Ways to Be Wicked Read Online Free

generally in the habit of leaping into the laps of strangers unless she had a very good reason to do so.
    He hoped,
hoped
she didn’t intend to attempt anything foolish with a knitting needle.
    Biggsy recovered himself. “I’ll take that, shall I?” He reached out and adroitly took her reticule from her. He heard her intake of breath, the beginning of a protest, but wisely stopped herself. Ah, she’d good judgment, too.
    Tom saw her shoulders square, as though she was preparing herself for a launch upward. She drew in a deep breath.
    And then she stood on her toes, lifted her veil, and kissed Biggsy Biggens full on the mouth.
    And a moment later, Biggsy Biggens looked for all the world as blessed as a bridegroom.

Chapter Two
    T HE CONFIGURATION INSIDE THE COACH on the way to the coaching inn was this: Tom at one end; the other passengers all but knotted together for protection.
    And then the widow.
    All was silence. He and the widow might be the hero and heroine of the hour, but no one wanted to acknowledge it, no one wanted to
touch
them, and certainly no one wanted to know either of them.
    Once all of the passengers tumbled out of the coach in the inn yard, where they would be served a dreadful lunch before continuing on to London, Tom saw the widow glance furtively about.
    And rather than follow the rest of the travelers inside, she made her way surreptitiously, but very purposefully toward the stables. She rounded the corner and disappeared from view; he picked up his pace and stopped when he saw her snug against the side of the building, half in shadow, her shoulders slightly hunched.
    A wrench of sympathy and respect for her privacy made him pause. She was attempting to discreetly retch. He’d been within whiffing distance of Biggsy’s breath; he could only imagine what it must have been like to taste it.
    She whirled suddenly, sensing him there, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth; he took a step back, safely out of knitting-needle range. She stood very still and regarded him through that veil.
    Wordlessly, cautiously, he reached into his coat, produced a flask, and held it out to her.
    She looked down at the flask, then up at him. Two cool movements of her head. But she made no move to accept it from him.
    “Or perhaps you prefer the taste of highwayman in your mouth. . . Mademoiselle.”
    Her chin jerked up a little at that.
    After a moment, with a sense of subtle ceremony, she slowly, slowly lifted her veil with her gloved hands.
Ah, a woman confident of her charms.
This heightened Tom’s sense of anticipation, which surprised and amused him. He wasn’t precisely jaded, but surprise when it came to a woman was something he felt so rarely anymore.
Veils,
he noted to himself silently.
Must use more veils at the White Lily Theater. Perhaps a harem act
. . .
    Still, nothing could have prepared him for the shock of her face when she finally tilted her head up to look at him.
    He felt her beauty physically, a sweet hot burst low in his gut. A jaw both stubborn and elegant in its angularity, lifted now in pride or arrogance or defense; an achingly soft-looking mouth, the bottom lip a full curve, the one above it shorter, both the palest pink. Eyes very bright in her too-white face. They were pale green, her eyes, intelligent and very alive, with flecks of other colors floating in the irises. Two fine, straight chestnut brows slanted over them.
    Her eyes met his, and with great satisfaction, he saw that impossible-to-disguise swift flare of her pupil. It was always a good moment, a delicious moment, the recognition of mutual attraction that passed between two beautiful people. Tom smiled at her, acknowledging it, confident and inclusive, inviting her, daring her to share it.
    But she turned her head away from him slowly—too casually—as though the pigeons listlessly poking about in the stableyard were of much more interest to her than the man standing before her with a flask outstretched.
    When she