Any Wicked Thing (12 page)

Frederica was busy braiding her hair back, snatching up her nightgown, whirling around the room like a dervish. “I am going to sleep now. In my own bed. I trust I have your permission? Or do I even need it? This is now my day.”

Sebastian was unaccountably tired. He would fuck her again just as well in the daytime later, her day or no. “All right. Sweet dreams.”

With one last snort of disgust, Freddie left him in the firelight, slamming the heavy door behind her. The wine glowed ruby in its glass, but Sebastian was loath to drink any more. Managing Freddie's conversion to perversion would take every ounce of his skill. He was just about to take his rest when his door reopened and her freckled face popped in.

“Meet me in the long gallery at ten.”

“In the morning? I never rise at such an hour if I can help it.”

“A day has only twenty-four hours, Your Grace. While I recognize the need for you to sleep to maintain your”—she flicked her dark blue eyes at his cock, which was still somewhat rampant—“stamina, if we meet at ten and my power over you exchanges at midnight, that gives me only fourteen hours to have my wicked way with you.”

Sebastian nodded. “Just remember the code.”

“What code?”

“When one engages in games of domination and submission, one is cruel only if the other partner agrees to be treated cruelly.”

“Why would anyone agree to such a thing?” she asked, her brows crinkling.

He shrugged. “Sometimes a touch of pain is pleasurable. You'll discover that when I spank you.”

“You wouldn't dare!”

“You may tell me to stop at any time. I suppose we'll have to come up with a word that lets me know when.”

Frederica looked grim. “What's wrong with ‘stop'?”

Sebastian grinned. “You might say that, but not really mean it. Kind of like when you cried, ‘Oh God, I'm coming,' earlier. It really would have been most inconvenient to summon the Old Gentleman to bring you to heaven just then.”

Frederica looked ready to fly at him. “Well, then, what's it to be? Bastard? Troll? Toadstool?”

“Rutabaga.” He doubted very much he'd ever hear the absurd word pass Frederica's lips.

Her dismay was comical. “I can't possibly scream out the name of a vegetable.”

“A fruit, then? Kumquat? Pomegranate? Pineapple?”

“You are being ridiculous.”

“Rutabaga it is, then. Good night, Freddie. Sleep well.”

“My name is Frederica, Your Grace. You shall call me that today and every day when it's my turn.
Miss
Frederica. Actually, Miss Wells is even better.”

He tugged an imaginary forelock. “Very good, Miss Wells. Is there anything I might do to you—I might do
for
you tonight?”

“Not a thing. I believe you've done quite enough.”

The door closed again with a thud. Sebastian picked up her slippers from the side of the bed. His own Cinderella, but he was hardly Prince Charming. He was a despoiler of innocent virgins and wasp-tongued spinsters, and often they were one and the same. He threw his head back and laughed.

F
rederica paced nervously in the long gallery. Generations of Archibalds hung on the wood-paneled walls that covered the damp stone beneath. She knew them all, and every contribution they'd made to Archibald Castle and the world beyond. They glowered down upon her in disapproval, possibly because she was wearing young Kenny's rolled-up breeches. Once, she had worn Sebastian's, but they had fallen apart even after her careful tending. Proper young women did not wear trousers, but she was no longer young, and certainly far from proper, if her behavior last night was any example.

Frederica had never been successful with the old duke in persuading him to get rid of the paintings of the previous inhabitants of the castle. To her, the haughty Archibalds were unlucky and resentful. The Duke of Roxbury might outrank them, but he was an interloper, as was she, and after her acrobatic activities last night, they were probably in the highest ghostly dudgeon.

No, she took that back. Nothing about her had been flexible or acrobatic, as she had been harnessed to the bed like a madwoman in Bedlam. And she had screamed like a madwoman in Bedlam. Sebastian Goddard was sin incarnate. He had done the most perversely pleasurable things to her body, things she had never even imagined existed. That object—his tongue—She shuddered.

It almost made her sorry that such amusements were to be limited to every other day. Frederica had been very surprised when he made his offer to take turns with her, nearly as surprised as she was when she made her original offer to him. He had an unsettling influence on her—an hour in his company and she'd promised to be his mistress for a month. Now she was his mistress for half a month. That was an improvement. Wasn't it?

She had stopped in the adjacent armory for the blades before entering the gallery. If she'd had more time, she would have polished some of the rust off, but they would do. Sebastian was a keen fencer and all-around athlete. She would test his mettle and hers in a few minutes. He'd be shouting rutabaga well before luncheon.

“My, my. What have we here?”

A lean and predatory Sebastian stood at the end of the wide corridor in a shaft of May Day sunlight. Wearing only a linen shirt, boots and dark gray pantaloons, he had dispensed with his neckcloth, waistcoat and jacket, which would make it all too easy for what she had in mind. His overlong hair was still damp, and she could smell her rose soap and his sandalwood cologne that had clouded her senses when they had tea together yesterday afternoon. A pity he'd wasted his time in the bath. She'd have him sweaty and panting soon.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

He bowed. “Good morning, Miss Wells. May I say how very lovely your ar—ah, you look in those breeches? Most unexpected. And tailor-made for you.”

“I borrowed them. You needn't throw out compliments on my days, you know.” Though she did know just how fetching she looked in pants—even old Warren's eyes lit up a bit before he collected himself to give her a stern talking-to. He seemed very agitated about something, giving her warnings against succumbing to Sebastian's charms. If he had seen her last night and lived through the apoplexy, he'd know his reproof had come a little late.

“Forgive me, Miss Wells. I shall endeavor to do exactly as directed from here on in.” He leaned back against the smudgy window. “What's on the program?”

“You are aware that when the Germanic tribes defeated Rome, swordplay became the prevailing way to settle one's differences. Dueling grew out of that and spread throughout the Christian nations, right into the Middle Ages and the Age of Chivalry.”

Sebastian looked amused. “A history lesson and a challenge. You plan to duel with me, I take it? Hopefully not to the death. And you do know duels are illegal, Miss Wells. You seem to be remarkably well-informed and intelligent.”

She ignored him. “Dueling evolved into the art of fencing eventually. You have a copy of the very first book on fencing in your library, Your Grace. Diego de Valera's
Treatise on Arms
, written in the middle of the fifteenth century. It is most edifying. A translation, of course, from the Spanish to the French.”

“I do not wish to read it in either language, Miss Wells.”

He sounded bored now. She walked up to him, pulling a faded curtain aside to reveal the weapons. “Your father has some fine examples of medieval swords. These are Italian foils, indicated by the crossbar grip, although they're somewhat more modern. The seller threw them in as a gift when your father made some major purchases from him.”

“Delightful. At least the old boy got a bonus for a change. Do you plan on giving me a tour of the armory again to see all the fascinating acquisitions, Miss Wells? The last time I visited, I nearly fell asleep.”

“No, Duke, I thought we might spar a bit like we used to. There's plenty of room in the gallery, as you remember, and if we get lucky, we might stab some of the Archibalds in the process.”

Sebastian's mouth dropped open. “You're not serious. You're not a hoydenish tomboy anymore, Freddie. And remember, I always beat the pants off you. But wait,” he said with a wicked gleam. “That might be amusing after all.”

“
Miss Wells
. We do seem to disbelieve each other on a regular basis, don't we?”

“By God, you mean it! I can't fence with you now! You're a grown woman, although you're still on the short side. I wouldn't want to take advantage of my superior reach or harm a hair on your head.”

Frederica's hand went up involuntarily to her viciously braided bun. She'd scraped back every bit of hair, for there was nothing so annoying as having one's vision obscured as a pointed blade came toward one.

“That never used to bother you. And I've found a way for our match to be on a more equal footing. Speaking of beating the pants off, please remove your clothing.”

Frederica glimpsed a fleeting—a very fleeting—moment of Sebastian's shock before he regained his cool composure. “Pardon me?”

“You're worried about hurting me, and I'm worried about hurting
you
. Don't worry; if you're naked, I'll be so aware of your dangly bits that I'll make sure to stay within the lines of attack.”

Sebastian now struggled to appear aloof, but it was clear to her she had flummoxed him for a change. Good. She watched him toy with an ivory button.

“Is this some sort of a dare? Remember what happened the last time you dared me.”

Yes, she did. She had been eight, he almost twelve, and her ankle still ached when the weather was damp.

“I see no trees here today, Your Grace.”

“You must have fallen on your head as well as broken your ankle all those years ago.”

“Crying rutabaga already? We haven't yet begun.”

“And we're not going to. Not without proper fencing attire and masks.”

“It's
my
day, Sebastian. My rules,” she said sweetly. “When we fence tomorrow, you may set the rules.”

“We will not be fencing tomorrow. We will not be fencing
today
.” He turned from her to leave.

“Afraid I'll best you?” she taunted.

“Afraid you'll slice my balls off. There are no buttons on those foils. I don't trust you an inch, Freddie.”

“Oh, very well. You may keep your clothes on. But for every touch, I'll require you to remove something. A shame that you're dressed so casually. You will be naked in no time.”

S
ebastian's shirt was the first to go, and his other garments followed suit in rapid succession. He cursed himself for coming downstairs to meet her in such a hurry that he had not dressed properly, for she had dispatched him with brevity, even pinking his chest with the tip of her foil. She was an amazingly efficient swordswoman, light on her feet, not wasting a motion. Vastly, horrendously improved from the time he first taught her. What she lacked in height, she made up in quickness, lunging, thrusting, cutting over with a deftness that would have made him speechless even if he was not winded and bleeding the tiniest bit.

He had decided early on that he would not try to actually win the match. Getting naked with her could lead to starting his morning off as it should be started. But it hadn't taken him long to realize he might have difficulty even if he put his heart and dubious soul into the effort. He had studied with French, Spanish and Italian masters during his self-exile from England, familiarizing himself with each distinctive school's methods and philosophy. Fencing was not a sport for just those with the necessary brawn. One must have intelligence and strategy. And nerve. Frederica Wells had an overabundance of all of that, and once Sebastian let her get him naked, he wondered what she would do with him. To his disappointment, when his breeches were at last flung onto the pile in the dim corner, Freddie wiped her sweaty brow with an incongruous lace handkerchief and tossed her foil aside.