The Trouble With Being Wicked (33 page)

She stepped back, putting space between them. “You shouldn’t have come,” she said firmly. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“But aren’t unexpected pleasures the most stimulating?”

She wasn’t going to fall for the gleam in his eye, nor the gravelly promise in his voice. “If you want to wait in my sitting room, I will rejoin you after I’ve made myself presentable.” She couldn’t seem to make herself turn him away. She wanted him. She needed to replace the last sordid memory with another beautiful one like the first. He hadn’t used her, not the first time. He’d made love to her.

She had his full attention tonight. He raised his eyebrow suggestively. “I quite like what you’re wearing now.”

She pointed toward the door to her sitting room. “No doubt you would like me in a burlap sack.”

“
Just
a sack?” His heated gaze left no doubt as to his thoughts on that.

“Out. Now.” When he didn’t turn she pushed him lightly toward the door. Finally, he obeyed. Finally, she had control.

Somewhat.

One more night.
All she desired was one more night. Was it lunacy? Yes. She really must do something about it in the morning.

She sprang into action, pulling on a pair of white lace stockings. As she fastened them to her garters she mentally reviewed the contents of her wardrobe. Everything seemed too much. She didn’t want him to think she was
trying
to obtain his interest. Instead she would dress for herself. It was a much more comfortable thought.

As she loosely pulled the laces of a horribly expensive, terribly plain white corset, she regarded the bespectacled, bookish figure staring back in her full-length mirror. If she made prim and proper suggestive, it wasn’t intentional. It was simply the person she was when she wasn’t attempting to impress a man.

Well, not putting a
lot
of effort into it.

A simple blue gown edged in silk replaced her night rail. Conservative even by the
ton
’s standards, it was one she might wear to spend an afternoon in her study. It also complemented her wire spectacles well. Those she would leave on.

Anything that made a man look that hotly at a woman was worth keeping.

Very well, perhaps she was putting a
little
effort into it.

Shoes weren’t necessary to pad around her home. Eschewing any, she quickly shook her hair out of its knot and parted it on one side. A vigorous brushing made it shine. She tied it back into a knot and pushed a pin through it. No cosmetics, though she did pinch her cheeks and mist lavender fragrance onto the curves of her neck. Strangely, she felt like she was meeting a young lad behind the fountain for his first tryst. Except he wasn’t young, nor virginal, nor someone she could walk away from after a quick fumble.

As she came into the doorway of her sitting room, she took stock. Ash prowled the thick carpet before her fireplace. Quietly, she slipped in. Given the way he wore her floors, he must not like being at her mercy any more than she liked being caught off guard.

She walked farther into the room, drawing his attention. He stopped and stared at her for several moments before he growled, “That’s not fair. I pay for the right to believe you’re someone else.” His meaning was clear. He didn’t want to lose himself inside Miss Smythe.

Celeste drew herself up, realizing she had more control than she’d given herself credit for. “You don’t pay me. I have the right to be myself.”

He stormed toward her. “I came here for Celeste. Not an alluringly staid minx.”
Not Miss Smythe.

His rejection was confusing. “I
am
Celeste, my lord.” Did he really think there were two of her? A good girl and a bad?

She paused. Were there?

No, there was only her. The good and the bad, together. He must accept her wholly or not at all.

“Damn you. No, you’re not.” He visibly struggled to reconcile the woman before him with the courtesan he’d come to see. “Not like that. Take that ridiculous garb off now.”

She retreated around her favorite chair, one of two oversized wingbacks set at complementing angles before the fireplace. A crackling fire warmed her skirts.

He stood in the center of the carpet. Her eyes devoured him. In the last few months he’d become more muscular, likely due to his appointments at Jackson’s. But it was his face she held dear. Not the hard line of his jaw or his curving lips or the belly-warming brandy of his eyes. It was the furrow of his brow, the regret in his expression. His deep, indrawn breaths as he struggled to control himself. If they were two people from two more similar worlds, he would love her. But because they weren’t, he didn’t.

She patted the overstuffed cushion of the wingback chair, inviting him to sit. “Would you care to read a bit with me, my lord?”

With a volatile exhale he exclaimed, “Read? Read! You think I can just sit there quietly and read? Infuriating, crazy minx.” He advanced, cornering her between the chair and the fireplace. “Had I wanted to spend the night
reading,
I would have stayed home.”

“It seems a bit late for that.” When he looked ready to rage again, she added, “This isn’t
my
fault. I’m sure I did not invite you—”

“So you’ve said several times.”

“—therefore, I should be able to go on as I was. I think it is rather generous of me to allow you to join me.”

He set one hand on the mantel and one on the cushion beside hers, effectively trapping her. “If this is some ridiculous game, stop now. I’m interested, Celeste. I’m damn interested. Playing coy buys you nothing.”

Her back arched as she attempted to keep distance between them. “You can’t just barge into my house and demand I spread my legs. That is for paying customers only.”

“Will you stop saying that?” He was angry now. A less disciplined man would have yelled, but he ground out his each word, as though speaking slowly would help her understand. “You’re not just some doxy. I despise it when you act like you are. You’re better than that, Celeste. You know it, too.”

She wanted to cry and rail and stomp her feet. “Yes, yes I know that! I finally know that, my lord. I know that so much it hurts. I am worth more than this…this cruelly impersonal affair. But do
you
know it? You come here when you will and order me into bed. You have no interest in me other than what you can take between the sheets. Would you ever marry me? Now that you know what I am?” She needed to hear him say it. Needed every one of her foolish dreams to come crashing down with one harsh, unyielding blow.

He looked aghast. “Celeste. I didn’t mean—”

She half turned. She knew he didn’t. He didn’t
mean
to hurt her. He’d been clear about his intentions from the outset. She’d never expected this to be anything but the cruelly impersonal
affaire
she’d just accused him of it being. But she was nearly sick from hearing it said, anyway. Or not said, as the case may be.

He moved his hand to settle over hers. Tentatively, as though afraid she would bolt. The attempt to comfort her felt like pity.

Oh, she was ashamed of her runaway emotions. Of
feeling.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he said quietly. His face was pained, handsome features drawn, his body tense. He looked like a man about to be hanged.

She nodded mutely. “It was a fool’s game to think—to think this can last.”

“Yet I cannot imagine leaving.”

Hope.
Again. Nothing had changed, yet those simple words were enough to restore her hope. Stupid, stupid hope. For, fool that she was, she always wanted a few more hours of hope.

She shrugged and wiped her eyes before her lashes flicked droplets on her spectacle lenses. Goodness, she never cried. Except over him, it seemed. Had he taken her precious box and smashed it into a thousand splinters, so that she wouldn’t be able to hide her emotions until she’d built a new, stronger fortress in her chest?

“I can read to you.” He chuckled, but it was forced.

She faced him. She
didn’t
want him to leave, not yet. “
Pride and Prejudice,
my lord? There isn’t another book in this house unless my servants are secretly addicted to lurid novels.”

“Shall we investigate that possibility?” He sounded intrigued, as though a lurid novel was precisely what he required at the moment.

An unbidden smile pulled at her lips. It wasn’t too difficult to imagine Hildegard with her large nose in a book, but to be honest Celeste had only been joking. However, the thought of him reading a lurid novel aloud was enough to make her want to try to locate one. “Perhaps in the servants’ quarters?”

“A very reasonable place to look.” He offered his arm. His eyes were dark with mixed emotion. Relief that they had more time, and regret they did not have forever. Or so that was what she wanted to see.

When she tentatively reached to touch his sleeve he caught her fingers and laced them tightly through his. Her heart pounded. She let him pull her through the darkened house bittersweetly and without comment, pausing only to murmur directions. He filled the silence with mindless chatter, apparently well-read on the subject of lurid novels. It was a charming assault on a heart already weakened by him, and by the time they located a suitable book it was clear Celeste would surrender entirely to him tonight. He made her laugh, he made her cry. And now he was going to read to her.

When they returned to Celeste’s sitting room he pushed the chairs together and dragged a foot stool to their feet. She fetched two blankets from her bedchamber and curled into one large wingback warmed by the fire.

He removed his boots and propped them by the door, then padded over in his stockings. He sat in the second chair. For two chapters she admired the strong curve of his jaw and the brush of dark lashes above his cheeks, but soon her eyes grew heavy. She laid her head against the wingback cushion and let his rough voice wash over her like waves.

She woke when he pressed his cool lips to her brow. The kiss heated slowly, first on the bridge of her nose, then the high point of her cheek, and finally her mouth. He dragged his fingertips across the line of collarbone where the modest neckline of her gown met her bare skin. She shivered and opened her eyes.

He stood over her, handsome face illuminated by the slow flicker of dying firelight. “Come to bed,” he said softly.

She accepted his outstretched hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. He deftly slipped the pearl buttons of her bodice. His fingers searched for and found the straight pins holding the front flap into place. Then he turned her to unfold the dress from her shoulders. It fell away in a whisper of fabric.

She waited, savoring the slow build of anticipation. Her nipples hardened to tingling peaks. Her eyes closed. The soft, hot flesh between her legs responded, sending tremors of pleasure through her.

His breathing became ragged behind her.

“My lord,” she whispered, impatient for his touch. “Is something amiss?”

He laughed softly. “I’m just looking. I believe your underthings cost more than the maintenance of my house.”

She chuckled. “And how are you finding them, my lord?”

“Money well-spent,” he growled into her ear. His tongue seared the line of her shoulder blade. With a groan, he gathered her to his chest and pressed his rigid member to the folds of her chemise. Her backside molded to him. He breathed deeply of her hair and slid his hands to cup her breasts. She moaned.

“No,” he said gruffly, stopping her when she tilted her bottom to rub the solid length of him. “Slowly.”

Painstakingly slowly. He removed her garments one by one, folding them neatly across the chair. When she stood naked it was her turn to watch him undress. His muscular body came to life in the firelight. His staff jutted proudly from its thatch of curls. She ached to feel it in her hands and slide his skin over the stiff rod until he could take no more.

She sank into the chair and beckoned him closer. Hungrily he came toward her, proud member bobbing as he stalked her and scaled the chair. His knees pressed into the arms as he brought his manhood to her face. He smelled of musk and need.

Gently, he spread his palm over the crown of her head and pushed her to slide down the chair back until her lips were even with his cock. He nudged her parted lips with its velvety head and grabbed the wingbacks in both hands when she took him fully into her mouth. “Oh, God, Celeste. Oh, God.”

She sucked him slowly, torturously. He fought to remain still but his passion won out. He bucked his loins against her face, thrusting his cock deeper into her mouth. She licked him as he quivered, building toward release. Faster she took him. She cupped his balls with one hand. The other wrapped around his rod with firm pressure. She kept her eyes open, watching him watch her.

Musky seed slid over her tongue. A taste of what was to come. With a roar he dragged his shaft from her lips and lifted her from the chair. He spun and took her place in the seat, then pulled her to straddle him. He greedily grabbed his thick shaft and positioned her wet folds over him. Then with an animal cry he brought her down. Her legs draped over the chair arms. She braced her hands against the frame and opened for him, a sharp gasp ripping from her as his hard length found succor.

He brushed his thumb against the pink bud rising from her curls. Within moments she exploded. Her inner muscles kneaded him as she climaxed, pulling him deeper.