Any Wicked Thing Page 16

  But he was not done, could not get enough of the flavor of her. She tensed beneath his hands, struggling to be quiet when any of the staff could enter the room. He should have locked the door—it was careless of him to expose them like this—but somehow the threat of possible discovery made him even harder. Juvenile of him, he knew. He was past the age of deriving enjoyment from flaunting his sins in front of servants. His first night with Freddie had been a cautionary tale—the disaster of being discovered by their fathers still haunted him.

  But it had been Freddie who had forgotten to lock the door, creeping in on cat feet as he’d sat drifting in his opium haze, a half-drunk flask of brandy at his side. He’d left his evening clothes in his room and changed into an Italian silk robe, an extravagant memento of his years abroad. He’d climbed the tower with a candle stub to see the stars and get away from all the foolishness downstairs.

  He’d seen stars. And luscious skin. Bountiful breasts that burst from a tightly laced stomacher, giving Freddie a waist he didn’t know she possessed. How could he have known that naughty creature in short, saucy ruffles and mobcap was Freddie? She hadn’t spoken above a dusky whisper, putting her finger to his lips as she fisted his cock. She’d been more enthusiastic than skilled, but he was more than happy to thrust up into her hot, tight cunt.

  As he was now.

  He studied her as she lolled against the sofa. Freddie would so hate to be seen like this, her naked breasts quivering, her legs loose, her lips forming a secret smile that he was sure he wasn’t meant to see. Because her vision was obscured, it was as if she had no idea of the image she presented, so entirely wanton she took his breath away. Her cries drove him to kiss her quiet and lace her up before Warren came in with a blunderbuss.

  Her wrinkled forehead told him she was frowning. Perhaps she thought he would sink into her again, spill mindlessly inside her as he’d done earlier. How he wanted to—but delay would make what he planned for tonight all the more delicious. He would take her further with one more step. The more she wanted him, the easier it would be to show her his most needful pleasures.

  Sebastian fumbled with the ropes and unwound his cravat from her pinkened face. Her eyelashes were curled up from the confinement, her eyes unfocused. If anyone saw her, even with her skirts down and her hands folded in her lap, they would know what he had done to her. And that she had loved it. He tucked a strand of hair back under its pin. She blinked a bit like a startled fawn, then rubbed her wrists.

  “Why did you stop?”

  He straightened the ribbon over her bosom. “We have all night.”

  “Until midnight, you mean,” she said, starch creeping into her voice.

  “I’ll have to throw out the clocks, Freddie. Perhaps I can persuade you to forget it’s your day.”

  She rose unsteadily from the sofa. “There’s no chance of that, Your Grace. I shall hold you to your word.”

  “Even if it means depriving yourself?”

  She flushed with pique. “Really, Sebastian, you have an exaggerated sense of your own consequence. I am perfectly able to go without you rooting around my body for a day.”

  He laughed. “You make me sound like a badger.”

  “More like a rat. A large one.”

  “You cannot insult a man as long as you tell him he’s large.” He watched her walk to the window, her head high, her shoulders thrown back in pride. He knew he could rob her of it and make her moan again within minutes, but it didn’t seem sporting. “I have a few business matters to attend to, letters to write and so forth, so I absolve you from my company until dinnertime. I won’t be using the library, so if you want to get back to your book for a few hours, I have no objection.”

  She didn’t turn around. “How kind.” Her voice was flat, but he wasn’t fooled. He picked up the last decent sandwich, ham with a dab of brown mustard, then put it down again. He wanted nothing that would erase the taste of Miss Frederica Wells in his mouth. Nonsense, really, but there it was.

  He left her to dwell on the raindrops that coursed down the wavery windows and returned to his tower. He opened the satchel that contained the many threatening missives that his father’s man of business, Paulson, had pressed upon him. As Sebastian had told Freddie, he’d been imprisoned once already. Although he was certain that any sojourn in an English gaol was apt to be far more sedate and comfortable than his previous accommodations, he was still unwilling to subject himself to prove it. He wrote to Paulson, inquiring about the disposition of Freddie’s funds and the exact direction of the solicitor in York.

  In a few days, he’d pack her up in the moldering old travel coach and escape the moldering old castle. They could make a vacation of it—it would be heaven to get out of the gloom of Goddard Castle, although the medieval city of York could be every bit as gloomy. Sebastian thought of the architecture he’d seen on his travels in Greece, simple square houses built into hillsides, blindingly white against the Aegean Sea. He’d trade every decrepit property he owned for one of them.

  Roxbury Park required refurbishment. Neglected by his father for more than a decade, the Jacobean wing really needed to be torn down and the drains replumbed. But its productive farmland was Sebastian’s one hope. His tenants knew what they were about, so if the weather in the south cooperated, he might escape penury yet.

  He wondered if Freddie missed her girlhood home. He could almost see why she had dug in up here, reluctant to make another change. But his father’s scholarly madness had leached over to her and she seemed to prefer being hunched over foolscap to anything else. Hunched over himself, he studied his columns for the next few hours, growing increasingly needy and nervous to get his hands on Freddie’s money. And on her body, too. It was becoming clear to him that just as he had tempted her to sin, he was equally tempted. If they had married all those years ago, would he still be attracted to her? It would be a novelty to be attracted to one’s own wife—the gossips in the ton would never believe it of him. But he’d been unconcerned with rules for ten years. Why should he care now if he broke any?

  Chapter 22

  Unbelievable.

  —FROM THE DIARY OF FREDERICA WELLS

  Dinner had been disposed of. Sebastian could not even remember what he had eaten, so anxious was he to get Freddie alone in his room. The conversation had flagged long before pudding was brought to the table. Freddie had been less than engaged in his flirtations. She sat on his bed now, fiddling with the yellow ribbon that trimmed the dress she had worn to tea. Her skirts were still crushed from his earlier exploration, her cheeks flushed from the wine he had pressed upon her at dinner. She was nowhere near to being tipsy or relaxed, however. She looked very much like someone who was going to have a tooth drawn, so Sebastian knew he had his work cut out for him.

  He poured her a glass of port from the tray at his bedside, but she shook her head.

  “I’ve had enough, thank you.”

  “You are awfully tense, Freddie. You know everything we have done has brought you pleasure.” He took a sip himself and unwound the cravat from his shirt collar, draping it on a chair.

  “Don’t remind me. I’ve behaved like a hoyden.” She chewed a plump lip, a task Sebastian wished to take over himself.

  “And I thank you for it.” He grinned. “We’ve had a lovely day so far, have we not?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Ah, Freddie.” He dragged the chair to the side of the bed and sat on it, patting her knee. “You needn’t feel shame for enjoying yourself with me. You are made for this.”

  Her eyes looked a bit bleak. Sebastian wondered if she had been practicing off-putting expressions in her mirror. Right now she looked like an actress in a second-rate tragedy. “Am I? I thought I knew who I was before you came. Now it seems I am nothing but a trollop.”

  “You’ll not get me to give you a reprieve with all this guilty-conscience nonsense. I have two more hours left and I intend to make use of them.”

  “And use of me.”

>   She meant to make him feel pity, but he would have none of it. “Who have we hurt, Freddie? Old Warren, who puts his nose where it doesn’t belong? We are adults. Youngish. Healthy. Before I arrived, you had resigned yourself to a spinster’s life, buried in books and counting raindrops out of boredom. You cannot honestly say you would prefer to be untouched, false virtue intact. I wouldn’t believe you if you claimed it to be so.”

  “I suppose not. I showed you my colors ten years ago, didn’t I? What have you planned for me tonight?” She gave a little sigh and shifted away. Sebastian was determined not to fall victim to her attempt to deter him, leaning forward to get closer to her. They were now knee to knee. He could smell her rose soap and the vanilla sponge pudding she’d eaten.

  “That’s my secret. But I assure you, you will be ready for it.” He reached for her hands and held them still, gently thumbing the skin over her delicate bones. She’d nearly ruined her hands with drudgery. “But first, we’re going to get you out of this dress.”

  There were tiny yellow buttons at the bodice, made to look like flowers. Sebastian freed them from their yellow-stitched loops, then untied the grosgrain ribbons over and under Freddie’s breasts. He pulled her puffy little sleeves down to her elbows. She made no effort to help him, focusing her eyes on the fire he’d stirred up when they first came upstairs. It was still storming much harder than any spring shower had a right to, and he could feel the damp seeping into his bones. The sooner he got warm with Freddie, the better.

  “Stand up.”

  If he had been doing this with any other woman, he might have said, “Stand up, love.” He would have tossed off endearments without a thought. But this was Freddie, the girl who had plotted to bring him to his knees at the tender age of twenty-one and claim him for her husband. For life. Dukes did not get divorced.

  No man was fit to be married at twenty-one—Sebastian had not even begun to sow all his wild oats during his grand tour, though he’d made an excellent beginning. He wasn’t fit to be married now, although if some rich cit’s daughter stumbled in his path, he’d better snap her up for the benefit of his creditors.

  At least he hadn’t fallen prey to his father’s desire for a wellborn wife. Some simpering society ninny who embroidered and played the pianoforte and was so inbred she was cross-eyed. A woman who would close her eyes like a dead person and think only of the ducal succession every time Sebastian entered her. Who really would die if he told her what he’d done in Egypt.

  The conversation with Freddie had picked at that scab today, and the oozy pus of it was contaminating his thoughts. He’d gone months without reliving it, but Freddie would help relieve him. He pulled her off the bed and let the dress drop at her feet. She stepped out of it, tripping on the flounces. Her freckled skin, rosy from their time outdoors, puckered with goose pimples. Carefully, he unlaced her short corset, his reward being the sight of her erect nipples beneath her white shift.

  There was a tentative knock at the door. Freddie looked wild-eyed, and dashed behind a faded jacquard screen.

  “A moment.”

  Sebastian went to the door, opened it and stepped out into the hallway, shutting the door firmly behind him. Young Kenny was holding a flickering candle and a large tin can of hot water, the steam rising invitingly. Sebastian took it from him. “Thank you. That will be all. Tell the rest of the household to go on to bed. I won’t need anything until morning.”

  “Aye, sir. Yer Grace.” The man shifted from side to side, as though he hadn’t heard his dismissal.

  “Good night, Kenny. Sleep well.” He waited long seconds until Kenny collected himself and loped off down the corridor. Sebastian slipped back in the room, hoping that the man made it all the way downstairs. He didn’t like to think of anyone eavesdropping over the next two hours.

  When he came in, Freddie was seated again out in the open, unrolling a pale stocking. The strap of her chemise dipped down her shoulder. Her clothing had been neatly folded on the chair with Sebastian’s neckcloth. She seemed resigned, but Sebastian wanted more from her than that. No lying like a lump and thinking of England for her, not that she would have any part of the Roxbury succession. He set the pail before the fire, took the stocking and garter from her hand, then unpinned her hair. It tumbled to her waist, a torrent of gold and bronze. He remembered how it teased his body as she moved over him this afternoon, when she was untroubled by reservations of any kind. But her mood had changed during the course of the day just like the fast-moving clouds over the moors. Sebastian knew he’d made a mistake bringing up the milkmaid business. What difference did it make if she wanted to keep her secrets? It was too late to change anything.

  From the crease on her brow, he could tell Freddie was thinking, and thinking too much. Too hard. Her inhibitions were gathering like bees to her garden, buzzing warning notes to him. He had wanted her ultimate submission tonight, but it was becoming clear to him he might have to be satisfied with less.

  She stood without his asking and pulled the chemise over her head. Her body glowed in the lamplight, each tiny freckle a flake of gold dust upon her fair skin. “Well, where do you want me?” she asked, her martyrdom layered fast in her words.

  “Lie down on your stomach.”

  She cast him an odd look, then complied. She raised her arms above her head as if waiting for him to bind them together, but that was not his current intention. Lifting the waves of hair from her back, he twisted them aside. Uncapping a jar of fragrant citrus unguent, he set it on the sheets, warming a dollop of the cream between his hands, then began to rub her shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” she mumbled into the mattress.

  “As I said, you are tense. We’ve had a busy day.” He worked at the knotted muscles and moved up to her neck, putting pressure on each rigid bit of spine. More cream, more smooth territory to cover, more friction between his palms and her skin. He traced her angel wings and she quivered at the tickling sensation. With every sure stroke, her body grew looser, her breaths almost purrs of satisfaction. He made his way down her back to the beautiful cheeks of her arse, circling and kneading until he determined she was melting into the bedclothes. His fingers skimmed down one leg to her toes, downy fuzz glimmering along her calf. The firelight was her friend, bathing her in golden glow.

  Sebastian could look at her for hours, as long as he could touch, too. He bent her leg, rotating her foot at the ankle, tugging gently on each toe until she felt boneless. Her small foot, so pink and pretty, deserved a kiss. She startled as he pressed his lips to her arch, then methodically kissed his way up her white thigh. He felt her stir restlessly beneath him, as if she wanted to participate again. Good. He had broken through her reserve, at least for now. Which was fortuitous, as he was hard as granite. He had delayed his pleasure for hours, but could not wait much longer.

  He dipped into the pot again, parted the crease of her bottom and painted a line of cream from one orifice to the other. Her sex was already wet, easily accommodating a probing finger. She wiggled to give him greater access, and he fondled her until she was close to breaking for him. But that would come later. Tonight was his, what he had been waiting for since he saw her in that shaft of sunlight the first day.

  In general, he worshipped women, all their soft, uncomplicated curves. His intent to bring them to the forbidden was no perversion on his part—he knew the benefit of every avenue explored, every door opened. He’d spent his life immersed in sexual indulgence and was the better for it. Even his Egyptian prison had taught him something unexpected, at first unwelcome, ultimately the thread that kept him alive. There was nothing he had not done in the art of amusement, for his own and others’. He would bring Freddie to capitulation tonight without bonds or blindfolds—she would be a willing captive to his sin, once he initiated her.

  He coated his cock, stroking himself until every bit of him was covered with citrus cream. To his regret, he’d learned one could never have too much lubrication.

  Freddie turn
ed her head so she could make eye contact with him. “I—I must talk to you before we proceed.”

  He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to fuck. Sebastian could feel Freddie’s tension creep back in and spread to him. He continued to glide his hand over his cock, not letting her words dampen his erection.

  “What is it?”

  “You have not—you have not withdrawn as you promised. We agreed I was not to fall pregnant.”

  Sebastian almost laughed. There could be no better motivation for her than what he planned tonight.

  “You know, people do things differently in parts of the world where a woman’s virginity is prized even more than it is in England. Young girls who wish to save themselves for their husbands can still take lovers without breaking their hymen.”

  “How can a man tell, anyway?” she muttered into the pillow.

  A very good question. He’d had no idea when the milkmaid came to him ten years ago that she was no one’s wife, but virginal Frederica Wells. He hated to think of words such as “unspoiled” and “ruined”—people placed far too much consequence on a bit of tissue that could be ruptured so naturally. “The truth is, often we can’t, unless there’s a great deal of blood. But I told you the other day there were ways to have sex without fear of conception. What we did today, for example. Mutually exquisite, was it not?”

  The back of her neck turned rosy, but she said nothing.

  “Some married couples regularly enjoy each other in the way we are about to, without fear of adding any more mouths to feed.” He flattened his hand on her bottom in ownership.