Practically Wicked by Alissa Johnson Page A

first time his family visited Caldwell Manor, and though much had changed over the years, there were some things on which he could always rely. He would always be welcomed, there would never be a shortage of ginger biscuits, and hell would freeze solid before Mrs. Webster took “no, thank you” for an answer.
    Feeling more relaxed by the moment, Max tugged free an already loose cravat, leaned back in his third-favorite chair, and mused that this was why he would always agree to visit Caldwell, even when a summons came in the middle of the London season. He would come for the comfort of its routines and the consistency of its inhabitants.
    “What the devil are you doing here?”
    Max looked up to find Lucien Haverston, the Marquess of Engsly, standing in the doorway. He looked disheveled and wild-eyed, his dark hair sticking up in several places.
    Max returned the greeting with a blank stare. “Well…this is new.”
    “Why aren’t you in London?”
    “Because I’m answering your summons.”
    Black brows lowered on a handsome face that had broken the hearts of many a maiden. Or so Lucien had liked to claim in his youth. “What?”
    “I was invited. You invited me. You insisted I visit, in fact. You said your wife would be in Scotland. I was spending too much time in London. You promised a bit of fishing, a little revelry with the lasses at the tavern, fine weather and clean country air—”
    “Oh, hell, I did ,” Lucien cut in with a groan. “Last month, was it?” He shook his head suddenly and waved his hand about as if to erase the thought. “Doesn’t matter. You have to go.”
    “What? Why?”
    “I have guests.”
    “Yes,” Max returned pointedly. “Me.”
    “You’re not a guest. You’re…you.” Lucien blinked at that statement, then began snapping his fingers repeatedly in the manner of someone slowly arriving at a solution to a particularly vexing dilemma. “You are you.” He stopped snapping to point. “You have to stay.”
    Max rubbed the back of his hand under his chin. “Are you catching?”
    “I’m not sick. I’m…I’m in need of a drink.”
    Lucien spun about on his heel and marched across the room toward a set of crystal decanters on a fine old walnut sideboard, then stopped suddenly and whirled about with a blank expression. “I never promised revelry at the tavern.”
    Max shrugged and stretched out his legs before him. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”
    “Of course you can. My wife would.”
    And Lucien would rather face the gallows than cause Lilly one moment’s consternation. The Marquess and Marchioness of Engsly were famously besotted with each other.
    “Do you want one?” Lucien inquired, pouring from a decanter.
    Max shook his head, and watched in fascination as his friend swallowed down a finger-full of spirits. Lucien had never been one for drink. He took wine at meals, the occasional brandy after dinner and ale during travel, that was all.
    “Are you going to tell me what’s—?”
    “My sister is coming.” Lucien blew out a hard breath after the drink. “Any minute now.”
    “Winnefred? Brilliant.”
    “No, not my brother’s wife.” Lucien flicked a longing glance at the brandy bottle but didn’t refill his glass. “My father’s daughter. My sister.”
    Max straightened in the chair, intrigued and wary. “You don’t have a sister.”
    “Apparently, I do.”
    “I see.” He took a closer look at his friend’s face and for the first time noticed shadows beneath his eyes. Lucien wasn’t merely out of sorts. He was well and truly worried. “When did you learn of it?”
    “A fortnight ago,” Lucien replied, setting down his glass. “She wrote to my solicitor in London. He verified her claim of proof. God, this is discomforting. Gideon and I have always known this sort of thing might happen, of course. Our father was a faithless bastard. It’s a miracle we’re not lousy with half siblings. But the reality of facing a sister…”
    Was