When She Was Wicked by Anne Barton Page A

had been dusted and cleared. Four small desks were pushed together to make a table, and two other large tables had been placed against the wall opposite the windows. The center of the rug was worn thin from all the battles he’d reenacted with his wooden figures as a boy. But now, there was a full-length mirror propped against a chair. And baskets on the floor. Upon closer inspection, he could see that they held pins, scissors, buttons, and other things he would not venture to name.
    Remnants of his boyhood remained. A globe in the corner. Slates on a shelf. A volume of Homer’s works, in Latin—the mere sight of which made him shudder. But it was clear that, at least for now, his old nursery would be used as a sewing room.
    It was a good plan. No sense in keeping rooms closed off just because of an unpleasant memory or two when—
    Interesting. The inside door that led to an adjoining guest room was open. He crossed the nursery and entered the bedchamber. Everything looked normal.
    Except.
    There, in the middle of the four-poster bed, a woman slept. He knew he should leave at once, before she awoke or someone saw him here. But he froze.
    Her long hair flowed over the pillow in shiny, chestnut waves. Her smooth cheek was tinged with pink. As though she’d been dreaming of something wicked. Her slightly parted lips were the color of a lush peach and curled in the hint of a smile.
    He moved toward the bed, pausing and holding his breath when she shifted in her sleep. When he reached her side, he realized the identity of the sleeping beauty.
    Beautiful was not a word he would ever have imagined he’d apply to Miss Honeycote. Proud, devious, stubborn, and prickly—
those
words described her. But the evidence lay before him. Her features were almost perfect, save for the concave slope of her nose—the reason her spectacles never stayed put. Her body was lithe, and though he could not see her legs, he imagined they would be long.
    The kind he liked to wrap around his waist. Or better yet, caress. Starting at an ankle, lingering behind a knee, grazing the skin on the inside of a thigh, and teasing the soft, swollen—
    She bolted upright. “Your Grace?” It was a question and a scolding at the same time. She grabbed the pillow to her torso, as though attempting to cover her nakedness when, in fact, she was fully clothed.
    A shame, that. “Good morning, Miss Honeycote.”
    Out of the corner of her eyes, she peered at the window. “I slept through the night?”
    “No. I jest.”
    She scowled.
    “I was in the nursery, saw the door open, and wandered in here. I thought Mrs. Pottsbury planned to set you up in the attic.”
    Blushing deeply, she said, “She insisted this room would be fine. But I would be happy in an attic room. Would prefer it, actually—”
    “No. This is fine.”
    “Well, then,” she said, still clutching the pillow to her chest, “perhaps you could give me some privacy?”
    It would have been the gentlemanly, decent thing to do. “We still have a few matters to discuss.”
    “Now?”
    “I assumed you’d be eager to send word—and the necessary funds—to your mother and sister.” He was a true cad.
    “I am,” she said quickly. “I’ve written a letter explaining my new circumstances.” Eying him warily, she eased herself off the bed and maneuvered around him toward the desk. The pillow was her shield, positioned between them at all times. She handed him the letter. “Here.”
    He slapped the folded parchment against his palm. “How much did you tell them?”
    “Just that you hired me for three months… and that the salary you offered was generous.”
    “Indeed,” he said dryly. “I think we should settle your debts immediately. I’d like some level of confidence that you won’t be pocketing my priceless artifacts and hockingthem at the nearest pawn shop. Who is your mother’s doctor, and how much do you owe him?”
    “We owe Dr. Conwell fifteen pounds, and the apothecary, Mr.