Wicked Again (The Wickeds #7) - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,48

his wife lived.

The selfish rake he’d once been wouldn’t have deserved Marissa.

Hell, I’m not sure I do now.

Pushing aside his thoughts, Trent made his way to the sideboard. A visit from Pendleton required spirits. “Scotch? I may even have some brandy somewhere.”

“Yes. I’d love a glass. Scotch.”

Trent raised a brow. His unexpected guest rarely had a drink before dinner, and it was only mid-afternoon. In fact, in all the years Trent had known him, Pendleton had never sought Trent out for a drink or friendly conversation.

So why was Pendleton here?

Trent splashed scotch into two glasses and handed one to his visitor before taking a seat in a chair across from Pendleton.

Pendleton sat with his legs spread, rolling the crystal glass between his palms, a sure sign of some distress. It was rare for him to show a lick of emotion. The only exceptions were the passionate speeches Pendleton gave or when he defended his stance against the opposition. Trent was convinced the only thing Pendleton truly cared about was achieving his dream of Prime Minister. Everything else was a very distant second to that desire. The broken betrothal to Petra Grantly was only an inconvenience to a man like Pendleton.

Trent wondered if Pendleton even remembered her name.

“I find I’m rather . . . embarrassed to be here, Haddon.” Pendleton tossed back the contents of his glass before pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers as if in terrible pain.

That was something different. “Because I don’t think your current bill goes far enough?” Trent said, sipping at his drink.

Pendleton gave a snort. “No.” He waved a hand dismissing Trent’s comment. “A difference of opinion and one you’ll see I’m right about. You fail to see the larger picture, as you so often do. The greater good must be served.”

Christ, Pendleton thought himself the savior of all of England.

“What can I help you with? Is Lady Pendleton well?” Trent cared little for Pendleton’s mother, a disingenuous woman he had never liked. Once his wife had died, Trent had declined to spend much time in Lady Pendleton’s company. She was a grasping, selfish woman with an over-inflated ego and an air of superiority her son had inherited. Pendleton’s mother had never had much use for Trent which was why the invitation to her little house party had been a complete surprise.

Except, Pendleton’s sister was . . . not discreet in her . . . friendships. Trent supposed Lady Pendleton saw an opportunity to foist off her scandal-ridden daughter on some unsuspecting country bumpkin. Like Trent.

As if I’d have Pendleton’s sister around my girls.

“My mother is fine,” Pendleton said. “She’s here in London. Arrived a few weeks ago.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware.” Ignorance had been bliss. Now that he had been informed of Lady Pendleton’s presence, manners dictated he call upon her. He would put it off as long as possible.

“Another, if you please, Haddon.” Pendleton held up his empty glass. “This isn’t a social call to discuss my mother.”

Well, that was a relief.

“I’m only here,” Pendleton’s lip curled a bit, “because there isn’t anyone else I can turn to without an enormous scandal erupting—something I wish to avoid.”

Trent got up again but instead of taking Pendleton’s glass, he went to the sideboard and just grabbed the decanter. Pouring out nearly half a glass, Trent set the decanter on the small table between them before handing Pendleton his scotch. “Things must be dire indeed if I am your only hope.”

Pendleton glared at Trent over the rim of his glass.

Trent and his girls were only tolerated because Trent’s late wife had been related to the current Lord Pendleton’s father. A familial tie not widely known, largely because Lydia didn’t wish it to be. She found the connection be of little use to her and thus not worth her acknowledgement.

Unless Lady Pendleton needed something from Trent. Like his presence to round out a house party.

A vision of Marissa, her lovely face turned in his direction as she slept, the tangled mass of her hair stretching across his chest, filled his mind. He could have watched her sleep for hours that night. Trent had traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip, marveling at the precious gift he’d found at Lady Pendleton’s stupid little house party.

Can I not go more than a few minutes without her invading my thoughts?

No. No he could not.

“I require a favor.” Pendleton regarded Trent with determination.

How mortifying that must be for him. Pendleton far preferred lording over all the lesser