Wicked Wyckerly Read Online Free Page A

Danecroft debt-ridden habit of marrying for money, producing legitimate spawn had been more of a challenge.
    Still, he tried another tactic, plying the silver tongue for which he was known. “But I need a daughter very much, Penelope, and I would like you to live with me now.”
    No, he wouldn’t, actually. He’d always assumed the child would be better off almost anywhere except with him. Therein lay the rub. There was nowhere else for her to go.
    He suspected the banty hen breathing down his neck was prepared to dump the entire pot of steaming tea on him, if her tapping toe was any indication. If he’d learned nothing else in his wastrel life, he’d learned to be wary of vindictive women, which seemed to include all pinched, spinsterish females with time on their hands.
    “If you will remove yourself from my table—” Right on schedule, the hen attacked, kicking at his boots in a futile attempt to dislodge him.
    “I want my mommy,” the child wailed in a higher pitch, rubbing her eyes with small, balled-up fists. “You hate me!”
    “Of course I don’t hate you,” Fitz said, too appalled to pay attention to the hen. “Who told you that I hate you?” Gobsmacked by her accusation, he could only be blunt. “You’re all the family I have. I can’t hate you.”
    Sensing she’d shocked a genuine reaction from him, Penelope wailed louder. “You hate me, you hate me. I hate you, I hate you—”
    “If you will give her time to calm down . . . ,” the increasingly impatient voice intruded.
    He didn’t listen to the rest of her admonition. “Do the theatrics usually work with Mrs. Jones?” he asked the child, deciding on a nonchalant approach that generally shocked furious women into momentary silence.
    At his unruffled response to her tantrum, Penelope fell quiet and stared, taken aback. Fitz crooked an eyebrow at her.
    “While this is all very entertaining,” the little hen behind him clucked, “you are preventing Cook from preparing dinner.”
    He winced at the reminder of the utter cake he was making of himself instead of impressing the household with his usual currency of sophistication and charm. Having been abandoned by the mail coach, they had nowhere else to go. Cheltenham and his prize stallion were still over a day’s hard journey to the west.
    The hen ducked down until Fitz was suddenly blinking into delectable blueberry-colored eyes rimmed with lush ginger lashes. A halo of strawberry curls framed dainty peach-and-cream cheeks. Whoa, why had she hidden such lusciousness beneath that ghastly bonnet? His gaze dropped to her ripe, cherry lips, and he nearly salivated as he inhaled the intoxicating scent of cinnamon and apples. He must be hungrier than he’d thought.
    Ignoring him, she looked pointedly at Penelope and barked like a field sergeant instead of in the syrupy voice he’d anticipated. “Young lady, if you will refrain from caterwauling like an undisciplined hound, you may wash your hands and take a seat at the table.”
    Apparently expecting to be obeyed, the pint-sized Venus stood up, and her unfashionable but sensible ankle boots stalked away. Fitz stared back at his daughter. Over their heads, he could hear the exquisite little lady commanding her troops.
    “Cook, I believe we will need your burn salve. And, sir”—she kicked his bootheel just in case he didn’t realize he was the only man in the room—“if you will step outside for a moment, we will have a little talk while the salve is prepared.”
    “Just keep remembering, she eats sweets, not people,” he whispered to Penelope before backing out to face his punishment.

3
    After the way the elegant gentleman had stared at her as if she were a Christmas pudding and he a starving man, Abigail was too shaky to meet his eyes again. Perhaps her loneliness had simply conjured that look. It had felt entirely too good to be seen by a man for a change.
    She threaded her fingers together against her apron and set her glare on