn what Olivia called her. As far as he was concerned, she was Miss Honeycote. Or, better yet, the seamstress. And she always would be.

The odd impulse to kiss her after finding her sleeping was nothing more than a bizarre aberration. His mistress had left him two months ago, and he’d tired of their arrangement three months before that. He couldn’t explain why, except she was so damned eager to please him all the time. She lacked spirit and… authenticity. His friends were convinced he’d gone mad.

They were probably right.

Miss Honeycote’s unexpected loveliness had caught him off guard in the bedroom that day. It was like discovering that an ugly stalk in one’s garden had managed to bloom into a rare flower. Interesting at first, but once the novelty wore off, it was just a pretty flower in a garden chock full of them. No, the intense physical pull he’d felt toward the seamstress was clearly due to lack of sex, sleep, and, possibly, his sanity.

Owen walked from the window of his study to his mahogany desk and opened the top right drawer. He removed a small parcel and tossed it onto the desk. “Dennison!” he called.

The butler appeared, standing just outside the threshold. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Inform Miss Honeycote that I wish to see her at once.”

“Shall I have her meet you in the drawing room, Sir?”

Owen looked the butler up and down. Either Dennison was attempting to spare Miss Honeycote from entering the study where the unspeakable had happened, or he deemed the drawing room a more genteel setting for their meeting. Everyone in the household seemed convinced she was a naïve young miss when she was an extortionist, for God’s sake. “I’m not in the drawing room, Dennison. I’m here.”

The butler’s bushy eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, and he hurried off.

Owen had had her spectacles repaired so that she’d be able to see properly when she was hemming hems or trimming trim or whatever the hell it was that seamstresses did. He couldn’t have one of his employees going about her duties with a cracked lens. It would reflect poorly on him even if no one else knew that he’d been the one to trample them.

He didn’t want Miss Honeycote’s gratitude. He just wanted her to be able to do her damned job.

She arrived at the study still wearing that blasted cap. It really was an atrocity.

However, there was a pleasant fullness to her cheeks that hadn’t been there before. Her features looked softer and her gray eyes brighter. The ghastly brown dress had been replaced with an unsightly green one that could not be considered pretty by any stretch. But it was a slight improvement. At least he could tell that she did, indeed, have a figure. Her breasts, while smallish, were high and nicely shaped. The swell of her hips, just visible beneath her skirts, made his blood thrum in appreciation.

But that cap. It was an insult to all other caps. He decided to let it go—for now.

“You sent for me, Your Grace?”

“Come in.”

She approached slowly and stood in front of his desk. He picked up the package, walked around his desk, and handed it to her. “Here. This is for you.”

Delight and then curiosity flitted across her face. “Is it from my sister?”

“No.”

“Then, who?”

“No one.”

She shot him a dubious look. “I have received a package from no one?”

Only she would be suspicious of a simple gift. “Just open it. You’ll see.”

She untied the string and unwrapped the paper. “Spectacles,” she said, frowning at them. Like a mermaid who’d been given slippers.

“I assumed you’d be glad to have your spectacles back.”

She shook her head slowly. “These aren’t my spectacles. Mine were larger, and the rims around the lenses were round. These are oval. I don’t know who these belong to, but they’re not mine.” She handed them back to him, and turned as though she’d leave.

“Wait.”

She halted and slowly faced him again.

Owen raked a hand through his hair. “I took your old spectacles to be repaired, but the jeweler said he couldn’t fix them.”

“You took them? You had no right.” She planted her fists on her hips. “I want them back.”

Damn, but this was turning into a disaster. Some ancient but trustworthy male instinct warned him of an impending scene, so he walked to the door, shut it, and returned. “Your old spectacles were not salvageable. They’re gone.” Suddenly, he felt like the ogre again. He supposed this was what happened when one tried to do something nice for a criminal with an overblown sense of pride.

“What do you mean, gone?” Her voice had an edge to it. “My father had those made for me.”

He recalled her telling him that her father had died. The jeweler had offered to wrap up the old pair, but Owen instructed him to destroy the mangled things. He never dreamed he’d regret it. “Do you honestly believe your father would want you to wear broken spectacles?”

“That’s not the point,” she spat.

Of course it wasn’t. But there was nothing to be done for it now. “The jeweler said these would be lighter, more comfortable. The lenses are brand new. I don’t know how you could see out of the old ones, as scratched as they were. I took a chance and had the prescription made a little stronger. Just put them on.” He held them out to her, but she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

Obstinate little wench. “Fine. Stand still.”

He half-expected her to bolt, but for once, she did as he asked. He approached her as he would have a wild horse; from the side, his palms out. In two cautious steps, he closed the space between them.

“Try them.”

She made no move to accept the gift.

“Look. Do you see how thin the temples are? They’re curved to fit snugly around your ears.” He rotated the spectacles around so she could examine them. “And the lenses are smaller to better fit your face.” Wonderful. He sounded like a damned sales clerk.

Her gaze flicked to the spectacles, betraying her curiosity.

Slowly, he raised them in front of her face. “Don’t move. I’ve no wish to poke out your eye. Messy, that.”

This drew the slightest smirk. Encouraged, he carefully positioned the rims on the bridge of her sloping nose, then slid the temples around her ears. When his fingers traced the delicate pink shells, she drew back. He dropped his hands to her shoulders and cupped them lightly to steady her. The scents of linen, wool, and soap filled his senses, and although he didn’t want to let her go, he did.

“Well?” he asked.

She blinked twice behind the crystal-clear lenses, and then opened her eyes wide. “Amazing.”

“How so?”

“I’ve never seen the world in such focus—even with my old spectacles.” Her gaze flicked to the window. “The clouds outside—they’re the gray, wispy kind that means it shall likely drizzle all day. It’s… it’s wonderful.”

“Drizzle puts me in a bloody foul mood.”

Ignoring him, she looked intently around the room. “Your desk is magnificent—I can see every striation in the wood grain. Did you know there are three drops of blue sealing wax caked on it?

He leaned over her shoulder to confirm the presence of the wax. Damned if she wasn’t right. “Impressive.”

She turned and startled slightly, surprised to find herself wedged between him and the desk. Her gaze locked with his, the dark centers of her eyes drawing him in like fire on a bitter cold night. And he wasn’t inclined to move.

Behind the new spectacles, her eyes sparkled with wonder and intelligence. The delicate muscles in her throat worked as she swallowed, and her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath. Too quickly, she cast her gaze downward.

He would have given her some space then—truly, he would have—if she hadn’t leaned in to examine his chest. “The texture of your waistcoat is fascinating. Why, it’s a fleur de lis.” With a fingertip, she traced the brocade pattern, making his heart beat faster. “I can almost see the individual threads.”

He resisted the urge to lace his fingers through hers and pull her closer. Her interest in his damned waistcoat was purely academic. For all he knew, seamstresses were required to study such things.

“You can see threads? This is alarming,” he said. “Next you’ll tell me you can see through my waistcoat.”

She raised her eyebrows wickedly. “They’re quite powerful.”

He laughed, for the first time in maybe a month. “My turn.” Miss Honeycote’s eyes widened and her hand dropped to her side. “Did you think you were the only one who could play the game?” He cleared his throat. “Your skin is smooth like…” Damn it, what was something smooth? “Silk. Yes, silk.” A cliché, but he mentally congratulated himself regardless. “And your hair…” In one fluid motion he snatched off her cap and flung it at the shelves behind his desk. It landed on his antique clock at a jaunty angle.

Miss Honeycote gasped and stared at him as though he’d stripped off her corset instead of her bloody cap. But since there was no going back, he forged ahead. “Your hair cannot decide whether it wants to be brown or red or gold. It’s fickle, but… lovely.”

He’d lost his senses. If the puzzled expression on Miss Honeycote’s face was any indication, she agreed. But she did smile shyly, making the whole awkward moment worthwhile.

“Thank you. Er, for the spectacles, that is.”

He grunted. She hadn’t even looked at the bloody things yet. Grasping her shoulders, he positioned her in front of the large mirror resting on the mantel. “What do you think?”

Wrinkling her nose, she said, “They feel more secure than my old ones. Perhaps they won’t slide so much.”

She was missing the point, damn it. “Do you like them?”

“I suppose they’ll take some getting used to. They’re rather odd, aren’t they?”

Odd? “No.” He moved closer, and his chest bumped against her back. Their gazes met in the mirror. “Look again.”

Miss Honeycote sighed as though completely uninterested in her reflection. How different she was from most females. Original, real… and practical to a fault. Thus, the extortion note.

“Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.

Her gaze locked with his in the glass before them. “I’m certain you’re determined to tell me.”

“You were hiding behind your old spectacles.”

“Nonsense.” She spun around and tried to walk past him, but before he knew what he was doing, he’d grasped her upper arms.

“What are you doing?”

Good question. “This.”

And he kissed her.


His lips, warm and firm against hers, somehow caused a thrumming throughout Anabelle’s body, making her pleasantly light-headed. He speared his fingers through her hair, pressing lightly on her scalp. Some of the tightness of her bun was relieved, and she heard the clink of pins hitting the floor.

She’d forgotten how to breathe, or, if she was breathing, she wasn’t getting enough air. It was all very strange. And wonderful.

She’d hoped to have a proper kiss one day. She and Daphne had discussed the possibility at length and agreed that they should each prefer to be kissed by a gentleman who was kind, gentle, and not particularly demanding.

Not in a thousand lifetimes would Anabelle have dreamed that she’d be kissed by the same wickedly handsome duke from whom earlier that very week she’d attempted to extort forty gold coins.

Part of her wondered if she were imagining the entire thing—all the hours spent on intricate beadwork the last few days had no doubt addled her brain. She opened her eyes to take a peek and saw the dark lock of hair over his brow.

This was no dream.

Although hard to fathom, he was the same formidable duke who’d captured her under a bridge. His elegant clothes couldn’t disguise the wiry strength and sheer intensity beneath. And the object of his intense focus at the moment was her.

The stubble on his chin prickled and tickled her cheek. His mouth covered hers in the most intimate way, his lips molded seamlessly to hers. He tasted like a spicy tea—tangy and masculine. She savored each sensation like a traveler in a foreign land filled with exotic textures and scents.

His hands drifted down her spine and settled at the small of her back, where he rubbed intoxicating little circles that turned her legs to jelly. He kissed her harder, coaxed her lips apart, and traced them with his tongue. The pressure, warm and wet, made her heart beat wildly, and she understood.

She understood why so many of the women in Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop were willing to risk their reputations for a kiss.

And then, the duke’s forehead bumped into her new spectacles.

Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment she was confused by the fog covering her lenses. She doubted there had ever been a more obvious metaphor for clouded judgment. God was giving her a sign. A divine slap in the face.

“Let me take them off,” the duke said smoothly, reaching for the rims.

“No.” If she let him, before she knew it he’d be asking to remove other personal articles. She’d rather not subject her own willpower to such a rigorous test.

“I think,” she said, taking a step back, “that I should go.” She took off her spectacles, carefully wiped the lenses with her pinafore, and replaced them. Her heart still beat wildly, but the simple habit of putting on her spectacles helped compose her.

Heavens. This encounter would lower his opinion of her character even further. In his mind she’d probably gone from being an extortionist to an extortionist with loose morals—a label which seemed unnecessarily redundant.

He moved toward her, and then stopped as though torn. “Anabelle, er, Miss Honeycote, I should apologize for my actions.”

She shook her head. If he was wrong, she had been, too. An apology wouldn’t make her feel better.

The duke moved closer and cupped her cheek in his palm, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable. But I’m not sorry I kissed you.”

Oh. Anabelle was not used to such declarations, so she tried to remember what Daphne normally said to her swarms of suitors. “I, ah, am very flattered by your attentions. I do think, however, that I should go and that we should put this behind us,” she said firmly. “I’m sure the spectacles must have been dear, and I don’t know how or when I shall be able to repay you, but I shall.” The only thing she could do was make dresses. “Have you any other female relatives for whom I could create wardrobes?”

“I have fourteen great aunts, ranging in age from fifty-nine to eighty-two.”

She blinked slowly, wondering just how much the spectacles had cost. “You jest.”

He grinned in answer. Of course he’d been teasing. But she sighed in relief just the same.

His smile faded and the dark slashes of his brows drew together in a slight frown. “You don’t owe me anything for the spectacles. I broke your old ones.”

She raised an eyebrow so he’d know she was aware of the major flaw in his logic, namely that he would never have stepped on her spectacles if she hadn’t written him a rather nasty demand note.

Exhaling, she attempted to restore herself to some semblance of respectability. She smoothed her skirts and tucked loose wisps of hair behind her ears, all the while ignoring the duke’s amused glances.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said and, with as much dignity as she could muster, walked toward the door. He backed up, blocking her path, and scooped up one of her hands in his. With a wicked smile, he said, “Good afternoon, Miss Honeycote,” and seared the back of her hand with a kiss.

She tried her best to appear unaffected but marched out of the room on shaky legs. The import of what she’d done was sinking in. She’d kissed her employer, who happened to be a duke and the man she’d tried to extort money from. A clear and blatant violation of her own rules of conduct. She was scurrying down the hallway and heading for the staircase when she stopped in her tracks.

Dash it all, she had to go back.

Full of dread, she spun around and returned to the scene of the kiss—er, the study. When she arrived at the doorway, the duke was staring out the window rather contemplatively. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to be doing but was vastly relieved to see that he wasn’t, oh, banging his forehead on his desk in regret or tossing back a large glass of gin.

When she cleared her throat, he looked at her, surprised. And, perhaps, a little hopeful.

“I came to retrieve something that belongs to me.” Without waiting for permission, she crossed the study, plucked her cap off the clock, and jammed it on her head.

It occurred to her she should amend her List of Nevers to include rules governing her unusual relationship with the duke. The first addendum would be “Never remove one’s cap—or allow it to be removed—in the presence of the duke, as it may well be the only impediment to wanton behavior by both parties.” Yes, now that she thought on it, rules were definitely necessary.

She dared not look at him as she exited the room—for the second time. She was fairly certain he’d be mocking her; but of course, he’d been mocking her since he’d met her.

The problem was, she now cared far more than she should.