Wicked Again (The Wickeds #7) - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,8

brought Marissa closer to the lean lines of his body with each twist of his hips. They moved easily together, as if they’d danced many times in each other’s arms.

In truth, they had only danced once before.

The warmth of his palm splayed intimately across the small of her back, fingertips pressing into the skin at the base of her spine.

The pressure was seductive. Enticing. Haddon had kissed that very spot during their night together, as well as a great many other places.

She saw Adelia out of the corner of her eye watching them with a smug look.

“How have you been, Marissa?” The husky growl of her first name sent bits of flame across her arms. “Enjoying London?”

“I’m quite well, thank you. I didn’t realize you’d come to town.” The tips of her breasts chafed against the fabric of his coat, stroking her nipples each time he turned her; it was distracting, to say the least.

A tiny smirk crossed his beautiful mouth. He knew she was lying.

“I don’t come as often as I did before my wife died. My daughters require my attention, as does my estate. London does not.”

Haddon had been married very young in a match arranged by his father. His wife had been sickly and bed-ridden during the latter part of his marriage, the birth of his youngest daughter destroying what remained of her fragile health.

In between bouts of lovemaking, they’d whispered to each other in the dark and Haddon had told Marissa of his marriage.

Another thing she hadn’t done with a previous lover.

Dalliance.

He had left out his former rakish reputation, and well he might. Though discreet, Haddon certainly had cut a swath through the ladies of London. But unlike most husbands who wouldn’t have cared to be saddled with an ill spouse, he’d been with his wife when she died, at her bedside. After, he had not returned to London to pick up the threads of his life; instead, he’d stayed away from town, choosing to remain with his daughters in the country. Another thing most gentlemen would not have done.

“I brought Jordana to London with me.” He mentioned his eldest daughter, to whom Marissa had been introduced to at Brushbriar.

“And how does Jordana like town?” Marissa found it hard to have a casual conversation with Haddon, especially when his hips kept brushing hers.

“As well as can be expected. But I thought she might enjoy some time here before making her debut. Ease her into things, so to speak. Jordana has a tendency to be stubborn.”

Marissa thought that a gross understatement. Haddon’s eldest had made it no secret at Brushbriar that she’d wished to be anywhere but there. Nor did she show the slightest interest in London or society. Haddon was wasting his time trying to introduce her to life in town. Jordana was defiant and prone to sulking, behavior that would not endear her to a future husband. She reminded Marissa a great deal of her niece, Arabella.

Haddon twirled her, the motion forcing her more fully against his chest. The distance between them was only one tiny, heated inch.

“You left before I could tell you goodbye,” he said, breath warm against her temple.

“Did I need to tell you goodbye?” Her own guilt at not doing so made her reply sharper than she intended.

His grip on her tightened. “I suppose not.”

“After the discovery of my late husband’s remains, I was in shock, as you can imagine.” That was putting it mildly. The anger which filled her had frozen the blood in her veins until Marissa could think of nothing but how she would punish Simon and Lydia.

“I’m sure you were.”

“I wasn’t up to receiving callers, nor did I wish to receive polite condolences,” she said.

“Of course,” he agreed coolly.

Marissa bristled. Something about his calm manner, his instant agreement with her, smacked of judgement. It was clear by his attitude Haddon thought she should have received him. Sent him a note. Told him goodbye. She didn’t care for him acting the discarded lover.

Dalliance.

“Ours was a brief acquaintance, Lord Haddon,” Marissa said politely, allowing a hint of chill to enter her words. “Little more than a dalliance, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

He looked down on her, eyes like quicksilver. A touch of pink shone on his magnificent cheekbones, a sign of his annoyance, perhaps, though it could have been a trick of the light. “A dalliance?”

“A tryst, if you prefer.”

“A tryst?”

Would he repeat everything she said? “Our relationship would have invited speculation and unwanted attention, both things