Page 1 of Buon Natale, My Wicked Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #18)
Could this beautiful woman really be a cunning, dangerous spy? Or was she merely an enchantress? Evan, the Earl of Ashington, was already falling under her spell.
In the mellow rays of the waning sunset, her bouncing, deep sable brown ringlets glittered with just a touch of coppery highlights as she ran to catch the green hat the wind carried further away from her.
That dyed wool, of such a subtle shade somewhere between jade and pine green, revealed the expense of the otherwise plain design.
A ribbon of the same color and two black feathers were the only adornments.
In his hidden spot behind the hedge, Evan leaned back against the tree trunk and tightened his hand on the spyglass as his breathing increased considerably.
Her gown, the same shade as her hat, clung tight around her waist. A waist narrow and well-defined that flared out into a skirt just a tad fuller than was stylish among Englishwomen of her means.
A flaring that hinted at curving hips...
Evan shook himself. Focus .
It didn’t matter that she was the most gorgeous sight he’d seen in a long time.
He had a job to do. That was why he was here, sneaking around the hedges like a common criminal on the outskirts of Whitestone Manor, near the village of Watson, in southeast England. It was the ancestral home of one of his friends, the Earl of Barnet.
With some difficulty, he forced himself to continue analyzing the less salacious aspects of Mrs. Berry’s appearance.
A plain black pelisse folded over her one arm as she reached for the wayward hat.
The outer garment’s relatively lightweight appearance told of her probable tolerance for colder temperatures than here in the south of England.
Even her gown, the same shade as her hat, bore no embellishments, which made sense.
The lady was American. A staunch Congressionalist. Modest, industrious, devoted to her late husband’s family. To the family business.
Just how devoted? Were there limits to what she would do? Was her trip to England an attempt to spy on British factory practices and inventions and take those secrets home to help the former colonists build their industry?
Yes, he certainly had a task before him.
It was up to him to get close to her, intimately so, and to discover her real intentions.
Seducing a pious little Puritan had held little excitement.
Yes, he’d been told she was beautiful. But now that he had seen Mrs. Angela Berry for himself, this was becoming another matter.
Yet, he could not allow the strength of his attraction to distract him from his true intent.
She bent to grasp the hat and placed it on her head.
She turned, revealing her oval face with high cheekbones, and her lush red lips spread in a wide grin that showed her white teeth.
Her complexion appeared warm beige, turning rosy in the glow of the setting sun.
The high color in her cheeks was likely from the chilly air.
Again, he noted that gorgeous shade of deep brown hair with the hint of coppery lights. ..
Such beauty made him suck in his breath.
Made his blood rush into his cock.
Made him incapable of further rational thought. He paused and made himself remember why he was here. His mission. His duty to British industry. Her beauty didn’t matter. She could still be a danger to the country that he loved.
Her companion had caught up to her, all smiles and laughter, looking so natural, so innocent. Mrs. Berry seemed at ease and showed no sign of awareness that she’d been lured to the estate grounds for the Guy Fawkes Night celebration.
A prickle of unease made him pause. Was his plan wise? Of course, it was. He had trained his men well. They wouldn’t get out of hand and take things too far. They knew how to be gentle yet effective.
The only proper concern was that Susan Kingston would unwittingly betray the deception. She wasn’t the brightest young woman but was the only person close enough to Mrs. Berry to play this needed part. She had followed directions well enough so far.
Evan lowered the spyglass and slipped it into his pocket. From all appearances, the reports he’d been given about Mrs. Berry were fairly accurate, at least on the surface. He needed to get ready for this evening’s business.
There was a certain freedom in no longer having a place in the world and no longer having responsibilities. No one to answer to. But was it the joy of pure freedom or the anguish of nothingness?
Unconsciously, Angela hugged her pelisse to herself. She wasn’t sure which emotion dominated. But in the light of the huge bonfire, the merry faces of the people crowded around her here on the grounds of Whitestone Manor drew her attention.
As several villagers carried a large straw effigy, someone else took a torch and touched it to the dummy. The straw quickly caught fire, and the crowd cheered.
The collective excitement of the festivities vibrated in the air as though it were a palpable force—a force that seduced her away from her troubled thoughts, a force that energized her so that she didn’t even feel the autumn night’s chill.
This Guy Fawkes Night celebration reminded her of the Fourth of July in Boston.
Susan had already explained the history of the holiday and the Gunpowder Plot to her. It was all so fascinating.
Boom!
She jerked her face to the evening sky. Brillant light and color transfixed her. She turned to her friend. “I love this!”
“I love it too!” Susan linked her arm with hers, and they remained still. Their faces turned to the sky.
“Oh, goodness!”
Startled out of her bewitchment, Angela turned to Susan. “What?”
“Do you still want to go to the masquerade?”
She gaped at her friend for a moment, uncomprehending, then a tingling excitement, a sense of naughty fun, spread through her.
They had brought masks in their purses, for they intended to sneak into the party at the estate.
Susan knew a woman, Flora McRory, who worked in the kitchens.
Angela gave Susan money to bribe the servant so that she could help them get inside the party.
Flora had also agreed to provide them with aprons and bonnets so they would go as dairy maids for the fancy dress ball.
At first, Angela had been reluctant to follow her friend’s wild scheme.
However, she had found the waiting here in England for her visit’s true purpose tedious.
She had felt restless for the first time since she had married Jacob and had become consumed by the role she had taken with his family.
She’d had little fun in her life since the end of her childhood.
Even Susan’s older cousin, Tom, had assured her that the roads around here were perfectly safe, even at night.
Perhaps she could abandon her normal prudence for a change.
And it would be such deliciously wicked fun to trick some of these English nobles who thought so highly of themselves.
“Yes, let’s go now,” she urged, her mouth drying at her daring.
She had only done one truly daring thing in her life, which had been to run away with Jacob to America.
And that had been such a slowly unfolding disaster that it had put her off such careless disregard thereafter.
She had become a paragon of conscientiousness.
But she’d also become dull. That would end tonight. Another shiver of delight raced along her spine. She hugged herself and grinned.
Susan returned her grin. “Race you to the bottom of the hill!” Watching her friend lift her skirts above her ankles and then sprint down the hill, Angela gasped.
What unladylike behavior for a country farmer’s daughter.
She laughed and lifted her skirts and ran.
But for the past few years, she’d spent more time behind a desk and working over account books or overseeing the warehouses than riding horses or running.
A sharp stitch slowed her down, and Susan ran ahead of her.
“Susan!” she cried, spinning to scan the sea of villagers around her. Amid the blur of faces and the subdued colors of homespun clothes, she spied the bouncing yellow feathers on Susan’s jaunty puce hat.
Angela hurried after her. Angela’s breath hitched as she struggled to keep Susan in sight amid the estate's crowded grounds.
Finally, she came close enough to grasp her friend’s arm. “Susan, Susan,” she gasped between gulps of air.
The other woman stopped, then whirled to face her.
Something in those blue eyes, something harsh, foreign to what she knew of her friend, caused a chill to race over her scalp. She let go and took a step back.
A little voice inside told her to leave. To run. Not back to the quaint, tiny attic room she occupied at Susan’s parents’ farmhouse. No, she wanted to find a post chaise, flee to London, and book a passage back to Boston.
“Goodness, Angela, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The sudden warmth in her friend’s eyes couldn’t thaw the chill in her blood.
She had been looking forward to this evening for weeks. Why was she seeing all these ominous signs in her friend? Was she looking for a reason to be anxious because she was afraid to take this bold step towards putting some fun and adventure into her life?
To cover her unease, she forced a laugh. “I thought we came here to enjoy ourselves, yes?”
“Yes, of course.”
Was there an uncharacteristic hardness in her friend’s voice? It was just her imagination, surely. Another chill settled over her, lingering this time.
Susan’s smile couldn’t warm her. Spiced cider wouldn’t be out of place at the moment. She shook herself inwardly and took a deep breath. “So, why are you in such a hurry? At this pace, we’ll be too tired to dance, and so soaked in sweat, so a gentleman would not want to be near us.”