One Wicked Wish Read online

  She struggled to steady her voice. “No real harm done.”

  “Stella, you poor thing. You’re bleeding all over your lovely embroidery, too,” Imogen said, dashing over to take her injured hand. “I’ll ring for a maid to attend you.”

  “No, no, I’m perfectly fine. Really it’s nothing. Really.” The curious stares were making her skin crawl. “I’ll go upstairs and wash it.”

  Halston withdrew a white linen handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. “Here.”

  She broke free of Imogen and accepted the handkerchief with a shaky curtsy and a reluctance that she was sure he noted. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Give me that embroidery,” Imogen said, leaving Stella free to wrap Halston’s handkerchief around her bleeding finger.

  “May I help you to the stairs?” he asked.

  “It’s not serious, my lord.” She kept avoiding his eyes. Oh, how she’d like to tell him just what she thought of him, but she was too aware of the audience for their small drama. “Please don’t let me interrupt your visit.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  At last, she sent him a quick look that she hoped conveyed her utter contempt for his machinations. Even if she wasn’t suffering a painful dose of pique, she knew Imogen deserved better than this deceitful snake.

  He raised his eyebrows in a silent question that he must know she couldn’t answer here. Much as she’d dearly love to tell him just how much she detested his double dealing.

  “Let me offer my arm.”

  Over his shoulder, she saw faces turned in their direction. Although she was sure that the interest still focused on Imogen and Halston, rather than a nonentity of a companion. Any further objections from her, though, might change that.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said between her teeth.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Imogen said from beside Halston. Stella had to admit that they looked wonderful together.

  “Please don’t spoil your callers’ time here.” Her hand was stinging, but nowhere near as much as her pride was. “I’ll come down the minute that I’ve put a bandage on it. It’s almost stopped bleeding.”

  She wasn’t a naïve ingenue like Imogen, with no experience of men and their tricks. Yet somehow she’d taken one look at Lord Halston and every scrap of good sense had flown away to far Cathay.

  Halston curled his hand around her arm. “Come, Miss Faulkner.”

  Heat sizzled through her. She raised startled eyes to his, for a fleeting instant forgetting her resentment. And any curious observers.

  Stella only took an instant to recover, but the sensation had been strong enough to make her fear his power over her. Even worse, something in those glittering eyes told her that he, too, felt the searing connection.

  He’d never touched her before. Last night in the gazebo, despite the tension crackling between them, he hadn’t laid a hand on her.

  She wanted to snap at him to let her go, but a poor relation didn’t order a peer of the realm around. When she lurched forward, her unsteadiness had nothing to do with her minor injury.

  As she stumbled, his grip tightened. Her heart galloped so fast that she felt light-headed. For pity’s sake, she needed to get away before she made a complete fool of herself.

  Damn Halston. And she damned herself, too. Why did her good sense and her sensual inclinations have to be at war over the sweet-tongued swine?

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Imogen place the ruined embroidery on the chair Stella had vacated. She also noted the way that every woman in the room watched Halston as he escorted Stella toward the door. He was one of those men women couldn’t help noticing.

  Noticing? Gossip granted him conquests from John o’Groat’s to Land’s End. He was accounted irresistible, the scoundrel.

  Well, she meant to resist. If he thought to fulfill his contemptible plan to have both cousins under his thrall, she intended to thwart him.

  “You can let me go now,” she muttered, as they reached the empty hall outside the drawing room.

  He ignored her. She’d known he would. Deciding that she despised him didn’t alter her affinity with him. Last night, she’d felt as if they communicated with more than words. She still felt like that. Another rake’s trick.

  “I need to see you,” he said in a low voice.

  “No, you don’t,” she replied in a snarl, and this time when she tried to get away, he let her go. “Go back inside to my cousin before you cause any more talk.”

  The gathering comprehension in his expression had her going red again. Because however much she wished it otherwise, if she heard the note of jealousy, so did he. “By God, you can’t think…”

  To her relief, Frederick, one of the footmen, appeared at that moment. He cast them a glance, but at least his presence saved her from further conversation with Halston.

  “Thank you for your help, my lord,” she said in a carrying voice. “I’m fine to go upstairs without assistance.”

  His narrow-eyed attention warned her that he wasn’t finished with her, but he stepped back and bowed. “I hope your hand gives you no more trouble.”

  She hoped that he gave her no more trouble, but she wouldn’t lay money on it. His jaw was set with a masculine resolve that told her this matter was far from closed. Which was rich, when he was flirting with Imogen and inviting her to his house and sending her flowers.

  “I’m sure it won’t.”

  Walking away was harder than it should have been, but Stella managed it and made her way up the stairs without a backward glance. She felt Lord Halston watching every step she made. Or at least she thought she did. When she turned at the top landing, the hall below contained neither Frederick nor her bugbear.

  Plague take Halston, he was turning her into a complete ninny. And she had days of his company ahead, unless she came up with some excuse not to accompany Imogen to Prestwick Place. The bleak truth was that as a lowly servant, whether related to the family or not, she didn’t have the luxury of refusing to go.

  Only when she gained the sanctuary of her narrow, spartan room next to Imogen’s more opulent apartments did she realize that she still clutched Lord Halston’s handkerchief, sadly bloodstained now, in her good hand.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, the memory of Halston’s call still disturbed Stella. She was in two minds over whether to warn her cousin about the conniving earl. The problem was that romantic young girls often found a Lothario irresistible.

  Imogen was beside herself about the prospect of visiting Prestwick Place. They left in a few days and would be away almost a week. Stella had tried to warn her uncle against allowing his daughter to attend a house party hosted by an acknowledged rake. But Deerforth was so blinded by the chance of Imogen attracting a proposal from a society leader like Halston that he’d refused to listen.

  At least there was one benefit to this mess. Deerforth had stopped haranguing Imogen about neglecting Lord Chippenham.

  Stella told herself that she disliked the idea of Halston pursuing Imogen because they were unsuited. But she had an unwelcome feeling that she was just a dog in the manger. Despite everything she knew of the reprobate earl, she wanted him for herself. Her few hours of sleep last night had confirmed that unfortunate fact. His satanic lordship had featured in feverish dreams that had her blushing when she woke.

  Yesterday when she went upstairs after pricking her finger, she’d gone looking for Halston’s bouquet. Straightaway, she knew which flowers were his.

  Most of the bouquets massed around Imogen’s sitting room and bedroom were pretty posies of spring flowers. So many, that Stella wondered why the perfume didn’t give Imogen a headache.

  A few extravagant gentlemen had even gone to the expense of ordering hothouse roses. One gentleman alone had sent a sheaf of exotic red lilies. That seemed an odd tribute to a debutante.

  Knowing that she overstepped her rights, Stella couldn’t help sneaking a look at the card. Crisp white board sc
ored with a vigorous, slanting hand. Many men asked their secretary to order flowers for the beauties of the moment. Something about this convinced Stella that Halston had written the message himself.

  “To my fair stranger, I hope when next we meet, we will be strangers no more. Yours, Halston.”

  An odd message to send a debutante. An odd message to match the odd choice of flowers.

  Odd or not, the lilies had found favor with her cousin. She’d set them in the place of honor on her dressing table.

  With a heavy sigh, Stella pushed open the garden’s back gate. Everything was getting very complicated, and she had a headache that had nothing to do with flowers. Other than red lilies.

  She was on her way to return some books to the circulating library. The membership might be in Imogen’s name, but Stella was the one who did most of the reading, unless the book was about garden design. Imogen was still asleep, probably dreaming of Halston. At last night’s ball, she’d danced twice with the earl. His wounded arm hadn’t seemed to cause him any difficulty.

  Dolly, the young maid who accompanied her on errands, dawdled a dozen yards behind her. “Miss Faulkner, I forgot my handkerchief. You go on ahead, and I’ll catch up.”

  “Make sure you do,” Stella said.

  The morning was cold, and the girl had left her alone before, when she’d decided she’d rather loiter in the warm kitchen than come outside. Stella thought it was absurd that a woman of close to thirty and with no value in the marriage market needed a chaperone to go two streets away. But those were the rules of London society.

  Once past the busy stables, she turned into the narrow alley lined with high brick walls that brought her out onto Lorimer Square. One of these walls enclosed the overgrown garden of Fleetwood House, where the reclusive Duke of Alwyn lived.

  She was in such a stew over the forthcoming house party that it took far too long to realize that an unmarked carriage had rolled forward to block her exit. Only when the door opened from inside the vehicle did she recognize her danger.

  “Come along, Miss Faulkner. Don’t hang about. Get into the carriage. If I’ve got out of bed at this ungodly hour, the least you can do is fall for my wicked stratagems.”

  The speaker’s identity was no surprise. Of course it was Halston.

  She stopped as uncontrollable physical awareness flooded her. She was unsure if she wanted to scuttle back to safety or stay and give the reprobate a good scolding – and also a warning to take care of Imogen and her reputation, if his intentions were honorable.

  Honorable? How on earth could they be honorable if he’d taken to lying in wait for Imogen’s companion?

  “It’s not my responsibility if you decide to keep Christian hours,” she said, despite herself venturing closer so that her voice wouldn’t carry.

  The plainly dressed coachman maintained his stolid stare over the horses’ ears. The carriage was older and shabbier than she’d expect for someone as high in the instep as Halston.

  “See? Already you’re proving good for my character. With only a morsel more of your attention, redemption is a distinct possibility.”

  “I’m not sure you’re worth the effort,” she said flatly.

  “Oh, cruel angel,” he said, and she couldn’t stifle the warmth that stole into her heart at his absurdity. Before she could question the wisdom of what she did, she stepped right up to the carriage.

  Lord Halston sat in the shadows. She supposed he was doing his best to be discreet, but she couldn’t suppress a shiver. The thought was inescapable – if she joined him, she moved from bright morning light to darkness.

  “I’m no angel.” That was truer than he could imagine.

  His smile conveyed acres of sin. Goodness, it was only nine o’clock in the morning. Too early for seduction, surely. “That’s what I’m relying on.”

  Stella couldn’t control a blush at that. “If you bribed Dolly to leave me alone with you, the news will be all over the household before luncheon.”

  She kept her tone matter-of-fact, even as a disagreeable mixture of anger and apprehension and reluctant fascination churned inside her.

  He shook his head with a weary patience that made her want to hit him. “O ye of little faith.”

  “You’re taking a very biblical bent this morning.”

  “I said you had a beneficial influence on my character.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Eyes glinting with laughter met hers, and despite all the curses she’d laid on his head over the last few days, something hard and constricted inside her loosened. “I think you’re dashed ungrateful, after I struggled all last night not to spare you a single longing look or whisk you out into the garden for a kiss or two. My neck aches with the effort. There I was, dancing with all those little poppets who bore me stiff, while the woman who really makes me stiff refused to give me as much as a smile.”

  She pretended not to hear that brazen comment. “You danced with my cousin. Twice.”

  While she’d sat with the chaperones, afraid that Halston might make some move toward her. Then she came home depressed, because he hadn’t given her as much as a glance. She’d tried to tell herself that was what she wanted. To her regret, she didn’t believe it, although if the earl tangled her up in a scandal, her uncle wouldn’t think twice before he threw her out. Then inevitable destitution awaited.

  Smugness should never be attractive. On Lord Halston, it was enthralling. “You noticed.”

  Stella didn’t smile back. “And you sent Imogen flowers and a suggestive message. And you called on her yesterday, when you invited her to your home. Are these attentions the prelude to a proposal, my lord?”

  Her boldness didn’t unsettle him. “I could do worse than to marry the chit.” His tone turned thoughtful. “She’s pretty, and livelier than most of the other girls on the marriage market this year.”

  No, no, no. Her stomach contracted at the thought.

  He paused, while Stella struggled to come up with an adequate protest. Or a protest that avoided admitting that her main reason for loathing the idea of him marrying Imogen was that she was attracted to him herself.

  He continued on the same musing note. “If I marry Imogen, you and I will become cousins. How cozy will that be?”

  She regarded him in horror. It seemed her suspicions had been correct. “You…”

  “Unless you want to try and talk me out of my villainous plan. Why don’t you get into the carriage and tell me why I should change my mind?”

  “She’s too good for you,” she said through lips that felt like wood.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him as she climbed into the carriage and dropped onto the seat facing him. With a shaking hand, she set the heavy bag of books beside her.

  She was taking a dreadful risk, but at least inside the coach, she was safe from prying eyes. What she intended to say needed privacy. Out in the alley, one of Deerforth’s grooms could wander up at any time. “I won’t let you marry Imogen if it’s the last thing I do.”

  She had time to register Halston’s satisfaction as he slammed the door shut, enclosing them in a twilit space that felt uncomfortably intimate. The blinds were down for discretion’s sake, she supposed, although sitting in this confined cabin didn’t seem discreet at all.

  “‘Step into my parlor,’ said the spider to the fly,” he purred from the seat facing forward. A gentleman would take the seat facing backward, but he’d already told her he was no gentleman, hadn’t he, the blackguard?

  When the coach lurched into motion, Stella linked her hands in her lap to hide their unsteadiness and grimaced in displeasure. “Your parlor smells like it needs a good clean, Sir Spider. You’ll need to do better than this decrepit conveyance, if you hope to impress Imogen,” she jeered, then cringed. Curse her, could she make her jealousy any clearer?

  His soft laugh made her skin tighten with desire. How could she want him and despise him at the same time? She’d known the urgency of sexual
craving before, but all those years ago, her brain hadn’t been in such opposition to her appetites.

  As Stella’s vision adjusted to the gloom, she studied Halston. Dressed in a dark coat and breeches and boots, he leaned back against his seat. She wasn’t used to seeing him in such casual attire. For the ballroom, he was always turned out comme il faut, and yesterday for his call on Imogen, he’d worn an elegant blue coat.

  The black silk sling still supported his injured arm. To her irritation, the effect was as dashing as ever. His long legs stretched across the well between the seats, so she had to crowd against the side to save her skirts from tangling with those gleaming boots.

  “I don’t want to impress Imogen. I have no interest in your cousin at all, as you would know if you applied an ounce of your enormous intelligence to the matter, my sweet little nincompoop.”

  Her lips straightened. “I’m not sweet. I’m not little. And I’m certainly not yours, my lord.”

  “And you’re not a nincompoop.” His chuckle rippled over her like warm water on a cold day. “You’re just a tad bamboozled.”

  She was indeed, but that didn’t stop her from injecting a sour note into her response. “You must be desperate to dig up a compliment, if you’re stuck with commenting on a woman’s cleverness.”

  “You underestimate me. Good conversation is one of life’s great pleasures.”

  “And you’re a great connoisseur of life’s pleasures, aren’t you? Clearly the world has misunderstood your interest in opera dancers, my lord. You pursue them because you want to discuss the latest poetry, not because you want to bed them.”

  She broke every rule in the young lady’s book of etiquette by mentioning his affairs. But there was a heady freedom in not guarding her tongue.

  “I didn’t expect you to be a snob, Miss Faulkner.” She caught the gleam of his eyes as he surveyed her. “Surely you more than anyone know that poverty doesn’t necessarily stem from stupidity.”

  “You’re right to chastise me.” This time, she flushed with shame. “I don’t know those women. I shouldn’t make assumptions.”