Page 1 of Tall, Dark & Wicked
1
London
Lady Petra Grantly observed the room of people gathered for the marriage of her brother, Rowan, to Lady Arabella Tremaine. The gathering was small and intimate, with only family and close friends in attendance. Her parents, Lord and Lady Marsh, had been pressuring Rowan to marry for years. Today should have been a happy one.
Alas, it was not. At least not for Lady Marsh.
Mother wept and clung to Father’s hand as if the greatest of tragedies had befallen the Earl of Marsh and his countess. Petra supposed in Mother’s eyes, it had. Last night, Mother’s sobs had echoed down the hallway like the wailing of an Irish banshee. She’d declined breakfast this morning, declaring herself too distraught to eat. As the vicar began the ceremony uniting Rowan and Arabella, Father had to hush her by pressing a handkerchief to her lips.
Arabella was not her mother’s choice of wife for Rowan.
The Duke of Dunbar, brother of the bride, and also related to Lord and Lady Marsh by marriage to Petra’s cousin, watched Rowan take hold of Arabella’s hand, shock clearly stamped on his rough-hewn features. His mismatched eyes, one azure blue and the other brown, stared in rapt attention at the bride and groom, clearly fascinated by the proceedings. Perhaps the duke thought he was dreaming for he certainly hadn’t thought someone as sour as Arabella to ever wed.
He wasn’t alone in his assessment.
No one in London had believed any man would ever marry the Duke of Dunbar’s sister, especially not a gentleman of Rowan’s charm, intelligence and good looks. How the pair ended up at an inn together with Arabella in a state best described asdisheveled, had London guessing. The duke had made up a clever story to entertain theton.
Petra believed none of it.
Thetonhardly seemed to believe the story either; wonder overhowexactly the Duke of Dunbar coerced Rowan, for certainly Rowan wasn’t marrying Arabella of his own accord, was thick in the gossip circles. According to the betting books at White’s, of which Petra was supposed to know nothing, odds were Rowan would flee to the Continent before reciting his vows. She expected several gentlemen would lose their wagers today when the news reached their ears that Rowan and Arabella had indeed wed.
The duke’s wife, Petra’s cousin, Jemma, still and brittle, watched the proceedings with pained resignation. It was common knowledge the duchess had no love for her sister-in-law. Petra thought the duke’s home to be fraught with tension due to the animosity between the two women. She imagined the hurling of insults and biscuits as the two women fought for control, the stoic duke caught in the middle. She did not envy His Grace.
Petra’s own feelings about her new sister-in-law vacillated between fear and dislike. Arabella had never been nice to Petra, though to be fair, Arabella was rarely nice to anyone. Petra kept her distance, avoiding Arabella as much as she could. Of course, now it would be impossible to steer clear of the woman. Holidays were bound to be awkward.
Her brother stood tall and handsome, his voice resonating with some undefined emotion as he spoke his vows without a hint of hesitation. Regardless of what her parents or anyone in London thought, Rowanwantedto marry Arabella. The desire for his new wife was evident in the warmth of his eyes and the longing for Arabella etched across his face.
Well, there’s no accounting for taste, Petra mused. Her brother did like a challenge. But Petra sensed there was more to Rowan’s feelings for Arabella. He’d hovered protectively over her as the guests had filled her parent’s home to witness the wedding, his fingers curling around her elbow as family and friends were greeted. Arabella, for her part, watched Rowan with a possessive glow in her dark eyes until he looked in her direction. Even Petra, as innocent as she was, saw the simmering hunger the pair seemed to have for each other.
She found all of it very interesting.
The vows finished, her mother’s wailing finally subsided into pained sniffles. Petra sat back in her chair, carefully folding her hands into her lap as she’d been taught to do since the age of six. Her expression was perfectly smooth, her back straight as a pike, awaiting the vicar to end the ceremony.
A prickling sensation ran up the base of her neck.
Pretending to smooth the pale green of her gown, Petra lowered her eyes and discreetly snuck a glance at the right side of the room. She was not unaccustomed to appreciation from gentlemen, but she’d not thought to garnerhisinterest.
Eyes the color of sapphires were focused rather intently on her bosom. An interesting development to be sure, since Petra’s bosom was not large and her neckline incredibly modest. She straightened again, resisting the urge to fan herself. The room had grown warm and a window needed to be opened. She could barely hear the vicar over the loud thumping of her heart.
The Earl of Morwick uttered a soft, barely discernable chuckle, not in the least put off at being caught ogling her bosom. Though she could not see his face, she imagined he smiled at her discomfort; it was hardly a surprise, for he had struck her upon their initial meeting as a bit forward. Upon being introduced, his eyes, the most startling shade of indigo ringed by lighter blue and shot through with gold flecks, had run down her form without regard for politeness. He’d held her fingers a trifle longer than necessary. Even now she could still feel the press of his lips against her knuckles.
Incredibly forward.
His manner was to be expected; Lord Morwickwascousin to Arabella.
Petra pushed aside thoughts of Lord Morwick and forced her attention to the vicar as he recited some platitude about the institution of marriage.
How horrified Mother would be at Lord Morwick’s impolite interest in her daughter. Petra knew little about him, only what her brother had told her. He was the youngest son of the thrice-widowed Lady Cupps-Foster, Arabella’s aunt. He rarely ventured to London, preferring to stay a recluse in the wilds of the Peak in Derbyshire. He had studied at Oxford or Cambridge, she wasn’t sure which, and was thrown out due to his propensity for brawling. Some of thetongossiped he was actually the product of Lady Cupps-Foster and a gypsy lover, but Petra didn’t believe a word of it.
Petra dared another look at him. Morwick was alsodreadfullyhandsome. If one preferred tall, dark men with broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes.
Despite her initial dislike, Petra found him fascinating. He reminded her of an exotic animal forced into the confines of her parents’ town house, only waiting for the proper moment to burst free and attack. Morwick appeared ill at ease in his expensively tailored clothes. He tugged absently at the neck of his shirt and rolled his broad shoulders, stretching the dark blue superfine of his coat until the seams looked as if they would pop. The chair on which he sat was dwarfed by his large form, creaking with protest at the slightest move. His ebony hair was an unruly mass of curls, far too long and in desperate need of a cut. The dark hair paired with his deeply tanned skindidgive Morwick the look of a gypsy. Or maybe a pirate.
Petra was so immersed in her thoughts of the Earl of Morwick, she didn’t notice most of the guests had risen and were making their way to the dining room where a wedding feast, carefully prepared by Cook, awaited them. She was startled to find Morwick had been placed next to her at the table.
Petra waved over a footman and requested a window be opened. The dining room was nearly as warm as the main drawing room had been.
Morwick ignored her, settling himself and immediately signaling for wine. Perhaps he was a sot. That would be disappointing, but not unexpected given his penchant for fistfights in taverns. Heat emanated from his large body, searing Petra’s arms as if she stood close to a fire.
