Just Wicked Enough (22 page)

He pulled back and grumbled, “Just what a man wants to hear when he’s attempting to seduce a woman. Laughter.”

Before he could escape, she wrapped her arm around his shoulder, pressed her hand to the back of his head. “I just realized our dessert at dinner always includes chocolate in some manner. That’s your doing, isn’t it, because you know how much I adore chocolate?”

He grinned, a beautiful self-satisfied smile. And she had her answer. “What else have you done that I haven’t noticed?”

He kissed the corner of her mouth. “The gardener is adding forget-me-knots, but they won’t be in bloom until next year.”

Smiling, she twisted her head until she could meet his mouth squarely, kissing him as deeply as he had her only a short time before. “What else?”

“You want all the surprises ruined?”

“You have a surprise planned?”

He looked entirely too smug.

“A poem. You’ve written me a poem.”

“Can’t stand poetry. It’s silly drivel.”

“But I love poetry.”

He grimaced.

“What then?”

He shook his head.

She ran her fingers up the sides of his chest, and he jerked. “You’re ticklish.”

She began tickling him until he grabbed her wrists and held her arms up over her head with one hand.

“You don’t want to play that game with me, madam.”

“What’s my other surprise? Tell me, please.”

“You might not like it.”

“Better to tell me now, then, don’t you think?”

He had her pinned down, his leg draped over her hip. He studied her. “A puppy.”

He said it so quickly, she almost didn’t catch it.

“To keep you company when I’m not available. So you’re not quite so lonely. Since you don’t suffer loneliness well.” He looked completely disgruntled as though he wished he’d kept it to himself, when all she wanted to do was hug him fiercely but he held her hands. “It’s Lord Bertram’s litter.”

She couldn’t help herself. “Lord Bertram gave birth to puppies?”

“No, his cocker spaniel did.”

She laughed. “Oh, Michael, can you never deduce when I’m joking? If you won’t laugh then kiss me.”

“Given the choice between laughing or kissing you, I’ll always choose kissing you.”

His mouth blanketed hers, and he kissed her deeply, hungrily, as though he were a man who’d been denied all manner of sustenance only to suddenly find himself presented with an unlimited feast. She couldn’t believe the thoroughness of his attentions.

They’d already made love once but his kiss caused desire to swirl through her. Or perhaps it was simply the words he’d uttered before. Her non-poetical husband was very poetical, in a simplistic, honest sort of way. Not flowery or verbose and certainly not prone to rhyming, but he spoke poetry just the same.

And more, as his tongue waltzed with hers, in an ancient rhythm of thrusting and sparring, it became obvious that he thoroughly enjoyed kissing. How was it that he’d denied himself so simple a pleasure these many nights, denied his wants in favor of hers—or what he’d perceived hers to be. How many husbands would do nothing to detract from their wives’ pleasure even if it meant lessening theirs?

He’d released her wrists so his hands were once again gliding over her body, stroking her sensually. She’d come to love the roughness of his palms. No calluses, but still not smooth. They were large and she thought when he squeezed her breast or her hip or her thigh that she should have felt pain, but instead she felt only an exquisite loveliness. From the first night he’d made love to her, she’d been overwhelmed by the sensations, his administrations, his attention to the details. But now that he was kissing her fervently, as though he’d never have enough of tasting her, their lovemaking was rising to an entirely different level. It as though by finally gaining his kiss, she’d become acutely aware of what she’d been missing.

The heat was hotter, the pleasure more pleasurable, her skin more sensitive, the sensations swirling through her more intense, as though before their lovemaking had been on the surface only and now it was all consuming. No longer impersonal, but very, very personal.

He’d been right. Taste added a dimension that made every aspect richer. And brought him nearer to her in a manner that went beyond the physical. It ratcheted up her emotions as well. It was so intimate, so personal, more personal than anything else he’d done with her—and he’d engaged in some incredibly personal things.

And when his mouth left hers to sojourn over her body, still she tasted the chocolate of his kiss, still she was drunk on the flavor of wine that had satisfied his pallet.

When he rose above her, she cradled his face between her hands and daringly brought his mouth back to hers, their lips meeting as their bodies joined, his mouth absorbing her sigh of pleasure while she took in the low moan of satisfaction that always escaped when she encased his body with hers. It thrilled her beyond measure to know that she had such power over him, to recognize that he held the same over her.

How was it possible to find such joy in mating without love?

She constantly asked him to please her and in this one arena, she doubted he had an equal. He was generous with his attentions, slow, deliberate, and so very, very skilled.

The pleasure increased with each thrust of his hips. Her body tightened and coiled. When her release came, he swallowed her cry. His low moan reverberated through her as he held close, lost in his own ecstasy. She tightened her arms and legs around him, relishing the feel of his spent body pressing down on hers.

And when he made no move to leave her, she smiled and sighed with utter contentment.

Michael awoke to find his wife still in his arms, her nose pressed flat against his chest. He wondered that she could breathe. He’d never slept through the night with anyone. He’d always found it too confining. But with Kate, he thought he could sleep with her wound around him every night and be glad of it.

There was a joy to be found in waking up next to her. Perhaps they’d never replace her furniture in the bedchamber at the estate. Perhaps she’d simply sleep in his bed, always.

He felt her eyelashes fluttering against his skin, tickling him as she awoke. She stretched along the length of his body, her foot rubbing his calf. She fairly purred, and he couldn’t prevent his own moan in response.

Then she laughed, a joyous sound.

“You take pleasure in tormenting me,” he grumbled.

“Mmm-huh.” She pressed a kiss to his chest. “I like waking up to find you in my bed.”

He didn’t understand why it was that she had the power to wretch confessions from him so easily, but he found himself telling her things he’d never told anyone.

“I don’t usually…I’ve never before”—she peered up at him, her chin nestled in the hollow of his breastbone—“remained in bed with someone through the night. I always found it too confining. My mistress…I insisted she leave.” In bafflement, he threaded his fingers through her hair. “Why is everything so different with you? Why do I care about your favorite color? Why does pleasing you bring me such pleasure?”

Her mouth curved into an impish smile. “Because you’ve grown fond of me?”

He suspected that she’d meant to announce her words as a statement of surety and instead they’d come out as a question. She’d had another man love her, marry her, want her. How could she doubt her own appeal? How could she not know that he adored her?

He should tell her. He should simply speak the words aloud, but voicing them would make him vulnerable, revealing them to her would open him up to being hurt. The test for knowing when he’d earned her affection had been that she’d allow him in her bed—but he’d not waited. He’d taken her in anger the first night, and every night since, he’d simply taken her because she no longer had a reason to object, because he’d informed her he wouldn’t be denied. But she never sought him out, never came to his bedchamber.

And most telling of all, when he came to her bed, she closed her eyes.

So he held the words tightly inside, safe from ridicule, safe from harm, and merely smiled at her before demonstrating with his body what he dared not reveal of his heart.

“M
y goodness but you look happy,” the Duchess of Hawkhurst said.

Smiling, Kate greeted her guest with a kiss to her cheek. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Quite honestly, I was under the impression that things between you and Falconridge were quite strained. It’s not every night that a young lady arrives on my doorstep cursing her husband and her father.”

Kate led Louisa to the terrace, where biscuits and tea awaited them. “I can’t thank you enough for providing me with a haven.”

They sat at the round table and Kate began pouring the tea.

“You’re always welcome in our home,” Louisa said. “I grew quite fond of you and Jenny the short time that I was with you.”

Kate handed her the cup and saucer. “Do you ever hear from your brother?”

Louisa shook her head and tilted her cup to sip her tea.

“I think Jenny might be seeing him.”

Louisa’s hand stilled momentarily before she returned the cup to the saucer. “Why would you think that?”

“I haven’t seen him, it’s nothing she’s said. It’s just a feeling I have.”

“That could result in a disaster.” Louisa shook her head. “I’m certain you’re wrong. I’ve been accompanying her on outings with Pemburton. He’s becoming quite serious with his suit. I expect him to ask for her hand any day now.”

“That’s good. It’ll please Mother to have a duchess in the family.”

“It’ll please her not to have my brother in the family.”

Reaching out, Kate squeezed her hand. “Sometimes we don’t act rationally when we’re in love.”

“Have you fallen in love with Falconridge?”

“I’ve come to care for him, but love seems rather drastic.”

“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Louisa said. “My purpose in coming here today was not only to make sure that you were well, but also to invite you to attend the opera with Hawk and me this evening. I know it’s short notice but he has a box and it’s hardly ever used. It would please us both immensely if you’d join us.”

“I’m not even sure that Michael likes the opera.”

“If he’s like Hawk, he abhors it, but that’s hardly the point in going.”

She could already envision her conversation with Michael.

“The Duke and Duchess of Hawkhurst have invited us to attend the opera with them this evening. Shall we go?”

“If it pleases you.”

Hours later, sitting in front of her vanity, while Chloe settled an elegant diamond tiara on her upswept hair, Kate couldn’t help but smile at her reflection. The conversation with Michael had gone precisely as she’d predicted.

Once she dismissed Chloe, she opened a drawer and removed the sheaf of paper that Wesley had given her yesterday afternoon. She wanted to be stronger than she was. She wanted to stop dwelling on what might have been. And yet, she seemed powerless to do anything other than unfold the paper and read his words.

 

You are the stars in my heaven.

You are the green in my fields.

You are the birds’ sweet song
      in the boughs of my trees.

You are the beauty, the everlasting
      beauty of my rose.

You are—and will always
      remain—the love of my heart.

—
W

 

He’d always referred to her as his rose. His perfect rose.

She heard the door between her and Michael’s bedchamber open. She crumpled the poem and dropped it at her feet beneath the vanity, before rising and taking one last look in the mirror. The bodice of her gown was low enough to reveal her cleavage but high enough to hide the love bruise her husband had left on the inside of her right breast the night before. At the base of her throat was the tiniest of bruises that she hoped no one would notice or if they did perhaps they’d attribute it to the lighting. It never was very bright at a theater.

Turning to greet her husband, she found herself in his arms, his mouth locked on hers with an eagerness that promised wondrous things when they returned. His lips were pliant and hot, the kiss deep, as though he’d consume her if he could.

Having unleashed his kisses, she was now the joyful recipient of a good many of them. He never failed to cross paths with her without delivering at least one.

He pressed his mouth to the tip of her nose. “Must we go to this dreaded affair?”

Playfully, she pushed him back slightly. “I’ve already sent word that we’ll be there. It would be rude not to show.”

Reaching out with a bare finger, he touched the line of her collarbone, stopping his journey beside his love bite. “That might raise a few eyebrows.”

“I have no evening attire with a higher neckline.” And the string of pearls circling her neck certainly didn’t serve as adequate covering.

“Maybe this will help.”

He withdrew from his pocket an exquisite silver necklace, strands of silver woven into a fine netting that looked as though it had captured an array of emeralds. She looked at him, wondering if the awe showed in her eyes. “I recognize it. The first marchioness was wearing it in the portrait she had made following her wedding.”

“A gift from the first marquess.”

“Oh, Michael, it’s too valuable, I can’t.”

“You’re now the Marchioness of Falconridge. It belongs about your throat. Please honor my family by wearing it.”

Hardly knowing what to say, she did little more than nod and remove her own string of pearls. He came behind her and draped the necklace around her. The top of it was like a collar that circled her throat as he secured it at the back. The front flowed down toward her bosom.

She thought of his ring that Jenny had secured from the jeweler. It was nestled safely in Kate’s jewelry box. She wondered if this was the moment to return it to him, if their relationship was strong enough to sustain his learning that she knew of his sacrifice. Or was it still too delicate? In the end, she decided not to risk anything ruining the magic of this moment of his giving such a precious gift to her.

Turning, she lifted on her toes and kissed him, welcoming the feel of his arm snaking around her as he drew her closer. It was as though asking for his kiss last night had unleashed much of what he’d been holding back. As though, at long last, they were both embracing the promise of something special building between them.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, feeling the press of his hips against her. “But it must wait.”

He laughed, a low sound that vibrated between them and filled her with excitement and anticipation over what would be waiting for her—for them—when they returned.

He began nuzzling her neck, just above the top of the necklace. “This is all I want you to wear to bed tonight,” he rasped. “This necklace.”

Her knees weakened with the onslaught of images bombarding her after lying upon the bed. Somehow the thought of wearing a single piece of jewelry seemed more sensuous than being completely nude. And judging by the reaction and tightening of his body, he was feeling the same. She stepped beyond his reach. “We really must go.”

Michael studied the blush that traveled from his wife’s cheeks, disappeared beneath the necklace, and reappeared across the exposed swells of her breasts. He could hardly wait to uncover the rest of her, to watch the blushes slip into hiding. Who would have thought that her wearing anything at all to bed would fill him with such anticipation?

“Very well,” he murmured, removing his white gloves from his pocket and tugging them on as he followed his wife out of the bedchamber. “Promise me if the opera is boring, we’ll leave before it ends.”

“I’ll promise no such thing,” she said tartly. “I’ve already deduced that no matter how enjoyable the performance, you’ll be bored.”

He couldn’t help himself. He laughed, the sound traveling in his wife’s wake as they reached the foyer. Suddenly she spun around. He thought she was going to comment on his laughter. Instead she said, “Oh, I forgot my wrap.”

“I’ll get it. Wait here.”

“It’s lying across the foot of my bed.”

He couldn’t stop himself from grinning as he bounded back up the stairs. They’d make use of the foot of the bed later. He could have sent up a servant, but his long legs made quick work of returning to her room. He was almost leery to put a name to what he was feeling. Intense satisfaction with his life, in spite of the hardships that might still await them. Something had shifted last night with that kiss…it was as though her request and the intensity of all that had followed had somehow managed to permanently knock down the last of the bricks that had encompassed the wall surrounding his heart. He felt a stirring, a hope for the future that he wasn’t certain he’d ever known. It was quite possible that together they could find unlimited happiness. It was a notion that he was having a difficult time wrapping his mind around, but he wanted to embrace it. He wanted to give to her everything within him that he was capable of giving.

He strode into her bedchamber, snatched the silken wrapper from the bed, and turned for the door. His gaze fell on a crumpled piece of paper beneath the vanity. He wasn’t certain what drew him to it. It was obviously of no importance and yet—

Bending down, he picked it up and straightened it out. An obviously unschooled attempt at poetry. Was it something old, something Kate was dismissing from her past? More likely, it was something recently received during an encounter in a night-shadowed garden. Or perhaps during a secretive rendezvous. He wondered what it was about Wiggins that appealed to Kate. Perhaps it was the man’s ability to put into words thoughts Michael held only in an abstract sort of way. They were too powerful, too overwhelming, too large to attempt to narrow down into a few mere words.

He dropped it on the vanity, so it would be there for them to discuss later, but truly what was the point? He’d given her permission to love the bastard, to fantasize about him. Why should he find fault with her reading his poetry?

Because while her heart might never be his, her person belonged to Michael. He’d deal with it later. The money was in his hands now. He was the one who needed to be pleased. Taking a deep breath to regain control of his temper, he made his way down the stairs. Kate was standing by the door, talking with the butler.

“Bexhall,” Michael said, summoning his butler over. There must have been something in his voice that indicated to Kate that he wished to speak privately with his servant.

“Yes, my lord?” Bexhall said once he was near enough to speak with the proper decorum.

“Did the marchioness have a visitor today?”

“Yes, my lord. The Duchess of Hawkhurst came to call.”

“Anyone else?”

Bexhall swallowed.

“Anyone else?” Michael repeated through clenched teeth.

“Not today.”

“Yesterday?”

Bexhall nodded. “A Mr. Wiggins.”

“Was she home for him?”

“They took a stroll in the garden.”

Michael nodded, reverting to his former skill of not revealing his emotions. He strolled over to Kate and draped the wrap around her shoulders.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Everything is fine. I simply noticed an area upstairs in need of dusting. Bexhall will see that it’s taken care of.”

“It seemed like a rather serious conversation for a bit of dust.”

“Now that I have the means, I’m very particular about the management of my homes. Shall we be off?”

She smiled brightly. “I’m looking forward to the evening.”

Unfortunately, he no longer was.