Wicked Again (The Wickeds #7) - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,58

that is what you are assuming.” She couldn’t tell him the truth. “Captain Nighter is involved with my friend, Lady Waterstone. I was just visiting her and—”

“I don’t care, Marissa.”

Her heart fluttered madly. He clearly did care.

“I only find it ironic. He’s far younger than I.”

Marissa looked up at the face of the man she’d carried with her from the Peak District to London. A man she dreamed of nearly every night. Desolation filled her at the thought of Haddon being forever gone from her life. The last few weeks with Jordana, the only remaining reminder of him, had left Marissa feeling torn and ragged. Her eyes took in the sheer masculine beauty of Haddon, tracing the lines of his shoulders to his face and the magnificent slash of his cheekbones—dark smudges beneath quicksilver eyes.

Worry filled her the more Marissa studied Haddon. He looked leaner, as if he hadn’t been eating properly in addition to not sleeping. Jordana had certainly not volunteered any information that would cause Haddon to be in such a state.

“Haddon, is everything all right? Are the girls all well?”

Did I do this?

His expression was cool. Unfathomable. Politely reserved. Effectively closing himself off from her. A chilly block of ice looked back down on her. “Good evening, Lady Cupps-Foster.”

Not only did Haddon not wish to disclose whatever troubled him, he was violently opposed to discussing it with Marissa.

She came forward before he could take another step. “Haddon.” Marissa placed a hand on his sleeve to stop him, ignoring the hostile look he gave her.

“Is there something more? Lady Christina will be expecting my return to her father’s box.”

Marissa flinched. “Yes, there is something. I’d nearly forgotten. I meant to send you a note.” She gave him a smile.

It was not returned.

“But now that we’ve run into each other,” she said in a rush, “I wished to let you know I’ll be taking Jordana to Madame Fontaine’s later this week. To fit her for a new wardrobe.”

“I’m aware. Have a lovely time on Bond Street. My sister will arrive in a few weeks and will relieve you of your duty to Jordana.”

He was so bloody angry. “She isn’t a duty,” she snapped, suddenly comprehending how unbearable being separated from Haddon had become. Marissa bit her lip, struggling to find a way to make him understand. He wasn’t meaningless. All she managed was his name.

“Trent.”

Haddon brought his jaw up sharply, eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t bear the sight of Marissa a moment longer. “Good evening, Lady Cupps-Foster,” he repeated, this time with even more hostility than before. He turned his back on her, jogging up the stairs, clearly unwilling to be in her presence a moment longer.

Marissa blinked back the tears filling her eyes. She reminded herself of all the reasons she and Haddon could not be together. His age. His need for a wife who could provide an heir. His friendship with Pendleton.

Her bloody heart which couldn’t stand to be broken again.

Except it already was.

17

“Come, Jordana. Madame Fontaine is just down the street.” Marissa waved a gloved hand at her charge. “We don’t want to be late. Madame”—she affected a slight accent—“doesn’t care for clients who aren’t prompt. Lateness sets her off. She’s temperamental. And French.”

“Isn’t that the same thing, my lady?” Jordana stomped beside her, steadfastly refusing to be hurried no matter how Marissa prodded her. They’d gotten a late start today, mainly due to Marissa rising at an exceptionally late hour. She hadn’t slept much last night, tossing and turning in her bed until the wee hours of the morning. Between the ache in her heart over Haddon and her guilt over Miss Higgins, Marissa wasn’t getting a lot of rest.

Only Haddon made her weep, though.

Felice had put cold compresses on her eyes this morning while Marissa had tried to convince her maid the excessive dust in the bedroom had caused the redness and swelling.

“Is your father enjoying London?” Marissa bit her lip. What a question to ask Jordana, who she suspected knew much more than she let on.

Jordana shrugged. “I suppose he is. I’m sure if he wasn’t, we’d return home.”

A purposefully bland and useless answer. Marissa had the urge to shake Jordana. “I ran into Lord Haddon at the theater the other evening. He looked rather tired.”

“My father keeps much later hours in London than he does in the country.” Jordana paused before a small coffeehouse, looking through the window with longing. “May we stop for tea or perhaps hot chocolate?” She turned