Just Wicked Enough (14 page)

“Do give
your wife
our best,” Michael said, offering a subtle reminder that the man was well and truly spoken for.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Michael escorted Kate only a few steps when he glanced at her and realized she was no longer blushing, rather she was quite pale. “Would you rather go home?” he asked.

He took comfort in the gratitude reflected in her eyes.

“Yes, actually, if you don’t mind.”

“I assure you I’m quite ready to dispense with my costume.”

It didn’t take long to have a footman locate their driver and have their coach brought round to the front. Michael helped his wife clamber inside, before joining her, taking his usual place opposite her. As they journeyed through the dimly lit streets, she seemed particularly enamored with the glow of the passing streetlamps. He couldn’t help but wonder what thoughts traveled through her mind.

When he could stand the suspense no longer, he asked, “What exactly is Wesley Wiggins to you?”

“He is nothing to me.”

His wife wasn’t one to lie, but Michael sensed she was lying now. He had seen the heat and longing in her eyes as she’d gazed at Wiggins. And something else. Something that ran much more deeply. A flame that had once burned brilliantly and was in danger of flaring back to life. No, she wasn’t lying. He’d done a rather poor job of phrasing the question.

“What
was
he to you?”

She turned her attention away from the street and met his gaze in the shadowy confines of the coach.

“My husband.”

K
ate had expected her present husband to rant, rave, and interrogate her. Instead, following her announcement, he’d withdrawn into complete cold and calculating silence. Not a single word spoken for the remainder of the journey to their residence. Not a syllable uttered as he’d assisted her from the coach upon their arrival. She’d found his total retreat terrifying, as though he were contracting everything into a tight ball—a ball that sooner or later would have no choice except to explode.

She dearly hoped she wouldn’t be in his proximity when that happened.

Now she was in her bedchamber, standing before the window, gazing out on the night, barely noticing the darkness, numbed by her encounters with both Wesley and Falconridge. Chloe had helped her change out of her costume into a rather unflattering cotton nightgown. Kate couldn’t believe how much she’d anticipated the ball. And how devastated she’d been by Wesley’s presence. Everything about him was so familiar, so endearing. Seeing him had effectively ruined her good humor and any plans she’d had regarding inviting Falconridge into her bed.

Surely, Jenny hadn’t known he’d attend the ball. Otherwise, she’d have warned Kate. Had she even known he’d returned to London? Wesley wasn’t important enough to garner much notice. He’d never inherit the title. Not as the third son. Gossipmongers paid him scant attention.

Selfishly, Kate took a bit of pleasure in the fact he’d appeared a little gaunt, not incredibly joy-filled. Was marriage to Melanie Jeffers not all he’d hoped it would be? And why had he married the little twit anyway? Because her parents hadn’t threatened to cut her off?

She soundly cursed him for marrying another.

She heard the door that led to her husband’s bedchamber click open. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She wasn’t in the mood for his silly color-guessing game. She turned to tell him so and the words died on her tongue. From the harsh and determined look on his face, he wasn’t here for any silly games.

He’d changed out of his chain mail into his silk dressing gown, but it was the fury in his eyes that sent the cold chill racing down her spine. His jaw was clenched so tightly she doubted he’d be able to speak, and as long as his hands remained fisted at his side, she wouldn’t find them wrapped around her neck.

She wanted to turn away, but better to face the devil, and at that precise moment she realized she’d greatly underestimated her husband’s patience. Clearly, he’d reached the end of it.

“How is it that you were married to Wesley Wiggins?” he ground out.

She swallowed hard. Where to begin? Did she even want to begin? And truly, was it any of his concern?

As though aware of all the random thoughts flittering through her mind, he pounded his fist against the bedpost. She flinched at the
thwump
, surprised it didn’t rend the post in two.

“Answer me, damn you!”

She angled her chin. “I don’t owe—”

“You don’t want to play that game with me tonight, madam. I bargained my title for your hand in marriage, and now I’m discovering I’ve acquired a scandalous divorced—”

“I’m not divorced,” she assured him quickly, latching on to the least damaging of her transgressions. She couldn’t argue with the scandalous portion of his assessment. What she’d done had given her mother a case of the vapors.

“But you were married.”

She nodded. “At seventeen. My father had the marriage annulled. When you have an abundance of money you can accomplish anything, and as you are well aware we are obscenely wealthy.” She laughed bitterly. “It didn’t help matters that I was underage.”

“Did Wiggins exercise his husbandly rights?”

She couldn’t hold his heated gaze. She looked down at his feet, his large bare feet. They were almost as frightening as his balled hands. His ankles were visible, his hair-covered calves. Did he wear anything at all beneath that dressing gown?

“Shall I interpret your silence as a yes?” he asked, with less venom, as though the words astonished him when he spoke them.

Nodding, she lifted her gaze back to his.

“Then you’re not innocent as I presumed nor in need of a gentle introduction into the ways of men.”

Did he truly expect her to respond in some manner to that assessment? And what did her lack of innocence have to do with anything? The fact that she did know the ways of men was the very reason she held him at bay.

“If you know the pleasures that can be shared between a man and woman, then why deny me?” He studied her intently for only a heartbeat, but it seemed enough for him to slip past her defenses and peer into realm of her heart. “Because you love him…still?”

She dared not risk angering him further by answering.

But apparently, he required no acknowledgment. He simply released a long deep sigh. “I saw the way you looked at him tonight, and I cannot compete with that, and so I’ll not even bother to try. But neither will I be denied any longer. Close your eyes and pretend it is he who holds you. Scream out his name in ecstasy, I care not. But I will no longer be denied.”

She felt the tears burning. “If you do this, I will never love you.”

A deep and profound sadness touched his eyes. “You’ll never love me anyway.”

He stepped nearer, and with gentleness she’d not expected from him, he cupped her cheek and gathered the tears rolling along her cheek with his thumb.

“Please—” she rasped.

He touched his thumb to her lips, silencing her. “You told me tonight that sometimes pretense was enough. Pretend. Pretend it is he who holds you”—he lifted her into his strong arms—“pretend it is he who touches you.” He carried her to the bed and laid her down. “Pretend, sweetheart, simply pretend.”

Looking up at him, she felt her heart pounding in her chest, her throat tightening as she held a deluge of tears at bay. He asked the impossible of her.

“In the dark, all women appear the same,” he said quietly. “I suspect the same holds true for men.”

And with that, he turned off the gaslight, plunging them into darkness.

She heard the rasp of silk falling across skin. She felt the bed dip beneath his weight. How would she bear his touch? How would she bear his lifting the hem—

Only it wasn’t her hem that had caught his attention. He’d unerringly placed his hands at her throat, his fingers lightly grazing her skin before they traveled lower and went to work unbuttoning her gown.

Did he not realize a woman’s nightgown didn’t have to be removed—

She felt the first brush of his lips against her neck, and all thought of advising him drifted away like fog before the morning sun. His tongue, hot, moist, trailed along her collarbone, dipping into the hollow at the base of her throat, distracting her from the task his fingers were busily seeking to accomplish.

His deep groan echoed low between them, just before his mouth left her, and she became aware of him parting the opening of her gown, exposing her skin to the air and the darkness. Feeling vulnerable, she couldn’t stop the quiver that passed through her. She squeezed her eyes closed, even though the night shielded her from his gaze.

She wanted to beg him one more time for mercy, wanted to turn away from him, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to cower. She would do as he’d ordered. She’d pretend he was Wesley.

Only Wesley had never folded her gown off her shoulders. He’d never slid the material down her arms, down her sides. He’d never gathered it around her waist, only to move it down farther. He’d never glided it over her thighs. He’d never pulled it free of her feet.

He’d never then cupped her ankles with palms so warm that she thought they’d melt chocolate. He’d never taken his hands on a leisurely journey along her flesh as though he were an explorer who’d discovered a hidden treasure and was measuring its worth.

And where his hands led, his mouth followed.

She gasped at the intimacy of his touch. She fought to imagine a man with blue eyes gazing at her, but she saw only green. She tried to imagine her fingers were tangled in blond hair, but she could only envision hair as black as a storm at midnight.

He kissed the inside of her thighs. He kissed just below her navel, then dipped his tongue inside. How could he aim so true, without any hint of a stumble, with no evidence of clumsiness? It was as though he was already well acquainted with the path.

She felt the brush of his chest over her stomach and then his mouth upon her breast. She very nearly came off the bed, as her fingers dug into his shoulders, to push him away, to draw him near.

She’d been married for three months, but never had she been touched such as this. Never had she known such incredible torment. Her flesh burned, she writhed for want of something that she knew not how to acquire. She barely recognized the whimpers as coming from her.

She was indeed wed to the devil, for only one familiar with sin, could be this cruel, so skilled at torture. He carried her to the brink of something she didn’t understand, then left her hovering, searching, lost…

He returned with a growl and a fierceness that had her clinging to him as he buried his face into the curve of her neck, his mouth hot and wet against her skin, one arm strong and sure holding her close while it supported him, his other hand caressing her breast as though he’d never known anything as exquisite.

She’d never felt the full length of her naked body pressed against another’s. Her feet caressed his calves, the coarse hair there kissing her soles. Beneath her hands, she could feel the play of corded muscles across his back.

How had she managed to miss the fact she’d married a man of such strength, such determination, such unbridled passion? It was as though each touch of his hands caressed her everywhere, each brush of his lips over her skin, each sweep of his tongue stroked every inch all at once. His deep-throated groans shimmered along her nerve endings.

She floated into ecstasy while writhing in hell.

Even in the darkness, she was aware of his shifting, of his rising above her. She was more than ready for him when he entered her with one long, sure stroke. The fullness of him surprised her. She’d never felt this tight, never been so aware…

He slid a hand beneath her hip, lifted her, and impossibly delved more deeply…

Nothing that had ever come before had prepared her for this moment as he rocked against her. She wanted to scream for him to stop, terrified of where he might be leading her. She wanted to yell for him to continue, terrified that he might halt before her journey was complete.

What she’d experienced before, during her first marriage, had been pleasant. Always pleasant. This was something else entirely. He’d given her a hint of his power in the forest, by the pond, but it paled in comparison with what he was delivering to her now. It was pleasure beyond comprehension, sensations almost beyond enduring.

He was rough and gentle, harsh and tender. He was all those things.

She didn’t think it possible, but her body tightened more firmly around his and then she was screaming, screaming as he carried her over into a realm where she flew among the stars.

She was vaguely aware of his final thrust, the shudders rippling almost violently through him, the trembling in his arms as he held himself above her.

Her own arms, limp, fell away from him.

She was aware of his harsh breathing, heard him swallow hard. He pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, even as he eased his body from hers. Her sensitive skin felt the brush of his as he moved off her. She heard his feet hit the floor, felt the covers being drawn over her with unexpected tenderness.

She was cognizant of movement. The door clicked, and she caught sight of the silhouette of his nude body outlined by the light pouring from his bedchamber just before he closed the door in his wake.

Leaving her alone and more lonely than she’d imagined it possible to be.

She rolled over to her side and allowed the tears to fall. What had passed between them should have been shared by two people deeply in love. It shouldn’t have left her bereft. And yet it had.

Still clutching his dressing gown in his right hand, Michael crossed his bedchamber and dropped onto the sofa set before the fireplace. Leaning forward, he buried his face in his hands, hands that still carried his wife’s sweet scent. The fragrance filled his nostrils, causing his body to harden painfully.

He thought he’d prepared himself for what he’d demanded of her: pretend he was another. He hadn’t expected the anguish brought on by knowing she’d envisioned someone else making love to her.

He brought his head up, his chin still cupped in his palms. When had he ever made love to a woman? He bedded women. Pure, simple, and selfishly. Oh, he cared for their pleasure, always sought to please them as much as they pleased him, but what he’d experienced tonight…

He’d touched every inch of her with his hands and his mouth. He’d memorized every dip and curve. If he awoke blind in the morning, he could carve a perfect likeness of her.

He released a brittle chuckle. No, he couldn’t do that as he had no skills at carving.

But still, he could see her so plainly. Now he knew the exquisite silkiness of everything he’d seen that night in the bathing room. He wanted to return to her now, hold her close, stroke her again, hear her cries—

He squeezed his eyes shut. Pretend they were for him.

He’d told her to pretend, not realizing he’d be desperate to do the same. Not realizing the anguish he’d feel because he wasn’t the one she wanted in her bed.

Dropping his head back, he plowed his hands through his hair. At least she’d touched him. And she’d been so tight, so incredibly tight he’d almost spilled his seed as she’d enveloped him in a cocoon of wet heat. Already his body yearned to experience that sweet torment once again.

But he’d hesitated at the door, considered returning to her immediately. He’d heard her sobs. No, she’d not welcome him back tonight.

Tomorrow night, though, when she’d recovered, when she had the strength to once again pretend, he’d return to her bedchamber, to her bed. And while she pretended he was someone else, he would pretend she had no reason to imagine he was anyone other than who he was.