When She Was Wicked

Chapter Nine

Buckle: (1) A clasp used to fasten. (2) To crumple or collapse, as is often the case with one’s knees during a kiss with a dashing duke.

At two o’clock in the morning, Anabelle threw back the covers and sprang out of bed, fully clothed in a dark gray dress she hoped would blend in with the night. She pulled on her boots, lacing them tightly as though doing so would provide some protection from the ruffians who roamed the streets of London. Perhaps she’d be able to run faster, if necessary.

But she prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

The house was as quiet as a church. Anabelle exited through the workroom and then made her way into the dim corridor. She tiptoed past Rose’s door, then Olivia’s, and down the staircase to the second floor. As she passed the duke’s study, her pulse quickened. Last night hardly seemed real. She’d never forget the feel of the duke’s body, warm and solid, behind hers or the wonder of discovering how perfectly his mouth fit to hers. Her face flushed, and she walked faster, as though removing herself from the scene could erase the imprints on her mind. Foolish, but worth a try.

Silently, she glided toward the servants’ narrow staircase at the back of the house and descended the creaky steps, treading as lightly as she could. Upon reaching the back door, she paused and caught her breath. She’d considered leaving the house through this door, but a servant might discover the door had been left unlocked and correct the oversight, preventing her from being able to re-enter. Furthermore, the back door led into the garden, and from the upper-story windows, Anabelle had noted the gate on the tall, black iron fence, which was, no doubt, locked. Mr. Dennison slept near the front door, making it out of the question.

She needed an alternate escape route, and so, after much deliberation, she settled on a library window. The library, located on the ground level at the front of the house, had windows facing the street. It was a simple matter of opening the sash and climbing out onto the sidewalk.

She hoped.

With deliberate steps, Anabelle weaved her way around cabinets, arm chairs, and piecrust tables until she reached the huge center window of the room. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn closed, and when she slipped behind them a cocoon formed around her, allowing her to work on the sash without fear of detection. The lock stuck at first, but she eventually slid it to the side and heaved open the window several inches. Warm, humid air kissed her face, and she inhaled deeply. She could do this. Daphne and Mama needed her.

After making sure that no one walked in front of the townhouse, she stuck her head out the window and surveyed the ground below. The drop looked farther than she’d imagined—perhaps four feet off the ground. With a quick but fervent prayer, she hoisted a leg over the sill, squeezed through the window, and hopped to the ground—and freedom.


Owen decided to walk home from White’s. He’d enjoyed an excellent dinner and several excellent drinks afterward. A brisk, head-clearing stroll was definitely in order.

Earlier that afternoon, he and Averill had paid a visit to Owen’s physician and made some inquiries. His doctor had never heard of Conwell. Owen then instructed his driver to take them to the address where he’d sent the money for Anabelle’s mother’s treatment. The house, located in a rather shady part of Town, looked abandoned.

It seemed his seamstress was more manipulative than he’d given her credit for.

Anabelle had probably fabricated her mother’s illness, made up the doctor’s name, and given him the address of an accomplice—possibly her lover. Owen ignored the sick feeling in his gut.

If she was involved with someone, that was no concern of his, but he wouldn’t tolerate her deception. What a fool he’d been to believe her—sending money to doctors, apothecaries, ailing mothers, and helpless sisters. He’d obviously been blinded by lust. Tomorrow morning he’d summon Anabelle to his study and make it clear that—

What in the devil was going on at his townhouse?

He halted at the corner of his street and squinted at what appeared to be a woman’s shapely bottom hanging out of a window.

His window.

He stayed close to the brick façade of the house he was passing but continued walking toward the woman. As she wriggled her way over the sill, her skirts hitched on the sash. Owen caught a glimpse of lithe legs in the lamplight before she plopped unceremoniously to the ground and tugged her dress down. She glanced around, so he pressed his back against the rough brick and waited to see which direction she would head.

It had to be Anabelle. Even without the offensive cap, he recognized her efficient movements and the lean lines of her body. His heart beat faster at the sight of her. Perhaps because a confrontation was imminent.

But then, being near her always made his blood heat.

What the hell was she doing sneaking out of his house? For one thing, it was damned dangerous for a woman to walk the streets of London at night. But something else vexed him.

She wanted to escape.

He’d thought that they were all getting on reasonably well. His sisters liked the dresses Anabelle made for them. She liked her new spectacles. He liked the way she kissed.

But now she was leaving, and at this time of the evening the only possible explanation was a romantic tryst.

Owen swallowed the bile in his throat and skulked along behind her. She headed east, marching down the sidewalk like she owned it, but he guessed her bravado was a front. Any sane woman would be terrified. He curled his fists. What kind of man must her lover be if he let her roam the streets, unescorted, in the middle of the night?

By God, Owen would soon find out.

Gas lamps illuminated the deserted neighborhood. The occasional owl hoot or coach rumble on a nearby street punctuated the silence. Anabelle hurried, pausing now and then to listen—as though she suspected someone followed her.

He retreated farther into the shadows, and she increased her pace for the next few blocks as she left the relative safety of Mayfair for a less savory part of Town. As she reached the corner of Holborn and Red Lion Streets, a howl echoed. Anabelle froze, and the hairs on Owen’s arms stood on end.

From out of the shadows, a pair of huge dogs charged, aiming straight for her. Their eyes glowed white in the darkness, evil as the hounds of Hades. The beasts barked and bared their teeth as they closed the distance at a run. He’d expected thugs or drunken dandies, for God’s sake—not dogs. From the collar encircling each dog’s thick neck, a frayed rope dragged, undulating behind as it ran.

If their jutting ribs were any indication, the beasts were hungry.

“Anabelle!” She turned toward him, and in the eerie yellow light of the street lamps he could see her terror. “Run!”

He scooped up a stone and ran toward the dogs, hoping to draw them away from her. But he couldn’t throw the rock and risk hurting her.

She looked left, toward a deserted square, then right, down an alley. Hiking up her skirts, she sprinted for the alley and disappeared between two buildings.

He hurled the stone at the mangy pair, but they just snarled and bounded after Anabelle down the alley, close on her heels.

Owen gave chase, running for all he was worth. He rounded the corner, and—Damn! The alley ended at a brick wall. “I’m coming,” he shouted. Hold on.

She whipped her head around, saw him and the dogs, and kept running. He wanted to tell her to watch where she was going, but she seemed unable to take her eyes off the vicious dogs.

Still several yards away, he called, “Look out!” Too late. She slammed into a wooden crate and tumbled over it, landing sprawled on her back. One of the hounds pounced, capturing her skirt in his jaws and shredding it in a mere second. She tried to scoot backward on her bottom, but the dogs circled her.

“Help!” she cried.

Owen raced down the alley, slippery with grime, grabbing the crate as he passed it. He dashed between the dogs and stood over Anabelle, using the crate to shove at the hound gnawing on her skirt. It yelped, backed off, and the other dog growled, pinning Anabelle with its fierce glare. Owen swung at its head, knocking it off its feet. As he did, the first mutt launched at him, locking its jaws around his forearm.

Pain buzzed up his arm and into his shoulder. Anabelle shrieked and stumbled to her feet.

“Run!” he called to her. While one dog whimpered and the other used his arm as a toy, she could escape.

He tried to free his arm by swinging it, but the dog only clamped down harder. Brandishing the crate, he kept the other dog at bay.

Anabelle ignored his order—hardly surprising. She fumbled around on the ground and rushed to his side.

He tried again. “Go.”

As though she hadn’t heard him, she raised a long wooden plank above her head. With a primal scream, she slammed the board onto the head of the dog on Owen’s arm.

Instantly, the dog released him and cowered; the other followed suit. Owen jabbed the crate at them a few more times, and at last, they ran away.

He stood there, trying to catch his breath, for several moments. Realizing he no longer needed the crate as a weapon, he tossed it aside. Blood trickled down his arm and soaked his sleeve.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, taking in her torn clothes and smudged face.

“I… I don’t think so.” She leaned against the wall as though her legs might not support her.

Without thinking, he pulled her to him and wrapped his good arm around her. He inhaled the clean scent of her hair—a haven in the dankness of the alley—and savored the pressure of her body against his. There were questions he needed to ask, but for now, it was enough to hold her.

He kissed the top of her head, and she lifted her face to look at him. “I see your spectacles are still intact.”

She gave him a weak smile. “Yes.”

With one hand, he carefully removed them and tucked them in his pocket. Then he kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, and, at last, her mouth. Cradling her face in his hands, he parted her lips with his tongue and tasted her. He didn’t attempt to keep his desire in check. Instead, he kissed her as he’d longed to—hungrily, feverishly, possessively.

As though she were actually his.

Anabelle responded. She clung to him, and her tongue tangled with his in an imitation of something more intimate. When he deepened the kiss, she moaned and speared her fingers through his hair like she wanted him closer still.

His heart ached with the irony of it all, because he knew that what she really wanted—what she’d been attempting to do that very night—was to run away.

Owen lost track of time. He didn’t want to let her go, or stop kissing her, or scold her for trying to leave him in the dead of the night. If they hadn’t been standing in a damp dark alley, they might have shed their clothes and explored each other. God knows he would have liked to. Instead, he contented himself with running a hand over the front of her dress, brushing the undersides of her breasts and teasing the peaks into hard little nubs. He imagined himself unbuttoning the back of her dress, slipping the sleeves off her shoulders, and loosening her corset. He would hold the perfect weight of her breasts in his hands, draw a rosy nipple into his mouth, and suckle her till she—

“Your Grace,” she said, breaking off their kiss.

Damn it. Her formal manner of address froze him like a dip in a frigid lake. “Owen. Or Huntford, if you can’t bring yourself to say my Christian name.”

She swallowed and worked her throat, but no sound emerged.

He muttered a curse, grabbed her hand, and pulled her along to the street. As they walked beneath a lamp, he saw that the lower half of her skirt was missing, but at least her chemise covered her legs.

“I’m sure you must think the worst of me, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” she said. “But, please, let me explain.”

God, she looked earnest, trustworthy. Her wide eyes and forthright expression chilled him to the core. What kind of person could be so deceptive, so skilled at lying? And what kind of fool was he for harboring a sliver of hope that she could explain away payments to doctors who didn’t exist and clandestine meetings in the middle of the night?

“I’m not interested in your excuses. We had a deal. Your dressmaking services for three months in exchange for your freedom. You were attempting to renege on that.”

“That’s not true. I would have returned before dawn.”

Her words almost made him double over, like a punch to his gut. He wondered on how many other occasions she’d snuck out of his house for a rendezvous, risking her life to meet with someone. He tried to squash the jealousy that made his blood simmer. “My, but you are a conscientious employee.”

She recoiled as though he’d cracked a whip. “You don’t believe me.”

“Whether or not you were going to return is immaterial. You violated the terms of our agreement.”

“I had a good reason for leaving. And I would have come back,” she said, stomping her foot for emphasis.

“I don’t think you would have. Do you know why?” He closed the distance between them, leaned over, and spoke into her ear. “You wouldn’t have been able to. You’d be bleeding to death in a godforsaken alley while those dogs feasted on your flesh.”

Anabelle choked on a sob and tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “I know. But I had to see them. I still need to.”

Them, not him—? “Who?”

“Mama and Daphne. I received a letter from them today, and Daph said Mama’s gotten worse. My sister is impossibly cheerful, so when I read the dire news I had to see Mama for myself.”

“If that’s true—”

“It is true.”

“—then why wouldn’t you have just asked me to visit them?” He added, “During a civilized hour of the day?”

“I did ask you,” she retorted. “On the first day, I asked if I could say good-bye to them. You refused. You don’t seem like the type of person who changes his mind.”

He vaguely remembered the conversation. In retrospect, it was not well done of him. Although in his defense, he’d been livid because of the threat to his sister. And after spending the night under a bridge he hadn’t been inclined to grant Anabelle any favors.

“Things have changed since then.” It was true. He still didn’t know if he could trust her or even if her mother was truly ill. But now, he wanted to know. He wanted to believe her.

“Is your sister expecting you tonight?”

She shook her head. “She would have been furious with me for taking such a risk.”

“Your sister and I are of the same mind. Even if you’d managed to arrive safely, chances are your sister and mother would have been sleeping. We’ll return to my house now. In the morning, I’ll escort you on a visit to your family. We have other matters to discuss also, but at the moment, my primary concern is getting you home in one piece.”

Belatedly, he remembered her spectacles were in his pocket and gave them to her.

She settled them on her little nose and narrowed her eyes. “Your arm,” she said, taking his wrist. “This gash needs to be cleaned and dressed quickly.”

Actually, it felt as though the bleeding had slowed. He would survive, but he couldn’t say the same for his jacket. His sleeve was in tatters and pitted with puncture marks. “I’m all for getting home quickly. And avoiding dogs of all breeds.”

“What if the dogs are… that is, could they be…?”

“They looked more hungry than rabid.”

She reached and traced his eyebrow with an index finger. “Your eye is cut and swollen. You were more badly hurt than I realized.”

Owen touched the heel of his hand to his bruised eye and winced. “This isn’t from the dogs. My friend, Averill, did it.”

“Your friend did that to you?”

Owen smiled. “Yes, but he walked away with a fat lip.” He wasn’t sure why he felt obliged to mention it. Cursed pride, he guessed.

“How charming.”

“You’d like Averill.” Owen snorted. “All the ladies do.”

“Yes, well, I’ve never been one to blindly follow the pack.”

Her response pleased him. She inspected his arm more closely before releasing it. “You should send for a doctor.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But all I really want to do right now is find my bed.”

She nodded and yawned. “An excellent idea.”

He quirked a brow at her, and even in the darkness, he could see the flush creep up her cheeks.

They walked side by side, in silence, down the deserted streets until they reached his house. As he ushered her up the steps toward the entrance, he said, “The front door isn’t nearly as adventurous a means of entry as, say, a window, but at least one can walk upright through it.”

She blushed again. “How’d you know about that?”

He thought fondly of her bottom hanging out of his library window, and leaned close to her ear. “I saw you. I saw everything.”

Her mouth opened, and he had the fierce and sudden urge to kiss her again, but from the dark foyer he heard a throat clear. Dennison. The butler rounded the corner holding a lantern aloft.

“Is everything all right, Your Grace?” Dennison’s eyes took in his and Anabelle’s tattered clothes before flicking to the grandfather clock against the wall.

“Perfect,” Owen answered cheerfully. He enjoyed tormenting his butler. To Anabelle, he said, “Good night, Miss Honeycote. Rest up so that you’ll be fresh for our outing in the morning.” She fled to her room like the wild dogs still snapped at her heels.