Deliciously Wicked (8 page)

She thought she detected a light smile play across his mouth, but she wasn't certain. He was goading her. But he was also correct. She did know how to sleuth. She wasn't as clever as Amelia or Willow, but surely she could be of assistance.

He might not feel this investigation was necessary, but she certainly did. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo and she gifted him with a smile. “We will discover the real perpetrator. You can rely on the Ladies' Amateur Sleuth Society.”

He smiled, and her stomach jolted. The lines creasing his forehead relaxed, and she was struck again by the perfection in his lips. He was so handsome.

“I appreciate your help, Meg, but you don't owe me anything. So if you and your friends want to ask around or something, I'm not going to attempt to stop you. I doubt very much I'd be able to do so. But don't go to any great deal of trouble.”

“You are not the only reason I am engaged in this
investigation, I'll have you know.” She took a deep breath and held her chin out. “If this criminal thinks he can run willy-nilly in my father's factory, then he's not prepared to deal with me. That being said, if you're worried about me getting hurt, I can assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“No, I wasn't worried about that.”

“Oh.” That pinched. Why wouldn't he be concerned for her safety? Any decent man would be a tiny bit worried. Or at the very least spend a moment with a furrowed brow.

They worked in silence for several minutes. Each working on one last box. Meg held the last mirror in place, then paused to examine her work.

“It appears we have completed the task. They look nice, don't you agree?” she said.

He looked around the table, but only shrugged in response. He released a great sigh. “I don't work well with others,” he finally said. He stood and walked over to her side of the table, close to the door. “I've done enough tonight. Thank you for your help.”

“Have you tried it?” she prodded.

He was growing impatient. She could tell by the tight clench of his jaw and the sharp movements of his hand.

“Tried what?”

She stood, but did not dare move closer to him. “Working with others? Don't you have to do that here? What is the difference with me?”

“The difference?” he grumbled. “Let me tell you the difference. The men in this factory dress a little different from you.” He came to stand in front of her. He leaned in and put his nose beside her left ear and slowly inhaled. “They smell different from you.”

Chills scattered all over Meg's body, and she felt her breasts tighten.
Oh my
. What she'd pegged as annoyance apparently was nothing less than desire. Desire for her, in particular. Her pulse sped up, as did her breathing.

He leaned even closer, and she felt his warm breath on her neck. She closed her eyes just as he took her earlobe in his mouth and suckled it.

“I would imagine they taste much different too, although for that one I have no base of comparison,” he said.

Desire coiled so quickly through her body, she feared she would melt into the wood-planked floor. She turned her head ever so slightly, and he grabbed her fiercely and pressed his lips to hers. His body molded against hers, pressing her already sensitive breasts to his chest. He pushed her onto the table and fell over her, all the while trailing hot kisses over her neck, collarbone, and ears.

She wanted him. Wanted whatever pleasure he could give her. It was wrong. Improper. Immoral. And completely irresistible.

His lips met hers and his tongue tantalized her. Teasing, licking, stroking until she thought she would go mad. She reached behind him and pulled him down to her and slanted her mouth, giving him full access. Their tongues stroked and played, and shivers cascaded over her like delicious waterfalls of pleasure.

She felt his arousal push into her belly, and she instinctively pushed against him. Wanting more, wanting release, wanting him.

His hand slid up her abdomen and cupped her right breast. Her back arched instinctively, and she felt her
nipples harden. Gracious, she'd never felt such sensations. He kneaded the sensitive flesh, and the tingles between her legs intensified.

With a movement full of impatience, he slipped his hand beneath her bodice and stroked her aching nipple. His mouth left hers and blazed a trail to her ear, then down her throat.

She bucked erratically against him.

“Oh, Gareth,” she breathed.

“Blast!” he said, then rolled off her. He stood against the door, with his hands clenched at his sides.

She slowly came to her feet, but had to grab on to the table so she would not fall. “What's the matter?” she asked. “If you're worried about my maid, she's napping. Falls asleep every evening by seven.”

He shook his head. “I can't do this,” he said. “Not with you.” Then he turned and walked out the door.

Not with her? What did that mean? What was the matter with her? She knew she was no great beauty, but neither was she plain or unattractive. So why not her?

More importantly, why did she need him to want her? He was not a suitor, and they were not going to marry, so why did it matter? The easy answer was because it felt good. His kisses and his touches sparked her body.

She'd never before been kissed or embraced in such a fashion, and she loved it. Loved the desire coursing thick through her blood. It wasn't merely the sensations, though; she knew it wouldn't be the same with just anyone.

It terrified her to examine the situation more closely to discover the truth. She was playing a dangerous game, and ultimately she knew she would lose.

 

Gareth closed his eyes and let the wind slap at his face. A storm was brewing, and the wind had picked up considerably. He'd gone too far tonight. Why did he find it so difficult to be in the same room with Meg and not touch her? There was nothing that unique about her body. She was a woman. He'd been with women before.

Why were her lips so much more tempting? Her laughter so much more appealing? Her presence so much more inviting? She was an innocent, and he shouldn't toy with her emotions and virtue with such disregard. He could blame her for being a temptress, but he was the true one to blame. He and his selfish nature for taking what he wanted without giving thought to the repercussions. Just as his father had done, and his father before him.

This was not what he needed right now. Yes, he wanted a higher position in the factory, but he certainly didn't want to achieve it by nuzzling the owner's daughter. If anything, that might lose him his current position. This whole fiasco with Munden had really broken his focus on his work. He need only find that focus again and resist the temptations that being near Meg brought.

But she was so different from any other woman he'd ever encountered. The differences seemed more elaborate when he considered her wealth and privilege. Unlike most women of her station who sat around and gossiped and drank tea all day, Meg had plans. Even the silly society she and her friends had formed. It was not something that women of their birth should be doing.

She was unmarried by choice, he assumed. Because
it seemed unlikely that Meg had not had her fair share of eligible suitors. Yet she wanted to forsake the life of a woman and being a wife and mother to take her father's factory. Perhaps he'd been wrong when he'd assumed no one would understand his need to prove himself. It was a noble sacrifice born out of a sense of responsibility, and Gareth couldn't ignore that.

Unfortunately, it was a trait that only made her more appealing to him.

M
eg walked into her family dining room not quite certain what to expect. She had received a summons to dine there for the evening rather than in her father's chambers where she had been eating since his accident. And lo and behold, the answer to her question sat at the far end of the table.

“Papa!” She hurried to his side. “But how did you get down the stairs?”

“Pah,” he said gruffly. “The doctor finally listened and brought me some crutches. So I walked. Or rather I hobbled, with some assistance.”

“But you could have fallen,” she protested.

“Ah, but I didn't. Sit, child, let us dine together as civilized people would.”

She gave him a small curtsy, then took her seat at the opposite end of the table. A spot reserved for a wife, but he had never even considered remarrying after her
mother died. He'd ached too much. They both had. Which was precisely why it was becoming abundantly clear she had to cease dallying with Gareth.

Every moment without him, she wondered when the next moment with him would arrive. This infatuation was growing stronger by the day, and it should end. But something in her simply didn't want it to.

If she was not careful, her heart would get tangled in something she would have no idea how to undo. She couldn't walk through that pain again. She wouldn't. It was her sunny disposition that had finally eased her father's pain. She'd swallowed her own sorrow in an effort to bring her papa back from the edge. And it had worked. Nothing seemed to make him happier than seeing his Meggie smile. If she got her heart broken again, it might destroy them both.

So it mattered not that Gareth did not want her. Yes, her pride was bruised, but that was for the best. Because she could not want him.

She would help him; she owed him that much. But after that, she would focus all her attention on the factory.

“Tell me, Meggie, how are things down at the factory?” he asked.

“Have you not spoken to Mr. Sanders?” she said. “Has he not apprised you of everything?” She wasn't certain how much information her father had regarding the goings-on at the factory. If he knew of Gareth's predicament, and if so, how much. Would he approve of the way she'd handled things thus far?

He chewed thoughtfully on his bite of pheasant, then wiped his mouth with his napkin. “He has mentioned a
few things. Profits are up. We've almost completed negotiations with Wakemore for their condensed milk, so it won't be long before we are in production of the dairy chocolates.”

Perhaps he knew nothing.

“Oh, and he has mentioned that there is a thief working there. And that you have become somewhat of a champion to him.” His eyebrows rose in clear amusement.

At least he was not angry with her, although when had he ever been truly angry with her? “But Papa, he is not the thief.”

“You know this for certain?” he asked.

She did. But she definitely couldn't tell him that. At least not in detail how she knew. “I do.”

“How is that?”

“I know. I've asked him, and he says he did not steal the boxes.”

“Would not a thief answer that question in the same manner?” he asked.

“I suppose he might. But with Gareth, I know he speaks the truth.”

“Gareth, is it?” he asked with an ounce of surprise.

She felt the heat of a blush creep into her cheeks. Never a becoming look for one with hair as flaming as her own. “Mr. Mandeville, Father.”

“What has Mr. Mandeville done to land himself in the good graces of my daughter?”

“Mr. Munden has wrongly accused him and refuses to consider any alternatives than the one set to his mind. Mr. Mandeville has no one to champion him but myself. Mr. Munden was going to dismiss
him. I couldn't allow that to happen. I know the truth. And if that nasty foreman won't do anything to uncover the truth, then I will do it for him.”

Her father looked at her, then he chuckled heartily. His shoulders popped up and down as he shook with deep laughter. “You are so much like your mother, my dear girl. So much like her. Such fire in you.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Very well, if you believe him innocent, then you prove it. In the meantime, do take some care with your reputation. I know you're not involved with Society that much, but your mother was, and people still remember her.”

She nodded. She knew she ought to be more careful with that. Should at least consider it now and again. But the truth of the matter was, it never entered her mind. Not rarely, not every once in a while. Never. Not once had she ever considered it on her own. Only when Willow mentioned it. She never considered it because it seemed strange to assume that people would talk about her.

Papa was right, though. People did remember her mother. Meg would endeavor to try and think of her reputation and guard it more often. Although since she would never marry, it seemed any great effort would be wasted.

“So you are not angry?” she asked.

“No. I am not angry. But keep in mind that when someone claims innocence it does not mean he is, in fact, innocent. He could very well be the thief in question. If that turns out to be the case, not only will you have been wrong, my dear, but you will be sorely disappointed.”

She nodded. “But, dear Papa, I am not wrong.” She saluted him with her goblet of wine.

“Very well, Meggie, very well. For your sake, I hope your Mr. Mandeville is as innocent as a priest.”

She turned her attention back to her meal, hoping her father did not notice how disconcerted she suddenly felt. Gareth might not be a thief, but he was not innocent. Not when just last night his body had pressed against hers and he'd kissed her and touched her in such carnal ways. Tingles of desire coursed through her. A priest he most certainly was not.

And for the first time, Meg realized that although Gareth was not guilty of stealing the chocolate boxes, there might be far worse sins of which he was guilty.

 

“The Ladies' Amateur Sleuth Society are a fine lot. We are doomed in love,” Charlotte said dramatically.

Charlotte had come to Piddington Hall today to assist Meg with some mending, most notably her petticoat. Meg smiled. “Doomed? How so?”

“Each of us seems to find the perfectly wrong man to fancy.”

“Explain,” Meg prodded.

Charlotte secured the needle, then set the torn petticoat aside. “Well, there's Amelia, who for the longest time fancied Sherlock Holmes. The man is not even real. You fancy Mr. Mandeville. A man you scarcely know. And myself, well, I'm the most hopeless of all,” she said dramatically, then leaned her head back on the settee.

“Jack of Hearts?” Meg asked.

Charlotte winced, then covered her face with her hands. “Isn't that wicked?”

Meg poked her in her side. “No, it's romantic. Nothing wrong with fancying an adventure. That's all it is. But I find serious fault with your logic. First of all, where is poor Willow in this scenario?”

Charlotte turned her body to face Meg. “Willow, for reasons I shall never understand, doesn't seem to be interested in men at all. How is that possible? She's much too involved with her books and the newspapers. I bet she reads every broadsheet in town. That's simply not normal.”

“She likes to be involved and know what's going on around her. Nothing wrong with that,” Meg said. “Very well, so we shall leave Willow out of this theory of yours. But how do you explain Amelia? She might have fancied Sherlock Holmes, but she is married now. That is hardly doomed in love.”

“Yes, she is married. But practically to Sherlock himself!”

“Not true. You know very well that Colin is quite different from the fictional detective.” She picked a piece of thread from the cushion and balled it between her fingers. “And he does love Amelia in such a grand fashion.”

“You're right about that. So 'tis only you and I that are hopeless, I suppose?”

Meg shifted her position, folding her legs under her to sit. “Ah, but you are wrong about me too. I don't fancy Gareth Mandeville, just so you know. I merely feel guilty that he's being falsely accused and I can't do anything about it.”

“Honestly, Meg, there is no reason to pretend. I
know you better than anyone and you are smitten.”

Meg tried to laugh it off, but she couldn't. Part of her knew that Charlotte's accusations were true, and that terrified her. “I am not.”

“You know as well as I that this fascination is different. You have had fancies in the past as each of us has, but this is different. You actually have a relationship with him. You see him, speak to him on a regular basis. You know things about him.”

Meg shrugged. “Not many.” At least that wasn't a lie.

“What color are his eyes?”

“Hazel.” Meg winced.

Charlotte smiled. “See.”

“That doesn't prove anything. I know what color your eyes are too.”

“But here's the difference. Most of the time you have to be rather close to someone to determine the exact shade that is hazel, otherwise one might assume the eyes are only green or only brown. The fact that you know there is both mingling together indicates to me you've been close to him. Quite close.”

“Well, aren't you the clever detective this morning.”

Charlotte laughed. “Do you deny it?”

Meg considered her options. She could lie and then feel guilty for a day or two until she confessed as she always did when she was persuaded to tell an untruth. Or she could be honest. Tell Charlotte everything, how she thought about Gareth more than she ought and how he'd kissed her. More than once.

She knew Charlotte would not judge her. But she also knew that Charlotte would find much excitement in the situation, enough to persuade Meg into feeling equally
excited. That was something she couldn't afford. But she needed to talk about it with someone, and Charlotte was her dearest friend.

“You have to promise that you will not say anything until I finish,” Meg said.

“All right,” Charlotte said with a frown.

Meg watched her friend a moment before beginning. “I have been close to Gareth. Close enough to see the exact shade of his eyes. I can even tell you that the green and brown mix together to form a rich gold that circles his eyes.”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows in question, but Meg rushed on. “I can tell you that he has a small scar through his right eyebrow. Or that his lip twitches ever so slightly when he's amused, but doesn't want to be. And I can tell you that his lips are soft and tender.” She closed her eyes then to block out Charlotte's face. She needed to say these things, needed to pour them out and set them free else they continue to collect in her brain and drive her mad.

“When he pulls me into his arms, which he has done on more than one occasion, I feel more alive and vibrant than I ever knew possible. And kissing him is as natural as breathing. I know he was born in London and that he has three sisters and a brother, all of whom still live in Ireland. I know he's intelligent and focused and stubborn. And I know that to him, I am nothing more than a sweet diversion.” She heard Charlotte intake her breath sharply, but Meg ignored the reaction; there was more she needed to say.

“Ever since that first evening locked in that storeroom, I have thought of little else save him, and his presence in my head is crowding everything else. I think
of Willow and know how disappointed she'd be in my behavior. And I think of my poor papa who wishes I would settle down and marry. But mostly I think of my heart and how I cannot afford to spend another thought on Gareth Mandeville. I have not yet lost it to him; for that I am thankful. I realized where I was headed the other evening, and I have been successful in tightening the reins on the situation.”

Of course, even that was a lie. It was Gareth who had ended their embrace, not she. Which only served to convince her how desperate the situation had become. She could not allow this to continue. She must harden her heart and strengthen her convictions, such as they were.

“The factory and my father are what's important to me. And that's where I will pour all of my energy. So yes, I do know the exact shade of Gareth's eyes as well as many other tiny things I wish I'd never discovered. I will continue trying to solve this crime to catch the true thief and to clear Gareth's name because I feel partially to blame.” She opened her eyes then and leveled her gaze with Charlotte.

“Is it all so bad then?” Charlotte asked.

Meg thought on it. “No, it's not bad. I just want to be cautious.”

“Would loving a man like Gareth be so bad?” Charlotte said.

“I remember a year after Mama had died, I went down to the kitchen to get something to drink. It was late, I'm not certain what time, but it was dark and everyone was in bed. I passed by my father's chambers and I could hear him weeping. I opened the door to see what was wrong because I thought he might be injured,
but it was another type of pain I witnessed. There he was”—Meg smiled ruefully—“great man that he is, on his knees at the edge of his bed. He had the bedsheets fisted in his hands and his eyes squeezed tight and he was wailing, he was crying so much. And then he said her name. Josephine.

“I missed her dreadfully then, but I was but a child without a mother. But my poor papa, a grown man full of strength and wisdom, still so full of anguish from losing her. I decided that evening that as long as I lived I would offer him nothing but smiles. That I would bring him joy the only way I knew.” She shook her head. “I am not as strong as he, Charlotte. I know that I could not ever survive such a loss.” She swiftly wiped one tear away. “I know that it is not to be my lot in life. I was not designed for love so great because I would not be able to withstand the pain of losing it.”

“Meg, I—”

“I know what you're going to say. They don't all end in loss, sometimes people stay happy forever. And that's true, but what if?” She looked at Charlotte. “What if?” She shook her head. “It would destroy me. And that would destroy my papa.” Meg patted Charlotte's hand. “Listen to me carry on.” She shook her head. “Pay me no mind. I'm feeling awfully sentimental today. It matters not. I will feel quite right tomorrow; I suppose I am tired. Thank you again for agreeing to fix my petticoat. You can take it with you, if you prefer.”