Free When She Was Wicked by Anne Barton Page A

“Besides a few personal effects, this is all that I have.” She frowned as she sifted through the garments in the bag once more. “Although my nightrail does appear to be missing.” She’d left it on the floor behind the dressing screen in her hurry to leave for Hyde Park that morning. It was hard to believe she’d slept on the settee in her family’s parlor just last night. It seemed a lifetime ago.
    Lady Olivia opened her mouth to say something but was distracted by the arrival of a maid pushing the tea cart. Lady Rose poured, and they all helped themselves to warm, buttered rolls. Anabelle couldn’t recall ever having eaten so much in one day.
    As luck would have it, she was popping the last morsel of the delicious roll into her mouth when the duke strode into the room.
    “Owen!” cried Lady Olivia. “Come sit. You must join us for tea.”
    Anabelle focused on swallowing. And not choking—after having first been caught napping and now enjoying a leisurely tea during what was to be her first day of work.
    He glared at the three of them, and while they waited for his response to a simple invitation, Anabelle had time to think.
    His Christian name was Owen. It seemed very improper that she should know this, and yet she was amused to discover that the very intimidating Duke of Huntford was simply “Owen” to his sisters. It suited him. The brevity of it, the roundness of the vowel, the crispness of the consonant ending.
    “No, thank you.” He adjusted his cravat, and Anabelle’s gaze was drawn to the thick, corded muscles of his neck. “The fabric and the, ah… other supplies—have they arrived?”
    “Oh yes. Everything is over there on the table.” Lady Olivia patted Anabelle’s knee. “Was there anything else you needed, Miss Honeycote?”
    Anabelle set her plate, empty but for a few crumbs, on the tea tray. “Not at the moment.”
    He stared at her for several heartbeats but said nothing. She realized this was something she must accustom herself to—his habit of silently appraising her.
    At last, he said, “The matters we discussed earlier this afternoon have been settled.”
    She assumed he referred to her debts.
    “This letter”—he walked closer and handed it to her—“is for you. The footman brought it after retrieving your things.”
    Anabelle held the letter close to her face. Her name, in Daphne’s buoyant script, appeared on the outside, but the note wasn’t sealed. There probably hadn’t been time. Anabelle assumed the duke had read it and hoped Daphne hadn’t revealed anything too embarrassing. Although, she supposed, he knew most of their secrets now anyway. “Thank you.”
    He grunted and jerked his chin toward her portmanteau. “You have your things.”
    “Yes.” She forced herself to sit perfectly still, a polite smile pasted on her face, as he stared some more.
    “I trust that you have another, more tasteful, cap in your bag. See that you’re wearing it tomorrow.” He gave a nod to each of his sisters, who stared at him slack-jawed as he stalked out of the room.
    Lady Olivia cleared her throat. “I must apologize for my brother. Sometimes, he can be rather…”
    “Overbearing?” Anabelle offered—though it was clearly not her place.
    “Precisely.” Lady Olivia sighed. “I believe he means well. He was very different before our father died. But let’s not discuss such heavy matters today. We should let you unpack your things and prepare for dinner.”
    Dinner? Anabelle hoped she wouldn’t have to eat again for at least a few hours. “Thank you. I’d like to spend some time working on your ball gowns so they’ll be ready for you to try on tomorrow.”
    “We shall look forward to it. Shan’t we, Rose?”
    Lady Rose smiled, nodded demurely, and stood.
    The moment the sisters had taken their leave, Anabelle read Daphne’s letter. She was understandably curious about the terms of Anabelle’s new employment, but madeno mention of Mama’s condition.