Practically Wicked Read Online Free Page A

celebrated three times—twice in the summer and once in the fall. At best guess, she was near to four-and-twenty and her birthday fell somewhere between July and November.
    Once, she had inquired after her true birthday only to be told by her mother that a date of birth was of no consequence. What mattered was how old one appeared.
    “And I cannot appear a young woman if I have a daughter grown,” Mrs. Wrayburn had said. “Be a darling and play along.”
    Anna had outwardly conceded, inwardly doubted they were fooling anyone, and secretly wondered if her mother had simply forgotten the date.
    It hardly signified now, she thought. At one-and-twenty or four-and-twenty, she was an adult. And not just any sort of adult, but one possibly teetering on the verge of becoming an Old Maid. Worse, an old maid that was at once both the most disreputable old maid in all of Christendom, and the dullest.
    Here she was, a grown woman living in Anover House, where the most notorious of the demimonde’s widows threw the most depraved parties in all of London, and yet she’d not engaged in a conversation of any length with a gentleman before tonight. She’d scarcely conversed with anyone other than her mother, her governess, and her mother’s staff.
    Her experiences with society were very much as Mr. Dane described them—sporadic in nature and brief of duration. She had been to the theater twice in her life and had spent both evenings hidden away in a box. So well hidden, in fact, that she’d not been able to see but half the stage. She’d never been to someone else’s ball or been invited to a dinner party. At her mother’s gatherings, she was dressed in finery and made to stand for a half hour or so on a private, second-level balcony in the ballroom. This was the limited extent of her participation at Anover House, and her loathing of it knew no bounds.
    Lord, how she hated being on that balcony, hated standing there alone and silent while the crowd looked her over like a curiosity in a museum. Some chose to stare openly, some glanced at her in passing on their way to the terrace or refreshment table, still others pretended complete indifference, but took surreptitious peaks from behind fans or over shoulders.
    It seemed everyone was whispering.
    And all the while, Mrs. Wrayburn could be heard in the crowd below, exclaiming over her daughter’s attributes like a doting parent. “La, isn’t she simply beautiful? Isn’t my darling girl the most exquisite of gems?”
    Anna knew herself to be reasonably pretty, not beautiful. But thanks to her clever mother, she was unattainable, and there was nothing more captivating, more alluring than that.
    Occasionally, if a guest of great consequence requested an introduction, or if her mother was simply feeling generous and playful, a short visit to the balcony was permitted. Bows and curtsies were exchanged, along with a few pleasantries if the guest was a woman, but any attempt to engage Anna in a true conversation was immediately thwarted, particularly if the guest was a gentleman.
    Despite her mother’s penchant for providing excuses that painted Anna in an unflattering light— My darling girl has quite insisted on remaining apart from the festivities tonight. You will forgive her eccentricities, I’m sure —Anna had been content with the interference in the past. She had no interest in becoming acquainted with her mother’s gentlemen friends.
    At least, not until now.
    Anna studied the man before her. She’d never have imagined it could be so pleasant spending time with a gentleman. It was foolish, of course, to be taken in by the questionable charm of an inebriated libertine, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
    She was fascinated by Max Dane. And not simply because he was handsome, though that detail had not escaped her notice. He seemed such a contradiction to her, at once both playful and dangerous.
    His mischievous charm delighted her. His deep-set, hazel eyes held the