Wicked Again
Kathleen Ayers
Copyright © 2020 by Kathleen Ayers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing: Midnight Owl Editing
Cover: Covers and Cupcakes
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Notes from the Author
Also by Kathleen Ayers
1
The Peak District, Summer
Marissa stretched her body out across the bed, discreetly pulling the sheet up over her naked body. She was sore. Deliciously so.
A large palm, fingers splayed possessively, rested just below her navel. The owner of the hand watched her, eyes shining like quicksilver in the faint, pink mist of morning light filtering across the bed from the windows. A shock of hair hung over his forehead, delightfully tousled from the previous night’s activities.
Heat touched her cheeks just remembering what those activities had included. When was the last time a man had spent the entire night in her bed?
Years. A decade at least. That she had allowed Lord Haddon to do so while they were both guests at a tedious house party hosted by Viscount Pendleton and his mother was nothing short of shocking.
At least for Marissa.
She was no longer the reckless girl of her youth, but Haddon had been very persuasive.
Simon, Lord Pendleton, and his mother, Lydia, had arranged this little house party to not only remind everyone in Derbyshire of their wealth and importance, but also to announce the news of Simon’s betrothal to Lady Petra Grantly. Lydia had spared no expense in her efforts to cement herself as the grandest lady in the Peak District. The food thus far had been exquisite. The musicians for the dancing the evening before had been brought all the way from London for the special occasion. Lydia had fairly glowed, moving about to boast of Simon’s accomplishments in Parliament and imply with a wink that her son might well be Prime Minister one day.
Despite Lydia’s best efforts, and that of Petra’s mother, Lady Marsh, Marissa thought both women would find themselves disappointed. Marissa doubted very much that Petra would be marrying Simon.
“You should go,” she murmured, admiring Haddon’s beauty in the early morning light. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see him leaving her room. At the age of forty-nine, Marissa prided herself on a lifetime of discretion in regard to her enjoyment of male companionship. She had first-hand knowledge of what it was like to be the object of gossip. Her family’s notoriety had long ago assured Marissa rumor would always follow her. She’d no inclination to add to it.
Especially at her age.
A low growl was Haddon’s reply. His fingers, large and blunt, tightened over the top of the sheet, searing her skin through the thin layer of linen. “Not yet, my lady.”
A widower with four daughters, Haddon was handsome, charming and several years her junior. Marissa didn’t take lovers often, but when she did, the gentlemen in question didn’t look a thing like Haddon. No, her lovers were her own age or older. Distinguished. Balding. Perhaps sporting a paunch. Haddon, in contrast, possessed a body hewn from stone, not an ounce of fat on him. The thick mane of hair framing his finely sculpted features was the color of freshly turned earth in the spring, with no hint of a receding hairline.
Haddon tugged at the sheet covering her breasts, clearly determined to expose her body to the morning light.
Marissa was firmly against such a thing. True, her waist was still slim and she’d only a bit of gray in her hair, but she was the mother to two grown sons and thrice widowed to boot. Portions of her body were no longer the perfection they’d been in her youth. She’d noticed, much to her horror, that her bosom, once a wonder to behold, sagged. The previous evening, she’d been fortunate to have wine and the cloak of darkness to boost her bravado. Not so, this morning.
She clasped the linen more securely in her fists.
“Why do you insist on hiding from me? I humored you by dousing the lamp last night, but I find I’m not so tolerant this morning.” Haddon lay on his stomach, entirely naked, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.
Marissa started to reply, but then a streak of sunlight fell across the expanse of Haddon’s back, drawing her attention to the hard curves of his buttocks and thighs.
It was very difficult to look away, let alone answer him.
A trail of dark hair shadowed his chiseled jawline, giving Haddon a slightly disreputable look. He possessed high cheekbones that demanded attention but only until one caught sight of the silver in his eyes. A most unusual color, like the underside of the moon in the night sky. His eyes were slightly tipped at the corners and framed by lashes most women would envy. Haddon was incredibly attractive and much more exotic looking than any gentleman born and bred in Derbyshire should be.
“I’m no longer a young girl,” she reminded him needlessly, acutely aware of her age in comparison to his. Marissa decided she was a novelty to him—a thrice widowed older woman from a notorious family conveniently trapped, as he was, at a boring house party. Still, she found it strange to feel so insecure. Marissa Tremaine—she still thought of herself as such and not as Lady Cupps-Foster—was the daughter of a powerful duke. She was rarely intimidated by anything or anyone.
“No. You aren’t.” Another sharp pull of the sheet revealed the tops of her nipples. “I find you to be well-aged. Like a giant wheel of cheese. Cheddar, perhaps. My favorite, as it happens.”
Marissa giggled. “You equate me to a fine cheddar? I think I’d rather be
