Any Wicked Thing Page 4

  He passed by the armory, Warren following him like a spaniel. Dull battle-axes and battered shields and stringless longbows hung on all four walls, prompting Sebastian to contemplate taking down something to help him vent his frustration. The restocking of the armory had occasioned that house party a decade ago. His father had thought it more important to acquire maces than proper mattresses, and Sebastian had been profoundly uncomfortable the few nights he’d spent here. The night of the fancy dress ball, the pater had clomped around in tarnished mail organizing a scavenger hunt for a papier-mâché unicorn, just a pretext to allow for dalliances in the castle’s cobwebby corners, specifically his own. Utter nonsense. The evening had been a dead bore, and Sebastian had planned to leave the very next day. At that point, he’d thought his father was only dicked in the nob.

  To be fair, ultimately the night had not been boring. He hadn’t waited around for breakfast the next morning to see a telltale blush on Freddie’s cheek or listen to his hypocritical father.

  He needed to get Freddie settled and out of his hair. He needed to find a wife of his own. One with pots of money who could turn a blind eye to his particular peccadilloes. Or participate in them.

  He’d been a duke for eighteen months, although most of that time he hadn’t even known it, cavorting in exotic places in blissful, necessary indulgence until he was finally found and informed of his father’s demise. He’d missed the funeral, not that it mattered. And now he was saddled with an ape leader until he could marry her off or she turned thirty, two whole years from now.

  It seemed cruel to bear the title and responsibility but have none of the benefits of a dukedom. There was precious little money and absolutely no fun, what with the dusty ledgers and disgruntled tenants and rapacious creditors to be dealt with. There were constant threats of debtors’ prison, so this trip to Yorkshire came at a very convenient time. No one would think to look for him up here, since his un-interest in his father’s interests was widely known. Sebastian Goddard conceal himself in a creaky suit of armor or pore over inscrutable manuscripts? Not bloody likely.

  The butler cleared his throat. “Your Grace?”

  “Sorry, Warren. I was woolgathering.”

  “Miss Frederica would like you to take tea with her in the solar if it would be convenient.”

  “Would she, now.” Tea? He’d rather swallow glass. But he might as well get this over with. Freddie had avoided him the two long days he’d been up here, as well she should. After their last meeting, he had little to say to her now and even less desire to see her. But it had to be done.

  He had known Frederica Wells since she was in leading strings, a motherless girl brought to Roxbury Park when his own father hired hers. Sebastian had been sent off to school at the earliest opportunity, but his best childhood memories involved Freddie. As he recalled, she’d trailed after him like a stubborn puppy and he’d tormented her as little boys from time immemorial tormented little girls. There had been the requisite spiders. Mud pies. He hoped none was on the menu today.

  His father had had great academic hopes for him, all dashed. Not that Sebastian was stupid—despite his rigorous resistance, his head was loaded with useless facts and figures—but he had not shared his father’s passion for medieval antiquity. The pater had fancied himself a great scholar, hence the castle and the unicorn. When one was a duke, almost all manner of caprices were overlooked, even buggering one’s secretary.

  Freddie, the daughter of that secretary, was probably Phillip Goddard’s idea of a virgin princess sent to help him lure the unicorn out of the woods. As there wasn’t a forest for miles, unicorns did not exist and Freddie was no virgin, she must have felt somewhat useless living in the middle of this wasteland all these years.

  No wonder she’d once plotted to ensnare him. But evidently seduction and forced marriage were no longer on her mind. The on dit around town was that she’d refused several proposals, had even gone crazy and attacked Warfield with a broadsword to make her point. Sebastian reflected Warfield was probably in need of attacking. The man was an unprincipled letch, almost as wicked as Sebastian himself.

  He admired the Archibald crest on the keystone and knocked at the solar’s massive oak door. He thought he heard “Come,” though through the thickness of the door and stone walls it was impossible to tell. But when he pushed open the polished wood, he stopped listening altogether. All his other senses went on alert, however. Who needed ears when the sight of Frederica Wells was enough to drive any man quite as mad as the king or his father or the frog-loving Earl of Archibald?

  Where was the chubby chit he remembered? The girl who fenced and fished with him? Or even the girl crying crocodile tears? In her place was a curvaceous creature with gilt-streaked hair, her tongue licking a lucky wayward crumb from plump, pink lips. Whose plumper white breasts nearly spilled from a flimsy dress that was surely too low-cut for tea. And damn it, where was her flirtatious companion Mrs. Carroll when he had most need of her? He’d been without a woman too long if just the sight of his old enemy caused him such stimulation. This was Freddie, whose pigtails he’d pulled, whose feet he’d tripped, who’d bedeviled him like a little leech until he went away to school.

  And when he had come home, she’d tried to trick and trap him, until her head was turned by the promise of a few pounds.

  “Hallo, Freddie. I see you started without me.” He swiped a minuscule biscuit and swallowed it whole.

  She wrinkled her perfect little powdered nose. No doubt she found the childhood nickname abhorrent. He’d have to continue calling her that to keep her at arm’s length, make sure she knew she held no sway over him. Damn her father for dying ten years ago; damn his father for dying more recently; damn Freddie for not finding some other man to bother with her hair and her breasts and her rosy mouth.

  She inclined her head, as if she were a queen greeting a vexatious subject. “Sebastian. Or should I say Your Grace, although that seems very odd. How was your trip north?”

  By God, she had nerve. The last time he’d seen her, she had been half-naked and white-faced, every freckle on her body like a spatter of mud, their worlds smashed to pieces. One would never know from her sangfroid that they were anything to each other but passing acquaintances. He threw himself down into a chair that looked like some deposed king’s throne, devilishly uncomfortable as were all the authentic furnishings in the castle. No wonder the knights in days of old were always riding off to do battle—sitting down at home was as good as getting a jousting stick up one’s arse.

  “Beastly. I’ve remembered why I never came back to visit. Every single minute is a fresh reminder.” He gave her a pointed look, and was pleased to see her blush of discomfort.

  “Your father missed you.”

  “I doubt it. He was far too engaged with his moldy old books and rusty battle-axes and fucking your father. How have you managed to survive all these years? I’ve only been here two days and already my mind is going.” Lusting after Freddie was a sure sign of it. But sitting in a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight, she showed to exceptional advantage. Her faintly freckled skin was dappled additionally with the jeweled tones of the stained glass window. On it was the Archibald motto, Fortuna Favet Audaci, and crest, a stag’s head and three sheaves of wheat. The yellow glass of the wheat set her light brown hair to copper and amber.

  Fortune favors the brave. He wondered if her position was deliberately brave, meant to dazzle him in her own sunbeam. When she bent to pour him a cup of tea, looking up at him through gold-tipped lashes to see if he noticed her scantily covered assets, he was sure of it. People might conclude from his deliberate demeanor that he was a charming lackwit, but never let it be said he was too witless to miss the signs of seduction, or an opportunity to seize upon them.

  Good God. Freddie meant to entice him again. Trap him. The dismissal of Mrs. Carroll. That scrumptious, scandalous dress. He’d run away from her ten years ago, cutting her and his father and Goddard-damned Castle out of his life. He
’d managed to keep body and soul together—well, the soul part was debatable, but there was no question his body had reaped the benefits of all manner of sin.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t keep her at arm’s length after all, but let her seduce him, if that was what she planned. It might make his immurement in Yorkshire somewhat amusing. And wouldn’t the pater frown down on him from heaven—if that was where he was—when his scheme was foiled? Sebastian knew the conditions placed on Freddie’s money. Though Sebastian had burned them, he remembered his father’s letters always implored him to come back and marry Freddie after all; apparently she hadn’t taken the money he’d offered her. Which was absurd, because how did she come upon the thousands of pounds she now possessed? Counting tree stumps and stones? Her fortune was tempting enough for any man, and certainly for a man in Sebastian’s situation.

  But he wouldn’t marry Freddie—he’d rather die of the pox. But he could fuck her, properly—or improperly—this time. He sat back, watching her strain and pour his tea from a dented silver service, calculating what it would sell for. It wouldn’t fetch much, but something was better than nothing.

  A bird in the hand . . .

  All his problems might be solved by his old playmate, if he could teach her some new games to play. But he’d offered marriage once, and she’d refused.

  “I’ve survived very nicely, Sebastian. After my father died, I assisted your father with his book. Now that he’s gone, I’ve taken it upon myself to complete his work. How do you take your tea? I can’t remember.”

  Rubbish. Of course she knew. They’d drunk tea together in the nursery for years through a series of ill-paid governesses. Sebastian frowned. “Just milk. And what do you mean, his book?”

  She passed him a fragile cup. “I suppose I ought to say books. He was halfway through volume four when he died.”

  Sebastian choked on the foul liquid. “Four books? What on earth could he write four books about?”

  “Why, the Middle Ages, of course. Salic law. Charles the Fat. Otho the Great. I’m almost done with volume five now, and there are to be six altogether. There are any number of fascinating primary sources in the library. Some lovely illustrated manuscripts.”

  “That no doubt cost him a pretty penny.” He couldn’t repress the bitterness from his voice.

  “He thought the money well spent,” she said primly.

  “They will all go up on the auction block, although I don’t think I’ll find as big a fool as my father to recoup my losses.”

  It was Freddie’s turn to frown. To his regret, she had abandoned the flirtatious sideways glances and was suddenly tugging her dress up. “The history was his life’s work, Sebastian. Your Grace. His and my father’s both. I don’t suppose a person like you has the first idea of what it is like to have intellectual interests.”

  Ouch. So she thought him a dunce, did she? It was only what he deserved after working so hard all those years ago to attain such spectacularly low marks. “We can’t help it if our parents were loose screws. Whatever my father collected has to be sold, hand-colored by dead monks or not. You must know that he left me near penniless. It’s a wonder he didn’t take back your money.”

  “He would never have done such a thing! But—” She stopped, her cheeks turning crimson.

  “But I might. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Now that I’m your trustee, there’s no telling how I might exercise my authority over you.”

  “No man—especially you—will ever exercise authority over me!” She bit into a biscuit with a ferocious snap.

  Such passion could be put to much better use, although he wouldn’t want his private parts anywhere near her teeth right now. He wondered how he could have ever thought her plain. Of course, when they had last met ten years ago she had been like a little sister to him until she made her daring, deceitful move. Freddie had seemed like a brown wren in a muster of peacocks. He’d been such an ass, quite full of himself as only a youth of one-and-twenty could be, never once connecting her with the saucy milkmaid until the lantern light revealed her shocked face.

  That hideous house party. There was nothing so repellent as a bunch of middle-aged peers and peeresses trying to recapture their salad days, running about with lances and wimples. He’d slipped off to have a pipe and dreamed of a milkmaid, who’d been full of delicious, sweet cream. The dream had turned into a nightmare, and he’d not willingly taken opium since.

  “Your independence does you credit, Freddie, but I’m afraid I’ve come to uproot you. I can’t afford to keep this archaic dump. I’ve got several potential buyers coming over the next few weeks to look it over. If one of them likes it, I’ll accept whatever he offers me. I can’t be too choosy.”

  Her flowered teacup slid off its saucer, splashing her skirts and tumbling to the faded rug under her feet. “You can’t sell Goddard Castle!” She bent to retrieve the cup, and Sebastian was treated to the sight of breasts he hadn’t seen or tasted in a decade.

  “Oh, but I can. I must. You can make your home at Roxbury Park. It’s all that’s left. Everything else is sold, I’m afraid. It will take years to get the estate to rights.”

  Freddie stood up unsteadily and walked to a mullioned window. “I cannot live with you. After—after everything between us. You—you and your exploits are infamous. It would be most improper.”

  How hypocritical to hear her lecture him on morals when she had bared her breasts and more to him like a common harlot. “I’ve always found impropriety to be most delightful. Almost essential to my well-being.” He pictured Freddie sitting across from him at the breakfast table at Roxbury Park after a night of vigorous bed sport. Her lips would be swollen from kisses, her throat pink with love bites. Her wrists and ankles would be only slightly chafed from the restraints he’d place upon each white limb. His cock twitched in anticipation beneath the linen napkin.

  She turned, her hair lit by the afternoon sunlight. “Let me buy the castle.”

  No, no. That did not jibe with his new plan for her at all. “You? Don’t be daft!”

  “I have the money. Well, technically you have control of it, as you’ve just pointed out to me. But I must have enough. The castle cannot be worth much. It’s falling down daily.”

  Sebastian sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then why would you want it?”

  She shrugged, causing her luscious bosom to thrust upward. “It’s been my home for almost twelve years. I’m used to it.”

  “Freddie, my girl, as a responsible guardian, I could not permit you to make so foolish an investment with your capital.” He did need her money—quite desperately—but right now there was absolutely nothing he wanted more than to take history-mad Frederica Wells up against the ancient moth-eaten tapestry that she was so nervously fingering and kiss her everywhere until she forgot what year this was.

  He cleared his head. He’d always been a bit impulsive. Just twenty minutes ago he’d been dreading this meeting, and now he was contemplating fucking the one woman who was responsible for the second-worst time in his life.

  “Cancel the buyers’ visits.”

  Entreating, her voice was honey, with a dogged edge. He could be stubborn, too. “Why ever should I do that, Freddie? I’ve just said you can’t buy this wreck.”

  She stared up at the coffered ceiling. “I’ll—I’ll be your mistress for a month. I’ll do any wicked thing you want if you let me buy the castle after. With everything in it, mind you. Your father’s manuscripts and artifacts. Just think, Sebastian. Thirty days and thirty nights.”

  Sebastian felt the breath leave him, taking half his wits along. Was she a witch? A mind reader? He still had the napkin across his lap to cover his erection, so she couldn’t have noticed, could she? If she had an inkling that he’d settle for a week—hell, a night—with her, he’d lose his bargaining power.

  Time with this version of Freddie would never be boring, especially if he had a month to train her to his tastes. He was sure he could bind her to
him beyond silken ropes and blindfolds. After a month in his care, she would do anything he asked and be grateful. Beg him for more.

  “Thirty-one.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The month of May has thirty-one days, Freddie. Tomorrow is May Day. I hope you’re much more amusing than you were last time. I’m seeing you now, a crown of flowers in your hair. The rest of you—” He lowered his voice. “The rest of you is quite unadorned. And I know just where the maypole is.”

  Chapter 5

  I had thought I was entirely immune to surprises. Jaded, if you will. It seems not.

  —FROM THE DIARY OF SEBASTIAN GODDARD, DUKE OF ROXBURY

  She truly hadn’t expected him to agree to her outrageous proposition with such alacrity. And insult her in the bargain. Much more amusing! She hadn’t even planned to make such an offer, but out the words tumbled and here she stood, the recipient of his salacious smile. A smile, blindingly white for a miscreant who probably smoked cigarillos and swilled red wine and brandy for breakfast. A smile that creased his left cheek with a delightful dimple. A smile from curving, full, sensual lips that had once suckled her nipples like a greedy infant.

  Merciful heavens, what had she gotten herself into? She was no longer a moony girl with a hopeless crush. She had meant to have a lighthearted fling just to see what all the fuss was about, and now she was to be in his servitude for an entire month, plus pay him for the privilege of buying this disintegrating dwelling. She must be mad. Possessed by the devil. Hell, Sebastian Goddard, Duke of Roxbury, was the devil who had somehow made her abandon every precept and principle of her twenty-eight years that she’d fought so hard to reacquire.

  But he meant to take her home away from her. Her occupation. She’d spent almost a decade being Uncle Phillip’s amanuensis, taking down his every word and adding many of her own. Replacing her father as best she could, though certainly not in every way. She had centuries more to cover. Too many King Edwards to count. How could she let Sebastian throw it all away?