The Wicked One (21 page)

"It will suit," she said simply.

But despite her calm demeanor, Eva was in a state of near-panic.  This was reality, then.  This was the beginning of another marriage, doomed, she was sure, to failure.  And inside that house of weathered gray stone, she would be forced to match her will against Blackheath's in a contest she could never win.

Not that
he
seemed to have given the matter a second thought, and this after she had spent the last hour both dreading and anticipating the idea of losing to him.  She imagined soldiers going into battle against a vastly superior force must feel much the same way.  All her efforts had been spent on trying to make her behavior appear as normal as her companion's had been, though whether Blackheath, confident of victory, had truly dismissed the impending contest from his mind, or had such iron control over his facade that he could make her believe anything he chose, was something Eva could not fathom.

There was no way out of this.

No graceful, dignified, soul-saving way at all.

As the coach moved up the drive and finally stopped before the house, the duke roused her from her panicky reverie.

"We will be married this weekend," he announced, handing Eva down.  "My brothers took the trouble to procure a special license, so we might as well put it to immediate use."

"You don't waste time, do you, Blackheath?"

He smiled.  "Never."

Together they walked toward the house.  "But surely you must want your family to witness our nuptials?" she asked, hoping her voice didn't sound as shaky as she felt inside.

"After the way they engineered this union, I am not inclined to give them that particular triumph.  Besides, we can have a grand ceremony at Blackheath for the benefit of my tenants and staff.  In the meantime, we will say our vows here so that the child will not suffer any undue speculation as to its date of conception, and then we will go to France and continue our search for Lord Brookhampton."

"Perhaps Lord Brookhampton is dead and will never be found."

"Perhaps he isn't."

"And perhaps you ought to think twice about going to France, especially as war between it and Britain is imminent and you will be in danger there."

"My dear Eva," he murmured, gazing down at her with a half smile curving his lips.  "Don't give me the mistaken impression that you actually care."

She flushed and looked away.  "Don't be absurd, Blackheath, of course I don't care," she said flippantly.  "But I do care about the child, so in that respect, I do think it best if you endeavor to keep yourself alive, at least until it's born and, if a male, can inherit the title."

"My survival is irrelevant.  Should I meet my demise before its birth, I can assure you that Charles, who is heir-presumptive, will see to its welfare."

"Charles despises me."

"But he will not despise the child.  Now let us go inside; the wind is raw, and I won't have you catching a chill."

A crew of servants, all of them shivering in the raw and blustery sea wind, were waiting to greet them on the outside stairs; their own staff, which had been sent on ahead, were presumably inside, preparing rooms, laying out clothes, making the house ready for their comfort.  Taking Eva's arm, the duke escorted her up the stairs and inside, where they were greeted by an aging butler named Jackson who bowed so deeply that Eva thought a block and tackle would be needed to haul him back upright.

Introductions were made, and then Blackheath was leading her down a corridor flooded with sun.  He called for tea, and shortly thereafter Eva found herself in a parlor hung with curtains of blue damask and papered in cobalt silk that matched the sea just outside.

She could see it beyond the window's salt-flecked glass, thrashing far below against the cliffs, stretching as far as the eye could see in a marching parade of foamy whitecaps before becoming as one with a horizon hung with cloud.

And she could hear Blackheath, murmuring instructions to a servant who had entered the room just behind them.

Blackheath.  Her palms went suddenly damp.  Was this bright and sunny room to be the scene of her seduction?  Or would he delay it all the more, winding her nerves tighter and tighter until she felt she would snap like the strings of a viola tuned too tight?

Blackheath seated her on a small divan, where she pretended to be at ease while the tea was brought.  She tried to distance herself from the present — and what she suspected was the immediate future — by watching the silver being laid out, the little wisp of steam rising from the teapot's spout, the servants bustling about with trays of cakes.  From above, she could hear small bangs and thuds as servants aired long-unused rooms and Blackheath's valet, who had traveled on ahead, unpacked his master's clothes and readied his chamber.  Would
that
be where Blackheath took her?  Or would it be here, in this sunny, thickly carpeted parlor?

She glanced at the maid, who was busy stoking up the fire, attempting to ward off the damp chill that drove through the very walls and even now slid its icy fingers up Eva's ankles, her calves.

And then she, too, was gone — and Eva was alone with Blackheath.

He took his seat, pushing his long legs toward the fire, his chair half angled to face her.  Eva poured the tea, thankful for an excuse not to have to look into those enigmatic black eyes.  Suddenly her decision to marry him seemed hasty, even foolhardy.  Was she making the biggest mistake of her life by agreeing to become his duchess?

She picked up her cup with a shaky hand.

"Don't look so troubled, my dear.  I promise not to seduce you until after we've had tea."

"And then?"

He merely smiled.

Eva's hand jerked and a few drops of the hot brew splashed into her lap.  She hastily set the cup down, trying to summon protective fury, trying to intimidate her tormenter into backing off — or even changing his mind.  "I just want you to know, Blackheath, that if you think I'm going to be an easy conquest, you're sadly mistaken."

"If you were an easy conquest, my dear, I wouldn't even bother trying."

"And don't think for one moment that you're in total control of this situation.  I'm in equal control of it — maybe superior control — and I'm not above rendering you helpless should things progress in a way that I dislike."

"My dear Eva — I can assure you that things will progress in a way that causes you anything
but
dislike."  He smiled, a man totally at ease with the situation — and in total, indisputable control of it.  "As I have told you countless times before, I love dangerous women.  If you were some simpering pansy, I would not be interested in following through with this little game."

"Is that all it is to you, then?  A game?"

"No — it is much more than that."  He sipped his tea and regarded her from over the edge of the cup for a long, uncomfortable moment, a wolf sizing up its prey, deciding upon the best angle of attack.  "And what is it to you, madam?"

"A mistake."

He put down the cup.  There was no emotion in those black eyes, no expression on that severe and uncompromising face.

"Would you like to call it off, then?"

"Oh, really, Blackheath, as though I could!  I'm sure I can put up with sharing your bed in return for a far greater prize, that is, my freedom."  She saw a flicker of something move across his face.  Annoyance?  Determination?  Regret?  "Besides, to back out now would only make me a coward in your eyes."

"And is my opinion of your character so very important to you?"

Eva snorted with feigned amusement.  "Of course not."

"Then why, I ask you, does it matter whether or not I deem you a coward?"

She gave a flippant laugh, growing more and more uneasy with that steady, fixated stare.  "Really, Blackheath, do try using what little brains your gender has bestowed upon you — because of pride, why do you think?"

"Eva."

She froze, trying to muster anger and feeling hot and panicky when she could not summon it.  She tried instead for droll amusement; anything to keep him from getting too close, anything that maintained self-preservation.

"Yes?"

He looked at her flatly.  "I want to know why you despise men so."

Nothing he might have said could have caught her more off guard.  Fear drove through her; if he learned the reasons for her contempt of his gender, he would ruthlessly address them, not stopping until he'd stripped away the armor it had taken her all these years to build up, armor that had, up until she'd met this dark and omniscient being, kept her safe.

She tossed her head and all but grabbed for her teacup.  "I've already told you, Blackheath, my first husband was a miserable, cowardly worm who —"

"No, Eva.  I don't think this is about your first husband.  I think it goes deeper than that. 
Much
deeper."  He impaled her with that stare, so still, so black, so uncompromisingly ruthless, that fear slid up her spine and her palms began to sweat.  "Doesn't it?"

"You have no right to pry into my life, Blackheath."

"If you're to be my duchess, I have every right.  And you owe it to me to confess the truth."

"The truth doesn't matter.  Besides, it's all in the past, and happened so long ago that I don't care to bring it up now and relive memories I'd just as soon forget."

He pulled his chair up to hers and, setting down his cup, leaned forward — so close that she found herself pressed against the back of her chair in order to maintain distance between them.  "If you don't tell me, I can assure you I have my ways of finding the truth.  But I would rather you tell me.  It would make it easier on us both."

"Don't threaten me, Blackheath, or you'll regret it."

He merely smiled and leaned back.  It was a chilling gesture, one that made her very bones feel cold.  Dear God, he was one man she never wanted to make an enemy of.  One man who was able to inspire fear and respect in her when every other male had aroused only contempt.  She'd best be careful.  She didn't like the look in his eye, she didn't like this unfathomable, dangerous side of him that always seemed to be one step ahead of her, didn't like this feeling of being so off balance.

"Did you hear me, Blackheath?  I said don't threaten me."

"I heard you, my dear."

His lack of response was making mincemeat of her nerves, a twisted mess of her control.  Her hand shaking, she set down the tea and got to her feet.  "I find myself exhausted from the journey and your company.  I am going to bed."

"Good.  I shall join you."

"I prefer to sleep alone, thank you."

"You have no intention of sleeping, and neither do I."

She
was
angry now, seriously angry, and there was no pretense about it.  "How dare you presume to tell me what I feel!  I have had it up to my neck with you and your arrogance, Blackheath, and I'm starting to regret ever coming here with you.  And furthermore, our little
contest
is off!"

He smiled.  "That is indeed a pity," he murmured, and snaring her arm as she whirled to leave, he yanked her back against his chest — and kissed her.

His lips came down so hard against Eva's that she nearly tumbled backward over his elbow.  In the next heartbeat, she knew that was his intent, for she felt his other arm go behind her knees and a second later she was up in the air and weightless in his arms, her legs swinging, his body all but crushing hers as his tongue swept into her mouth and her world tilted dizzily.

She was suffocating, starved for breath, panicked, furious.  She fought him to no avail, making helpless noises of fury against his mouth, trying to kick legs that were crushed against his hard abdomen, trying to free an arm so she could land a stunning blow against the side of his head.  He only deepened the kiss.  His chin's faint stubble ground into the soft skin around her mouth, the heat from his body seared, burned, consumed her, finally bringing the raw ache of arousal flooding the space between her thighs — a space that had been crying for fulfillment ever since she'd woken in his arms this morning, ever since she'd gone to Rosebriar in search of him, ever since she'd left him back in that bed in Paris.

She managed to tear her head away.  "
Put me down, Blackheath!
"

"Gladly."

He sank to his knees, but did not let her go — instead, he laid her out on the rug and did not let her up.  And Eva knew then that she was lost.  That there was no going back, no place for pride when it came to feelings such as he was stoking to life within her.  For here he was, kissing her again, driving her head down into the rug, one masterful hand skimming down her neck, unbuttoning her wool riding habit, impatiently parting it . . . and finding her breast.  She moaned as his fingers circled the sensitive dome of flesh, hefting it, caressing it, teasing the nipple just beneath her shift until it burst into bloom like a spring rosebud.

He broke the kiss as his hand went to her other breast, thumbing and stroking this one, too, through the thin fabric.  Her resistance was melting fast.  Fear and anger were just a distant memory and she was swimming in a haze of sensation.  Eva arched back against the rug, her breath coming hard now, her pulse fluttering in her throat as Blackheath's mouth covered it, kissing the fragile beat before moving lower. 
Oh, yes.  Oh, yes, please kiss me —

There.  His mouth fastened around her nipple, drawing it, and the delicate fabric that sheathed it, up and into his mouth.  He began to suckle it, increasing the pressure until Eva was writhing on the carpet and making whimpering noises of assent.  She couldn't get enough air; couldn't think beyond the sensation of his tongue sweeping the taut, aching bud, stroking it through the now-wet lawn, suckling, sucking.  She was too close to the fire; she needed to move away from it, needed to move closer to the source of this agonizing pleasure-pain, needed . . . needed . . . oh, just
needed
.  Her arm wrapped around Blackheath's neck, drawing him down; her fingers impatiently untied his queue and thrust through the thick and lustrous waves of his hair even as another part of her, long relegated to some distant background, would have used the opportunity to hurt him . . . to free herself.