Page 2 of Buon Natale, My Wicked Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #18)

A sharp hiss sounded, then an explosion. She startled and looked up. The brilliant color exploded in the dark blue velvet evening sky. She exclaimed with joy, her voice joining the chorus of gasps all around her. A resounding boom shook the ground and her body.

It was so thrilling that she forgot her sense of apprehension. Even at this distance, she loved the energy radiating from the crowd, and again, she let herself be carried away by the excitement of the evening.

Oh, she was glad she had come here tonight!

For several long moments, she became transfixed by the fireworks.

“Angela.”

She turned back to her friend. Susan kept her face tilted towards the sky. Light from the fireworks cast an amber glow upon her skin as she tittered softly. “You’re so trusting, Angela. It is one of your most endearing qualities.”

An unwanted memory crept around the corners of her mind. She tried to push it back, but it leaped forward vividly. Her late husband, Jacob’s youthful face, his brown eyes flashing with amusement, his broad grin. “You’re so gullible, Angie,” he said.

Just the barest edge of meanness had entered his regard as yet another of his base, cruel jests dawned on her, and his friends had snickered.

Shame had burned through her, followed by deep hurt.

Jerking her attention back to the present, she noticed a touch of nausea and another chill settling over her.

She placed a hand over her tightened belly.

They hadn’t eaten for hours and had walked here from Susan’s parents’ house to the estate grounds.

Maybe that was why she felt shaky and nervous.

They had come here to do something exceedingly daring and perhaps foolhardy, sneaking into a masquerade ball without invitations.

Would she ever have done something like this before? No, never.

Stepping outside the bounds of propriety could open one to risk.

Now, Susan was behaving oddly. Was it so wise to be here tonight?

She knew Susan would never hurt her as Jacob had.

But she couldn’t shake the uncanny sense that something was wrong.

Forcing a small laugh, she said, “I think I could use a hot drink. Spiced cider or mulled wine.”

She longed for the fiery burn of cinnamon, cloves, and alcohol on her tongue.

Susan turned to her. “You’ve gone white. Are you feeling well?” “I just want a hot drink.” She allowed an edge to sound in her tone.

The other woman moved closer and again linked her arm with hers. “That’s a grand idea, my American friend. Maybe we could even find some rum.”

“Rum would be lovely.” A little wave of homesickness made her close her eyes, and the image of her father-in-law came to her. She could feel the strength of his hard-boned hands closing over hers, his deep voice telling her everything would be fine. He was the only man she had ever called ‘Papa.’

It had been nearly a year since she’d lost him.

Would the pain ever fade?

Back in Boston, in the Berry Family mansion with Papa gone, she could not escape the emptiness and grief that confronted her in every corner of every room.

And the dreadful sense of being useless, of having no one and no place to belong.

She’d run away and come here to England, thinking of finding new connections, a new life.

But she’d found only this sense of an indeterminate state of being a temporary visitor.

An unwanted visitor at that.

“Let’s hurry to the masquerade,” Susan said.

Susan’s voice broke her out of her melancholy thoughts.

Her friend marched down the hill. She allowed Susan to lead her away from the villagers’ festivities and alongside the road to the drive to the estate house.

Brilliant moonlight illuminated the white stone walls in the distance, making them glow in lavender hues.

The brisk exercise warmed away her foreboding despite the growing chill of the early evening and her now growling stomach.

She enjoyed walking and gave herself over to the rhythmic nature of the lengthy walk. Daydreams overtook her thoughts, happy musings about what might happen that night at the ball. Anything could happen.

She might find a lover. The thought heated her blood even more than the walk. If she were honest, that was what she wanted.

Her skin tingled with expectancy.

A loud clatter made her turn. A solid black carriage was barreling towards them with the wheels squeaking loudly.

Did the vehicle’s walls look worn in the moonlight, just a shade from being described as broken down?

She thought the carriage appeared at least a decade old.

It seemed out of place. Those wealthy enough to own one here usually took care of theirs, and those who couldn’t afford it drove carts. Coldness swept through her again.

The vehicle sped, sending dust plumes from the road. Those plumes glowed silvery in the moonlit air.

Sweat broke out all over her body. She gasped and reached back for Susan’s arm and gripped it. “Come on,” she barely choked the words past her rapidly increasing breath. She was already running, pulling Susan along.

The sharp screech of the carriage coming to a stop caused fresh energy to surge into her legs, and she ran faster. She jerked her head to glance over her shoulder. Three dark figures were running towards them. “Oh mio Dio. Oh mio dio...”

With a painful stitch piercing her side, she forced herself to run faster.

Susan pulled free of her grip. Tingles of fear shot through her, and she glanced back again to see another carriage on the road behind the first one.

A finely apportioned carriage with brass coach lights.

She whirled to face the newcomers and stopped, speechless, gulping for breath, then waved her hands wildly to beckon for help.

The driver of the fine carriage pulled the reins and shouted at the horses.

They stilled, snorting as their powerful breaths made smoke in the chilly air.

He gripped the reins, struggling to balance his tall figure against the jolt of the halting carriage.

His other hand reached into his coat and lifted his arm.

Boom!

The thunderous sound pierced her ears and pounded through her whole body. She froze and cried out.