Wicked Again (The Wickeds #7) - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,18

daughter.”

Marissa’s hand froze, her teacup hovering just inches from her lips. She had offered to help with Jordana, though to be fair, he’d been kissing his way across her breasts at the time. “I must have forgotten.”

Haddon cast a lingering gaze at her bosom before his eyes returned to her face. There was no doubt he remembered the moment as well. “Forgetfulness is often a sign of advanced age.”

Marissa sipped at the tepid tea, determined to ignore his baiting.

“An experienced woman, such as yourself, could help prepare Jordana to make her debut. She’s awkward in society as unaccustomed as she is to it. Mrs. Divet has done her best, but I fear Jordana is in need of a firmer hand. And it would only be until my sister arrives.”

Mrs. Divet and her husband were close friends of Haddon’s and Mrs. Divet had taken over the role of aunt to his four girls. The woman was lovely, but Mrs. Divet was not out in society herself. She and her husband traveled much of the time.

“I see.”

Helping Jordana would mean Marissa would be in Haddon’s orbit for the better part of several months, being tempted by him.

It wasn’t a good idea. Not in the least. And she already had several projects to keep her busy.

Haddon’s fingers drummed again. “I would be deeply grateful.”

Marissa’s eyes followed the movement of his fingers. He’d moved them along her skin in the same way as they lay naked together, speaking quietly of their lives. Haddon had told her of his late wife. His daughters. He’d praised her for not only raising her two sons alone, but also her niece and nephew. None of her other lovers had ever expressed the slightest interest in Marissa’s family or the struggles she’d endured. It was unusual for a gentleman to notice such a thing.

Yet, Haddon, casual dalliance that he was, had.

Her heart contracted, then stretched in his direction. Damn it. She wasn’t going to be able to refuse him. Not with Jordana. Possibly not in anything. It was very worrisome.

“What is wrong with you, Marissa? I grow concerned that you are ill. You behaved oddly at the Cambourne ball as well.”

“Headaches,” she announced. “I’ve been cursed with them.”

“Ah, that explains the flush to your cheeks.” She doubted Haddon was fooled. She suspected he was well aware of his effect on her despite her attempts to keep her feelings hidden. “It means so much to me, Marissa. Your help with Jordana.”

A light exotic aroma reminiscent of a bag of spices her nephew had once gifted her drifted into her nostrils as Haddon leaned toward Marissa, taking her hand in his larger one. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, her pulse jumping at his touch.

Why must he smell so luscious? Why couldn’t he smell of pomade and talc? It would make things so much easier.

One finger trailed along the inside of her palm.

“Haddon—”

If he asked her again to dally with him, or better still, pushed her back on the sofa and lifted her skirts, Marissa would be hard pressed to refuse him.

“I’ll take my leave.” He dropped her hand gently then stood, grabbing his gloves.

As he made his way around the sofa where Marissa sat, Haddon paused, leaning down until his breath caressed her neck. “It was lovely to see you today, Marissa.”

If she turned her head, their lips would meet.

This wasn’t fair. Not at all. Her eyes fluttered closed. Perhaps the scandal of involving herself with Haddon wouldn’t be that terrible. Adelia could certainly guide her. Maybe he’d never find out she was destroying his friend, Pendleton.

Maybe he is worth the risk to my heart.

Before she could stop him, Haddon reached the door.

“I bid you good day, Lady Cupps-Foster.”

5

Enderly guided Marissa into the drawing room of Lord Duckworth’s London mansion, his gloved hand hovering lightly against her back. Her heels clicked on the marble floor beneath her feet as she surveyed the immense space Duckworth had converted into both a speaking area and a place to discuss politics. The walls were burgundy, the windows outlined with gold cornices from which curtains a shade darker than the walls were hung. Duckworth’s illustrious ancestors hung from the walls, their staid expressions looking down on the proceedings with mild censure.

Gentlemen stood clustered, their heated voices echoing as views were challenged, each interrupting the other as one opinion took precedence over another. A small group of well-dressed ladies whispered in one corner, like a flock of wrens who dared not make a sound lest the