The Wicked One (25 page)

"You're a monster, Blackheath," she muttered, reaching for her muff once more.

"Yes.  I know."  He smiled.  "But even monsters don't like to spend all of their time in battle armor.  Now, shall we call a truce and try to make the best of it?"

She sighed and offered him a wary smile.  "Yes.  Yes, let's try."  She looked down.  "I'm sorry, Blackheath.  Perhaps you're right."

"Of course, my dear."  He gave her his most maddening, self-assured grin.  "After all, I always am."

She tore off her muff and, laughing, flung it at his smugly smiling face.

Chapter 21

They returned home to a feast.

Lobster in an elegant sauce of cream and sherry.  Lamb, still sizzling in its fat, bathed in mint sauce and garnished with sprigs of fresh parsley.  Baked fish drizzled with lemon; rolls, still hot from the oven, into which creamy pats of butter immediately melted.  Carrots in a sugary wine glaze, parsnips, and a host of winter vegetables.  All were beautifully prepared, set on gleaming platters of finest silver that, together with the crystal glasses and fine china plates, threw off the light of dozens of candles.

The staff and servants had proposed a toast to the new Duchess of Blackheath, a gesture that warmed the ice Eva was trying quite hard to maintain around her heart.  But Blackheath, with his refusal to anger despite her baiting, with his long, simmering looks of promised passion, seemed as determined to breach her defenses as a general laying siege to a city.

His earlier words echoed in her head. 
You are doing your best to sabotage this marriage and I won't have it.

Eva, troubled, took another sip of her wine.

You are determined to fulfill this prophecy of misery to which you cling  . . .  I tell you, should this marriage fail, it will be because
you
wish it to — not me.

Guilt suddenly assailed her, beating down the anger she could no longer sustain.  Was Blackheath right?  Was
she
the saboteur of her own happiness?

But I don't dare trust him.  I don't dare trust any man!  How can I, after what Jacques did to me?  After what Papa did to Mama?

Dessert arrived, a fabulous cheeseboard with wedges of Stilton, Cheddar, and Cheshire, garnished with celery and accompanied by a small bowl of nuts.  Servants brought out two more gleaming silver bowls, one containing Spanish oranges, the other, shiny red cherries.  Blackheath dismissed the servants, picked up a small knife, and began peeling an orange.

Despite herself, Eva couldn't help but be transfixed by his hands, framed by elegant white lace.  She watched them deftly peeling the orange, pulling away the tough outer skin, exposing the sweet, fleshy ball of fruit inside.  They were beautiful hands.  Skilled hands.  Dangerous, powerful, sensual hands.  Her hunger for Blackheath must have shown in her eyes, for he looked up, caught her staring, and with a lazy smile, placed a delicate segment of orange on her plate.

She put a hand to her stomach.  "Oh, please, Blackheath, I cannot eat any more."

"My dear wife, you've barely eaten a thing all night.  Are you ill?"

"No.  Just — "

She couldn't finish the sentence, but the heat in her cheeks, and her inability to meet his eyes, must have told him all he needed to know.

His lips twitching, he popped the sweet segment of fruit into his own mouth.

"— not myself," she finished lamely.

"I see."  He picked up a cherry by its stem and, eyeing her, twirled it between his fingertips.  "Perhaps you need to be in bed."

She met his dark, simmering gaze.  "Perhaps you're right.  After all" — she gave him an arch look — "you always are."

"Hmm.  I'm glad you've finally acknowledged that fact."

She laughed nervously.  He put the cherry down.  Then he rose, tall, powerful, elegant in indigo velvet, dangerous in every way.  Eva's blood warmed.  Shivers climbed her spine. 
What are you doing?
her mind screamed.  But she knew what she was doing, and at the moment, she had no desire to try and reclaim the anger that Blackheath's ruthless kindness had stolen from her.

Not to mention his alarmingly close-to-the-bone words.

You are doing your best to sabotage this marriage,  and I won't have it.

Had
she been trying to do just that?  Well, then, she would be brave.  She would put her anger aside, and let come what may.  She would ignore this feeling of vulnerability, ignore experience, ignore, even, her pride, which was lodging an angry protest against this strange capitulation on the part of not only her body this time, but her mind.  Yes, she would ignore all of that, and just . . . 
feel
.

And feel she did.  A gathering ache between her legs . . . a sensitivity in her nipples . . . a tautness in her belly . . . a yawning emptiness in her hard, hard heart that demanded one thing, and one thing only.

Fulfillment.

Blackheath had come up behind her chair.

He was standing just above her.  Eva sensed the heat emanating from his body, felt it searing her through her clothes.  She tensed, waiting —

And then he laid a hand on her shoulder.

That dangerously beautiful hand that had so transfixed her just a moment ago.

Eva sat spellbound, not daring to move, her breath coming slow and feathery through her lungs.

She felt the spreading warmth of that strong, possessive hand as it rested there on her shoulder.  Felt the crisp tickle of frothy white lace against the exposed skin at the base of her neck.  Felt the brush of velvet there, and the heady, teasing touch of his fingers, now stroking her skin, the thumb rounding her collarbone, pushing into the faint indentations from which it rose.  She swallowed hard, trying to draw air into lungs that had forgotten how to breathe.

I want this.  I want him.  Why fight it?  Why fight something that feels so right, that does neither of us any harm, that will not hurt me as long as I don't lose my heart to him?

Yes.

Don't lose your heart to him — that was the fatal mistake you made in the past.  Give him your body . . . he cannot hurt that.  But never give him your heart.

She leaned her cheek against the soft velvet, the lace at his wrist, and her hand came up over his, pressing it down into her warmed flesh.

And now those long, skillful fingers were dipping lower, idly teasing the top of her bodice, back and forth, back and forth.

Eva didn't move.  Her breathing was the only sound.  Keeping perfectly still, she glanced down, watching his hand . . . the thumb, drawing a little circle against her milky skin; the fingertips just roving over the top of her bodice.  He moved his hand ever so slightly, and his fore and middle fingers dipped into the warm valley of cleavage, the thumb now caressing the swell of her left breast.

Eva shut her eyes on a sigh.  She was melting into her chair, filled with a sluggish languor, a rising need to give herself to this man who was now her husband.  And now that hand came gently up beneath her chin, cupping her jaw and tipping her head up and back until she was looking up into black, black eyes that were burning with unmistakable hunger.

She gave a breathy sigh and offered her lips to him.

He claimed them immediately, his tongue sweeping between her teeth and into her mouth, his hand still cupping her jaw, cradling the back of her head.  She felt his thumb stroking her cheek.  Felt his breath warming the side of her face.  Tasted sweet, tangy oranges on his tongue.

Slowly, he pulled away, his hand still beneath her jaw so that she, opening glazed eyes, had no choice but to stare up at him.

"Bedtime, I think," he murmured.

She could not find the breath to answer.  He drew his hand away, stepping back from the chair so that she might get up.

Dazed with sensation, Eva took his offered hand and began to rise — but her legs were too heavy, her feet shod in lead.  A moment later, she was swept up in Blackheath's arms, held close to his chest, his heart pounding just beneath her ear.

She hooked an arm around his neck.

He paused only long enough to retrieve the silver bowl of cherries, and, carrying her as though she weighed no more than the air that surrounded them, headed from the dining room.

Eva looked at that bowl and felt her insides melting as she considered what he might plan to do with the fruit.  She felt totally helpless, powerless in his arms.  She shut her eyes, treasuring, enjoying, fearing this maelstrom of sensation.

Up two flights of stairs he carried her, a strong, silent victor waiting to savor the prize of battle.  His steps never wavered.  His arms were bars of steel from which she had no desire to escape.  He reached the top of the stairs and unhesitatingly swung right, moving soundlessly down a long hall lit by flickering sconces whose light gilded his skin and set her hair aflame.

I want him.  God help me, I want him.

He pushed open a door, shut it behind him, and carried her past a blazing hearth, past furniture that glowed a rich mahogany in the light of the candelabra set atop a highboy — and toward the large bed curtained in blue and gold damask that dominated the room.

He laid her down upon it.  He put the bowl of cherries on a bedside table, retrieved the candelabra, and set it on the opposite one.  Eva gazed up into his dark face and, unable to speak, to even muster the strength to move her sluggish limbs, felt as though she were going to melt right down into the mattress.

She watched him with naked hunger as he slowly, methodically untied his cravat and unbuttoned his velvet waistcoat, his inscrutable black gaze roving heatedly over her body, burning her everywhere it touched.  Eva shivered.  Outside, she could hear the wind gusting, the distant roar of the ocean, and the occasional hiss of something, probably snow or sleet, flinging itself against the window behind the drawn drapes.  But she felt cozy, safe, protected.  She was here in a secluded bedroom, all alone with Blackheath, her enemy, her lover — her husband — and she was right where she wanted to be.

And he was still watching her, a wolf sizing up its prey, the candlelight throwing his face into flickering planes and shadows, deepening his eyes, glowing upon the queued waves of his dark hair.  Off came the waistcoat, only to be tossed carelessly over a chair.  Eva's tongue traced her suddenly dry lips.  He was splendid.  Matchless.  Her gaze locked on his, she reached up and pulled a pin from her hair, pulled out another, and another, until the thick red waves, glowing like wine in the candlelight, tumbled down around her shoulders, her breasts.

Blackheath was watching her.

She smiled and, arranging her hair beneath her, lay back against the pillows — watching him.

He was unbuttoning his cuffs now, their rich, expensive lace frothing over his long fingers as he worked.  The shirt was loose and billowing, cut generously through the shoulders, the soft white lawn rippling as he moved.  Eva's gaze grew hooded, her mouth dry, as his hands moved to his throat, loosening the button at the base of his neck, opening up the slitted keyhole to reveal a wedge of skin that contrasted with the whiteness of the shirt.  Absently stroking a thick tress of her own hair that lay on the pillow beside her cheek, she watched with undisguised hunger as Blackheath removed his shoes, unbuttoning his breeches at the knees as he straightened up.

He stood there for a long moment in the light of the candelabra, watching her.  Then he came toward the bed.

Eva's hand left her hair and drifted to her heart, beating like a drum beneath her suddenly too-tight stays.  It was an effort just to draw breath.  An effort not to spring from the bed and tumble him down to the floor like a leaping tigress as he approached.  Her body quivered with the effort of lying still; her lips parted as he unbuttoned his breeches, hooked his thumbs around the waistband, and slid them down his legs and off, taking his stockings with them.  Finally, he stood barefoot on the thick Turkish rug.  Only the shirt still covered him, its hem reaching partway to his knees, teasing her with the knowledge of the arousal it veiled, revealing long, straight, well-muscled thighs and calves of athletic power . . . of aristocratic grace.

Eva smiled her appreciation of such masculine perfection, and Blackheath, his own gaze moving to her prone body there on the bed, pulled the shirt up and over his head.

There he stood, just watching her, naked . . . proud . . .

Magnificent.

Eva swallowed hard, trying to banish the sudden dryness of her throat.  Every inch of her skin was afire, every shard of feeling in her body was centered in her breasts and between her thighs, damp with wanting him.  Her gaze drifted from his face, framed in thick waves of glossy black hair that swept back from his brow and now hung loosely about his shoulders, emphasizing their breadth, their beauty . . . down the strong column of his neck, down the splendid length of his body, its gilded planes and hollows a study in candlelit perfection . . . down the flat, tapering abdomen, laddered with muscle, the lean hips, and there, yes, the evidence of his desire.

He was glorious.

And he was waiting for her invitation to join her there on the bed.

She smiled and, spreading her hand on the coverlet beside her, gazed up at him with a hunger she didn't even bother to conceal.

"Well, don't just stand there, Blackheath — you'll catch cold."

A faint smile touched his mouth and he took the last steps toward the bed.  The mattress sagged as it took his weight, and a moment later he was lying alongside her, searing her with the heat of his body, so much longer, bigger, stronger than her own.  Propping his weight on an elbow, he gazed down into her eyes, just watching her . . . and smiling.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as he caressed her breast, half of which was pushed up by her stays and bare to his gaze, half of which still lay concealed beneath shimmering silk.  "It did not occur to me that I was sabotaging our marriage . . . I was simply trying to protect myself from further hurt."

"I know."