When She Was Wicked by Anne Barton Page B

Vanders, two pounds.”
    That must be a lot of money for someone like her. “My curiosity is piqued, Miss Honeycote. How much do seamstresses make?”
    “Ten shillings a week.” She jerked her chin up, and her eyes flashed. “That’s why I’ve fallen so behind with payments.”
    “What other debts do you have outstanding?”
    She swallowed and gazed at the floor. “The rent. We owe Mrs. Bowman ten pounds.”
    “Anyone else?”
    “No… but my mother and sister have no money for food or any other basic things, like candles or oil for the lamps. If you could lend me a few extra shillings, I’d be grateful.”
    Her lips were pressed together in a thin line as she awaited his response. Asking for help couldn’t be easy for her. He’d already planned to send her family spending money, but he guessed she would be uncomfortable receiving outright charity.
    “I’m prepared to give you an advance on your salary. You’ll be earning it over the next three months.” He flicked his eyes to the mussed bedding. “Which, by the way, doesn’t begin until you actually
start
working.”
    She threw the pillow on the bed and clenched her fists. She glanced at the dresser where her spectacles and cap lay, and then attempted to shoulder past him. But she stepped awkwardly on one of her slippers, and a leg buckled underneath her.
    With a yelp, she started to fall, flailed her arms, and clipped him on the jaw.
    He winced but caught her around her tiny waist. And steadied her against his body.
    Her palms were pressed against his chest, where his heart beat faster than it should have. Her body felt right next to his. Surprisingly strong, yet soft. The silky ends of her hair brushed the back of his hand, and he inhaled the clean scents of soap and cotton.
    When she gazed up at him, her gray eyes weren’t hard and stormy, as he’d expected. They were warm and sultry. She bit her lower lip, plump and moist. His cock went hard.
    God, he wanted to kiss her—had to try. He leaned in, and she raised a hand to his face. With a smooth fingertip, she slowly traced a line on his chin. His skin tingled where she’d touched him.
    “I scratched you,” she said.
    He blinked and said nothing.
    “Are you hurt?”
    “No.” His voice was more gruff than usual.
    “You can, ah, release me now.”
    Christ, he was still holding her as though they were about to dance a bloody waltz. “Of course.” Reluctantly, he let her go and attempted to smooth the crumpled letter in his hand. He held it up. “I will see that this is delivered to your residence along with enough money to last them several months. I don’t want you to worry about your family while you’re here. It would only distract you from your duties.”
    She nodded soberly.
    “Shall I have a footman bring your things here?”
    “Oh yes, please. After my sister, Daphne, reads my letter, she’ll know what to pack for me.”
    “Very well. I shall inform my sisters to meet you in the workroom”—he nodded toward the nursery—“after you’ve eaten your lunch, at say, three o’clock. They know nothing of your extortion scheme, by the way. I’d prefer to protect them from that bit of ugliness.”
    She hung her head, her hair forming a lovely veil around her face. “I understand. I… I promise not to hurt them.”
    “Rose, in particular, is fragile,” he said. He never knew how to explain her quirks. “She doesn’t speak to anyone but Olivia—and only rarely. But she’s very bright and communicates in other ways. Olivia understands her intuitively, but I…” He shook his head, unsure why he was telling all this to the seamstress. “I just want to see them happy.”
    “Then that will be my goal,” she said, and he believed her. She’d been able to put Rose at ease at the dress shop; maybe she could work other small miracles.
    They looked at each other for a long moment. Although he was a duke and she was an indentured servant, and there was a whole complicated social