Page 8 of Tall, Dark & Wicked
Heat rushed across her chest.
“Are you sure you haven’t hit your head?” His gaze lingered on the knot swelling on her temple. “You’ve a small lump.” He touched her forehead. “Just there.”
“I was wondering about the scar.” Against her will, Petra’s gaze was drawn to the stretch of his coat across the breadth of his shoulders. Many gentlemen in London actually padded their coats to unnaturally give the appearance of a more manly form. An acquaintance of hers, Betina Willingsworth, had told a story of one of her suitors whose right shoulder slowly slid down to form a lump on his upper arm while she and the gentleman in question had been dancing. Much to the gentleman’s horror.
Morwick tilted his head, peering closely at her eyes. Their lips were mere inches away. She almost thought he meant to kiss her. The words he said next were like a bucket of cold water.
“You look a bit addled.”
“Addled?” Thankfully, he’d reminded her what a complete ass he was.Addled.Pea-wit. He thought her little better than a stuffed dress wearing a bonnet. Not even memorable enough to recall their kiss.
“Well, if you aren’t hurt, what are you waiting for?” His lips tightened and he pulled back to the opening of the coach. “Expecting me to carry you out? Come along.”
Expecting him to— “If you must know, I’m trapped.” Petra nodded toward the bunched pile of her skirts. “I realize behaving politely is beyond you, but I beg you to find a spark of manners.”
Morwick’s tightening of the lips turned into a full-blown frown.
“My skirt is caught,” she hissed.
“Well, pull it out.” He spoke in the tone one uses for an idiot. Or apea-wit. The frown deepened.
“Mother doesn’t wish me to tear the fabric. The traveling dress is new and quite expensive.” Good Lord, she did sound like an insipid twit obsessed with her clothing, but she was striving to regain her usual decorum, which was difficult given she couldn’t seem to avert her gaze from his mouth. “I know you probably don’t carry a pair of scissors with you, that would be ridiculous. But perhaps a small knife? Some gentlemen carry a—”
A large hand reached behind her and grabbed a handful of her skirts.
Petra squeaked in alarm and tried to get away. “No. Absolutely do not—”
One sharp jerk and the sound of her skirt tearing, as well as her underskirt, echoed in the coach. Now untethered, Petra toppled over in a graceless manner, exposing her calves and ankles.
“You—” Her mouth gaped open in shock. “Why—”
Her beautiful traveling dress, the one made especially for this journey, was utterlyruined. The skirt was torn beyond any repair a skilled seamstress could make. Mother would be furious about the destruction of the dress.
And possibly also at Morwick for seeing Petra’s ankles. Thank goodness Mother had left the coach.
“Stop gaping at me like a fish and hurry along before the sun descends completely and we must pluck our way back to Somerton as if we are blind.”
Morwick was anuttercad. And he had a dimple in his cheek.
“You are no gentleman,” she huffed.
The dimple deepened. “I never claimed to be. And it’s only a dress,PerfectPetra.” Morwick took her elbow, ignoring her hiss of outrage. He practically pulled her from the coach. His hand stayed on her elbow, brushing against her hand as his fingers fell away.
Petra was sure he’d done such to unnerve her.Cad.
“I’m sure you’ve hundreds of dresses. At the minimum, dozens. Far more than you could wear in a lifetime.”
“Thousands.” She said with determination as he turned his back to her. “They can barely be contained in my wardrobe.” Petra would have said more but a lightheaded feeling came over her, and the ground felt unsteady. She blinked as her stomach lurched painfully again. Mother was sitting on a large tree stump, across which Jenkins had draped his cloak.
Mother seemed to be very far away from where Petra stood.
Clenching her fists in resolve, Petra made her way forward, the nausea rolling through her stomach in waves. She refused to be humiliated further by becoming ill in front of Morwick. Her temple was throbbing, and she was sure she’d have a large bruise when she arrived at Brushbriar.
“He is insufferable,” she muttered, determined to hang onto her anger. A horrible gurgling sound came from her stomach as Petra struggled to hold the end of her dress together. She was so utterly, completely miserable that for a brief moment, Petra wished fervently she’d just married Dunning.
* * *
Brendan Lorne,11thEarl of Morwick was in an incredibly foul mood caused in no small part by the appearance of Lady Marsh and her daughter on his doorstep. Perfect Petra was far more beautiful than he remembered and his attraction to her had not lessened one bit, as evidenced by the hardening of his cock the moment he set eyes on her.
