Page 62

Yes, the kiss in the carriage had been born of fury, but last night, he’d gentled the embrace and taken his time, and—

Heat flooded her belly, her body tingling at the remembrance of his hands on her. And she’d responded every time he’d touched her.

Mayhap that is because you possess your true sire’s wickedness.

The voice at the back of her mind turned taunting.

Mayhap you’re just a wanton who’d take and taste wickedness anywhere, and that includes finding pleasure in the arms of a man you’ve been friends with for years.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Marcia gave her head a clearing shake and focused on changing out of her night dress and into her gown for the evening.

She reached for a serviceable dress, one she donned when she helped her mother garden, and then she paused.

Recalling where she was going and, more specifically, whom she’d be with, Marcia released the dress, and her fingers shoved gown after gown aside.

White. White. White. Off-white. Ivory. White. Pink.

She stopped, staring at the kaleidoscope of pale shades, all indicating innocence. Now all a direct mockery of everything she was, from the blood in her veins to the reason for her existence. Her fingers curled reflexively in the jewel-encrusted gown she’d worn the day she’d made her Come Out.

She dropped that material as if burned. She wasn’t innocent. She never would be again. She never had been, for that matter. She was born of sin and evil.

Squaring her jaw, Marcia reached for the only bit of bright fabric before her.

A short while later, wearing a purple gown with her cloak draped over it, she crept to the front of the room, dodging floorboards whose squeaks and groans she’d learned long ago. When she reached the door, she pressed her ear against it and strained to hear any hint of sound. When only silence greeted her, she drew the panel open and headed down the hall.

“Where are you going?

Marcia gasped and whipped around.

Her sister Flora stared back with accusatory eyes.

“To the kitchens,” she said weakly.

Flora frowned. “In yourcloak?”

Yes, her sister was young. Yes, she was innocent, but neither was she stupid.

Marcia’s mind blanked, her thoughts stalling as Flora folded her arms and raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t like that you’re lying to me, Marcia.”

“I’m not lying.” At least, not well. “And you should be in bed in the nursery.”

Her sister ignored that latter reminder. “So I can tell Mother that you—”

“No,” she said quickly, her voice rising slightly, and Flora gave her a smug, knowing look.

Marcia bit her lower lip. “I…” Sliding onto the hall floor, she rested her back against the wall and shut her eyes. This was a bloody disaster. She’d been discovered, and if her parents found out she’d been sneaking off, they’d never let her have even the small opportunities to breathe that they did these days.

She felt her sister move into the spot beside her, joining her on the floor, and Marcia opened her eyes.

“I don’t like that you are so sad all the time,” Flora said softly. Her sister rested her head against Marcia’s shoulder, and she leaned her cheek atop the girl’s soft curls, which were very much the same shade of blonde as her own.

“I’m sorry, poppet.”

“I’m not sorry for me,” Flora said, and Marcia heard the frown in her sister’s voice. “I miss it for you.”

“I’m—” She stopped the automatic apology, recognizing the empty words for what they were.