Read Online Wicked Becomes You by Meredith Duran - Free Book Online

indecorum would serve her the death blow.
    A panicked squeak reached his ears. He leaned back into the lobby in time to spot her bobbling. She caught her balance, barely, but that valise was almost too large for her to see over. Another round of toothy acrobatics, and she was going to fall on her head before she made it to the landing.
    Muttering a curse beneath his breath, he approached the staircase. “May I help?”
    “Oh!” The valise plummeted to her feet. The envelope pursued a more leisurely descent, floating down to the first step, glancing off its edge, then sliding down several more. It was addressed, but he could not make out the name.
    “Alex!” Her eyes rose from the envelope, which was nearer now to him than her; as she gave him a very wide smile, he had the curious impression that she meant to distract him from this knowledge. “How do you do this afternoon? So glad to see you back in town!”
    This good cheer seemed a bit unlikely, even from her. “I’m tolerably well,” he answered slowly. Her eyes looked a bit bloodshot. Someone needed to rub the color back into her cheeks, but not him. Some titled xenophobe would do it. He cleared his throat. “And how are you?”
    She set a slipper atop the valise and lifted her chin. The posture put him in mind of explorers staking their sovereign’s flag in new ground. “I’m splendid,” she declared.
    A smile pulled at his mouth. Really, somebody needed to cast a trophy for her. In Recognition of Her Tireless Dedication to Utterly Groundless Good Cheer . “I’m impressed,” he said. “I expected you’d have a headache at least.”
    Her auburn brows knitted. “Oh.” Only now did she appear to recall a cause for distress. “Well, not splendid , I suppose. Of course not. How silly would that be! But I am better, thank you. I slept a good deal. Sleep is restorative!” Her words came more and more quickly. “And how good of you to call. I do appreciate your concern. I’m much better. And your sisters, of course.” Her lashes fluttered. “Ah—their concern, I mean. I appreciate it. I hope they’re well?”
    Beyond the price of a ticket. For Gwen Maudsley to bungle such a basic social courtesy seemed no less likely to him than the failure of a prima ballerina to lift her leg above her waist. But she’d bungled it, all right. She’d butchered it. “They’re quite well,” he replied, straight-faced by an effort. Because it suddenly seemed wise to ask, he added, “What’s in the luggage?”
    “Oh, the—the valise? Just some . . .” She brushed a hand over her brow. Her chignon was slumping toward imminent collapse. Another first. He had never seen her hair in any state other than viciously domesticated. “Sweaters,” she said brightly. She gave a light, atrociously fake laugh. “Sweaters for Lady Milton’s orphanage. She asked me to deliver them today.”
    He held his tongue, hoping that a brief silence might highlight for her the patent absurdity of that claim. But her expression did not waver; she regarded him quite earnestly. Or was it defiantly? No, he could not square that sentiment with what he knew of her. “Deliver them,” he repeated. “Today.”
    “Yes, today.”
    He gave her a disbelieving smile. “Before or after your wedding? Did she specify?”
    “I know, I should have dispatched a footman with them, but . . .” She gave a helpless shrug. “The orphans, you know.”
    “No,” he said. “Don’t know any, unless you and I count.”
    “Orphaned children. ” Then, apparently reading into his expression a sympathy he did not feel—for he doubted that these particular orphans existed—she added, “I know, it’s quite horrible, isn’t it? I’ve been knitting sweaters for all those poor tots. Every single one.”
    “How virtuous,” he said dryly.
    She did not appear to have heard him. “And now they’re finished, finally, so I thought to drop them by and have the joy of watching the sweaters be . . .