Just Wicked Enough (7 page)

Michael needed a woman. He always did after visiting with his mother. Just for a few moments to escape the agony of not being remembered, the anguish of wondering if she suffered or was frightened, and the torment of not being able to do a damned thing for her.

Traveling in his open carriage with his groom at the reins—he’d left the coach and its driver for Kate—through the streets of London, he couldn’t help but feel the tension coiling tighter. For some time he’d not had the surcease of a woman’s body. He didn’t truly blame his mistress for leaving him. He knew he was a selfish bastard. Their relationship had centered on his needs: his need for distraction, his need for pleasure, his need to forget while forgetting was a choice.

Would his mother’s affliction visit him in time? Was it passed on through the blood? Some nights he didn’t sleep for fear he’d awaken unable to remember. He could hardly think of anything worse than not remembering.

And why couldn’t she remember?

The physician had told him sometimes a blow to the head will cause one to forget. But she’d taken no blow to the head.

Sometimes a traumatic experience—surviving a fire, a rape, an attack—no, no, no.

She’d been sheltered, pampered, cared for.

Then one day he’d returned home to find her hysterical, crying, terrified, lost…within her own home. Not that it wasn’t difficult to become confused. Their country manor was a labyrinth of corridors, a maze of rooms. But she’d lived there since she’d married at sixteen. How could she suddenly not recognize the hallways, the rooms? How was it that she’d seemed to have no idea where she was?

And the next day she’d been fine. No repercussions. No worries.

But slowly over time other signs of forgetfulness had begun to appear. Until five years ago, when he’d finally recognized that she needed more help than he could provide, and he’d had her committed.

His mother, the Marchioness of Falconridge, now the dowager Marchioness, resided in a private lunatic asylum.

He doubted James Rose would have been so quick to sign the settlement papers if he’d known that. But Michael had never told a soul. Even when he used the carriage, the driver knew only the destination, not the reason behind the visit. As far as London was concerned, his mother simply preferred the country life. The truth of her circumstance was his burden to bear alone.

And he’d dealt with the burden by losing himself in a woman—her fragrance, her softness, her heat.

He thought of his wife, with her ample curves that would provide such solace. He remembered the enticing shadows he’d seen beneath her gossamer gown last night. How he would like to run his tongue over the tempting flesh…

He moaned low as carnal images caused his body to tighten, but he would go unsatisfied this day, this night. He would have to find another way to fight his demons until he earned her affection.

“Stop!” he called to the driver as they passed a jewelry shop.

As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop, Michael opened the door and stepped out. “Wait here, I shan’t be long.”

With sure strides through the bustling crowd, he made his way back to the jewelers’. He’d bought numerous gifts there for his mistress. For the first time, he wondered if she’d truly liked what he’d selected or if she’d only pretended. She seemed to favor pieces with lots of sparkles. He couldn’t see his wife wearing anything he’d purchased for his mistress. His wife’s tastes would be more subtle. Or at least he thought they would be. If he were wrong, then any gift at all would have the opposite affect of what he intended. Still, he opened the door and strode into the shop.

“Good afternoon, my lord. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

No doubt because his bills had been paid. Michael nodded at Potterton, the proprietor. “Good day, sir.”

“I saw you were recently married. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Although he wasn’t certain congratulations
were
in order. More like sympathies.

“Need a bit of fancy for your wife? We have several items which are deserving of the throat of a marchioness.”

Michael thought of draping a necklace around Kate’s throat, securing it from behind, pressing his lips to the nape of her neck, planting a kiss at the soft spot beneath her ear, inhaling her fragrance…yes, a necklace might do the trick.

Potterton showed him several necklaces that sparkled with diamonds, emeralds, or sapphires, but Michael didn’t know her favorite color, so how the devil was he to know her preference in gems? He had a feeling she wouldn’t be nearly as easy to please as his mistress, who’d been grateful for any trinket delivered. He remembered that Kate had worn pearls the day they married. Pearls. White. Was that her favorite color? Diamonds were the closest thing to white that he saw…or silver. Perhaps more pearls. Or a cameo.

“Do you see something you think she’d like, my lord?”

“Actually, I’m not here to make a purchase.” He removed the glove from his right hand, removed the ring he wore on his little finger, and set it on the counter. “How much will you give me for the ring? It was my father’s.”

If Potterton was surprised by the request, he masked it well. He leaned forward and said in a low voice, “My lord, your debts here have been paid in full.”

“I am well aware of that fact, but I have need of funds for something personal.”

Potterton’s brow went up slightly. “Ah, yes. I understand completely.”

Michael doubted it. He was fairly certain the man thought he needed money for his mistress.

“Would you care to step into the backroom, my lord, for a little private, discreet business?”

After Potterton picked up the ring, Michael followed him into the back room. Potterton sat at a table, brought a loupe to his eye, and studied the ring. “Fine bit of craftsmanship here,” he muttered. “But even with that, I could pay you only a few pounds.” He laid it on the counter. “I’m certain it is worth far more to you than that.”

It was. It was worth ten times, a hundred times that much.

“I’ll take whatever you’re willing to pay.”

Now Potterton did look surprised. “As you wish, my lord.”

Michael walked out of the shop feeling like a rich man. Although the amount was small, it was his, earned with the piercing of his heart. He planned to put it to good use. He climbed into the carriage. “Stop at the first confectioner’s shop you see.”

“Yes, my lord.”

His driver urged the pair of horses forward. Michael sat back with satisfaction. His first purchase would be chocolates that he’d present to his wife tonight when he went to say good night. Chocolates didn’t come in a variety of colors so he couldn’t go wrong there. Perhaps if he purchased a large enough box—

“No, wait! Stop here!”

Michael was out of the carriage before it had come to a complete stop. He strode into the dressmaker’s. A woman behind a counter smiled. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon. I’m considering purchasing a gown for my wife, but I want something unusual as she is a most unusual woman.” He smiled triumphantly, having decided his wife was not a woman who would fancy ordinary colors. No, she’d set a challenge for him knowing he would never guess the proper color. But if anyone knew all the varied colors that women liked, it would be a dressmaker. “Have you a listing of every
color
of fabric that is available?”

S
itting on the chaise longue in her bedchamber, Kate opened the largest box of chocolates she’d ever seen. Wearing his green silk dressing gown, her husband had come to say good night and brought with him this amazing selection of chocolates.

“I hardly know what to say,” she said, looking up at him.

“Just so you know, I didn’t use your funds to purchase them. I had a bit of money I’d set aside for a rainy day, and, as I feel I’m in the midst of a tempest, using it seemed appropriate.”

“You do realize that your disgruntlement reduces my pleasure at receiving the gift.”

Sighing deeply, he gripped the bedpost, and she could see him struggling. Finally, he looked up at her. She’d expected an attempt at a smile.

Instead, he fairly growled, “Plum.”

She stared at him. Was he hungry? “Plum?”

“It’s a color. Apparently the wrong color. Good night, then.”

She watched in stunned fascination as he strode from the room, slamming the door in his wake. She couldn’t help herself. She laughed, nearly doubling over from the effort of holding the sound in. Did he honestly believe he simply needed to announce the right color to win her heart?

As her gaze fell on the box of chocolates, her humor abruptly fled. Know the right color and bring her chocolates. God, he was trying. She’d give him that. She hadn’t truly expected him to try to win her favor. She’d expected him to simply be content with the money. How could she forget how much men wanted the bedding?

And he apparently wanted it quite desperately.

She opened her book and removed the letter that had been delivered to her that very afternoon. It was her first official letter since her marriage, addressed to
The Most Hon. The Marchioness of Falconridge.
Its contents made a great deal more sense now, she thought, as she removed the letter and read it again.

 

Madam,

I beg your forgiveness regarding my impertinence. However, I thought you would find it of interest that the Marquess paid me a visit this afternoon and exchanged his father’s ring for a few pounds. I estimate its sentimental value to be considerably more. I shall hold it in my shop for forty-eight hours. Would your ladyship care to make an offer? I await your instructions.

     
I have the honor to remain,

Your Ladyship’s obedient servant,
Thomas Potterton

 

She did indeed find his letter of interest. Why had Falconridge gone to the trouble to sell his father’s ring? To purchase her chocolates?

How absurd.

How touching.

He’d not sold it to pay his debts, but he’d sold it for her. Or at least she assumed he had. Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps he’d used the money for something else, although had he not just told her he’d used his own funds?

She rose from the chaise, crossed over to the writing desk, pulled out the chair, and sat. She removed a sheet of stationery, bearing a monogram with her new initials—a gift from Jenny so she’d never have an excuse not to write—and dipped her pen into the inkwell before applying it to the paper.

 

My dear sister,

     
As you know my husband and I leave for his ancestral home tomorrow. It seems I have some unfinished business in London I will not have an opportunity to complete before leaving, and so I must trust it to you. I will need you to pay a visit to a certain jeweler. His letter is enclosed with mine. Please purchase the ring he mentions at its sentimental value and hold it for me until I return to London. I trust you to keep this secret between us, as I cannot imagine what it must have cost my husband to part with something so valuable for so little. I cannot help but think there might be more to Falconridge than a man simply in want of
money. I’m actually looking forward to our journey together and the opportunity it will afford us to get to know each other a bit better.

My love always,
Kate

 

She sat in the coach seething. Alone. Totally alone. As though she was someone to be ashamed of, someone not worthy of the courtesy of company.

While it was a well-sprung vehicle, it still jostled too much for her to read or to stitch or to pen a letter to her sister outlining her frustrations. So she was left with nothing to do other than to gaze out the window at the passing scenery and wish it would pass much more quickly. Her husband, with whom she’d hoped to become better acquainted, was leading the way, riding a gorgeous black thoroughbred.

Kate wouldn’t feel quite so neglected if it wasn’t for the raging downpour outside the carriage. She’d seen the ominous black clouds billowing earlier and rolling nearer, and she’d welcomed their approach, thinking they would at least force him inside. Instead, he’d thrown a cloak around his shoulders, replaced his top hat with something broader of brim and sturdier, and continued on.

Did he resent her so much he didn’t want to be within close proximity of her?

But he’d brought her chocolates…had that gesture been merely a ruse to get into her bed? Did he think she’d be so grateful for the sweets she’d willingly slip beneath the sheets and invite him to join her? Did he not understand that as long as they remained distant, she would refuse him?

She knew he required more than money. He required an heir. Perhaps after she’d rebuffed him again last night, he’d decided he was in no hurry to acquire one.

Meanwhile, she was absolutely miserable. She didn’t suffer loneliness well, and without the means to read, she was well and truly lonely. With a book, she could at least visit with people, even if it was vicariously, even if they didn’t exist beyond someone’s imagination. Here, she could do little more than twiddle her thumbs—and where was the entertainment in that?

It was her mother’s answer to her squirming when she was younger. “Occupy your mind, twiddle your thumbs.”

It hadn’t worked then and it wasn’t working now.

It was such a long, insufferable journey. She could at least have told her lady’s maid to travel with her, but she was in the coach following, along with a valet she’d hired to see to her husband’s needs and two footmen who would be available to carry things to and from the coaches as needed. She’d learned from her mother that one could never have too many servants, and while married gentlemen generally didn’t have a valet, Kate certainly wasn’t going to take responsibility for dressing her husband or seeing that his clothes were readied. She wondered if the hiring of additional servants had angered him. Or if he was simply not riding with her as a way to show his displeasure because she hadn’t been more welcoming last night.

If Falconridge thought he was going to ignore her completely, he had another think coming. She should have brought Jenny, but she had balls she wanted to attend, dukes she wanted to ensnare. Yes, Kate had little doubt before the Season was over, Jenny would have a duke.

Perhaps Kate should have waited to marry until Jenny was snatched up. Then she could have found her own lord who would at least relish traveling with her. Only her heart had been so broken she couldn’t envision trying to snag anyone’s attention. She hadn’t wanted anyone’s attention.

Now she did, and he was out in the cold rain riding a damned horse.

She couldn’t have been more grateful as evening drew near, and they made a proper stop at a tavern. They’d stopped twice throughout the day to rest or change the horses, she knew not which. The rain had continued to pour and because her husband was drenched, he’d merely passed a bundle of food through the window to her. The bread and cheese had tasted like sawdust. Even the wine hadn’t helped either go down anymore smoothly.

The door to the coach opened. Her husband stood there with water dripping from the brim of his hat, his face damp with raindrops. How could he not be shivering? Before she made a move to alight, he said, “It would no doubt be best if I settled my account here before asking for rooms for the night.”

“Oh, of course. How much?” she asked, reaching for her small bag. It was one of her favorites, made of seal leather and edged in silver.

He told her the amount and she stared at him. “You make a good many trips.”

“I do.”

As usual he was succinct and not very forthcoming. She handed him the money. “I have more in my trunk if we need it.”

“Let’s hope we’re not set upon by highwaymen.”

“Most don’t take off with trunks.”

“They do however take a gander inside for valuables.”

“Could we discuss this later? I’m chilled.”

“Of course. My apologies. Nesbitt is waiting with the umbrella.” Falconridge held out his gloved hand and she slipped hers into his. She stepped down, and the newly hired valet quickly moved the umbrella into position, shielding her from the rain while everyone else suffered through its onslaught.

Once inside, she stood before the roaring fire in the front room while Falconridge talked with the proprietor. She caught a glimpse of the dining room, and it looked to be quite crowded. It was some minutes before Falconridge returned to her side.

“We’re in luck. They have two bedchambers and a private dining room we may avail ourselves of. I, for one, would like to get dry before dinner. Is it agreeable with you for us to be served in half an hour?”

“If you’d shown more common sense you wouldn’t need drying.”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

She hated that she sounded like a petulant child. More, she hated that she’d looked so forward to traveling with him, and he’d disappointed her by preferring the company of his horse. She waved her hand dismissively. “Never mind. I want to freshen up as well.”

He led her to the stairs and proceeded to follow her up them to the next floor. He opened a door.

“Your room. I shall be just next door, after I’ve spoken with the servants. They’ll be up shortly with our luggage.”

He left her there, so he could see to the other arrangements. She walked into the room, glanced at the four-poster bed, grateful that two rooms had been available. She wondered if he’d come see her tonight, wondered what color he might guess.

Wondered what she would do if he ever guessed the correct one.

He was damned miserable, hadn’t been able to shed his clothes fast enough. He sat in front of the fire, a blanket draped over him, waiting for the warmth to seep into his bones. But as miserable as he’d been riding his horse in the rain, it was far better than sitting within the suffocating confines of the coach.

“You need to get something warm into you, my lord,” Nesbitt said.

Michael grimaced as the sight of the cup of tea, but he was desperate enough to suffer through the swallowing of the brew. “Whiskey would have served just as well.”

“Shall I fetch you some, then?”

“No, I told my wife half an hour. I didn’t think it would take so long to get warm.”

“You were out in it for some time, my lord.”

He was unaccustomed to having a valet. While once he’d welcomed the assistance one offered, he’d grown accustomed to doing for himself. But his wife had insisted that a man of his stature should have a personal servant, and he’d not argued because it seemed they argued over every little thing. It was becoming quite tedious.

Fortunately, she’d not faulted him for paying for Obsidian to have extra oats and an extra rubdown. The gelding was a good horse, black as midnight.

Black. That was a color he’d never considered a woman favoring. It might be just the thing his somber wife preferred. He smiled.

“Feeling better, my lord.”

“Indeed. Let’s prepare me for dinner now, shall we?”

He was knocking on her door in record time, almost precisely half an hour on the dot from when he’d predicted dinner would be served. Her maid, Chloe, opened the door and curtsied.

“My lord, my lady prefers to have dinner in her room.”

“Is she not feeling well?”

“I don’t know, my lord.”

“I’ll have a word with her, then.”

He edged past the maid, who seemed particularly jumpy. Perhaps she didn’t fancy storms. He found his wife sitting in a chair on the far side of the room, reading.

“Are you unwell?” he asked, when she failed to even acknowledge his arrival.

“No, I simply prefer to eat in here.”

“They’ve prepared the private dining room for our pleasure. Surely you don’t expect me to dine alone?”

She did look up at him then, and he was surprised by the hurt he saw mirrored in her eyes.

“Why not? You expected me to travel alone.”

He slammed his eyes closed. He’d not considered she’d take offense at his not traveling with her. A wife was a good deal more trouble than a mistress. He opened his eyes. “My apologies, madam. I don’t usually travel in a coach. I prefer going by horse.”

“Even in the rain?”

“Even in the rain.”

“You might have caught your death.”

“Yes, I think perhaps I did.”

He watched as, miraculously, her hurt turned to concern. “Are you not feeling well, then?”

“I feel fine, but I would feel better if you would join me for dinner.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think you’d enjoy my company much. I don’t suffer loneliness well, and I’m in a most disagreeable mood.”

“It seems you would be more lonely in here than down there.”

“Why do you care? We’ve never even had a true conversation.”

“Even without conversation, I appreciate…your company.” Dear God, she looked so bereft staring out the window, bereft like those who lived in the same residence as his mother. Was that how it began? With a sadness so profound that the mind sought escape into fantasy?

“I’m sorry, my lord, silent company isn’t enough for me.”

He wanted to kneel before her, take her hand, and comfort her. Instead, he said simply, “As you wish. I shall have a tray sent up. And I shall see you in the morning.”