Wicked Wyckerly Read Online Free Page B

the pearl pin with which he had fastened the folds of his neckcloth. He seemed even more dashing than the prince’s friend the infamous Beau Brummell. And she had kicked his boots and admired his posterior!
    She wanted to sink through the kitchen step, but she would not allow her insecurity to get the best of her. She had inherited her magistrate father’s keen sense of duty but must work hard to find the courage to carry it through, especially now. A vaporish spinster would have no chance of reclaiming and properly raising four rambunctious children.
    “Allow me to introduce myself,” she said stiffly. “I am Abigail Merriweather, and this is my home.” She had discarded her bonnet upon entering the kitchen, but now she wished she’d left it on. She’d had her unruly locks shorn when she’d lost patience with taming the frizz, assuming no one cared how she looked anyway. She feared the bonnet had left her curls squashed flat.
    “My sincerest apologies for the behavior of myself and my daughter,” the stranger responded in a mellow baritone that could melt her bones in the same way good organ music elevated her spirits. “As you may be able to tell, I am not accustomed to dealing with her.”
    The gentleman hesitated long enough for Abigail to wonder why and dare a glance upward. He was slicking his unruly forelock back from his high brow, and his sculpted features frowned as if he was as agitated as she. Or at least aware of the awkwardness. The gesture almost melted her resistance as well as her bones.
    But instead of offering an honest admission of failure, he donned a deceptive smile of assurance designed, she was certain, to charm susceptible females. “I am called Jack Wyckerly, and my daughter is Penelope. I have just removed her from an unsuitable situation, and she is justifiably outraged at being taken from the only home she’s ever known.”
    Abigail was having a hard time thinking straight while his green eyes lingered admiringly upon her. Men did not often look at her, much less with appreciation, so she did not believe his charm for an instant.
    His plummy accents and stylish garb did not deceive her either. True aristocrats did not ride in mail coaches. Nor did they escort children about without nannies. Or leave them in unsuitable situations. Jack Wyckerly was a fraud, not a nobleman. At best, he might be an impoverished gentleman or a tradesman, which made him much easier for her to deal with.
    Besides, his incompetent attempts to deal with the little girl invoked her protective instincts. She could not refuse her aid. “Children tire easily. She needs to be fed and put down for a nap.”
    “She does?” He blinked in astonishment. “She isn’t a babe.”
    Oh, dear. The way his intelligent eyes lit with interest created an abnormally warm sensation in her breast. She focused on the unshaven whiskers shadowing his high-boned cheeks to remind herself of his deceit.
    “Age matters only in the hours of sleep needed. Babies may slumber most of the day. Young children require as much as twelve hours or more each night. If you’ve been traveling, I wager she’s not slept at all.”

    Fitz drove his hand through his hair, resisted admiring Miss Merriweather’s bounteous bosom, and absorbed the interesting bit of knowledge she offered. “You mean, maybe Penelope doesn’t hate me? She’s just tired?” Oddly, for the first time in his selfish life, his daughter’s opinion mattered. Losing his immediate family must have skewered his usual detachment.
    “Oh, she may hate you,” the adorable little hen said with equanimity. “I can’t answer to that, not knowing what you have done to make her suffer. But children are very adaptable. They respond well to love and trust and security.”
    She spoke with the voice of experience, although he saw no evidence of any children about. Fitz desperately wanted to believe her, though. He needed a brief respite to order his thoughts and work out his next