The Wicked One (8 page)

And then she faced him.

Assessed him.

Made a brief circle around him, letting her fingertips trail around his waist as moved behind him.  He was smiling now.  Eyeing her like some lethal, barely restrained, predator.

"Are you hard for me yet, Blackheath?" she purred, lifting her lips to his ear.

"I have been hard for you for the past two weeks."

"And what if I disappoint
you
, Your Grace?"  Deftly, she unbuckled his dress sword and let it drop to the carpet.  "Will you kill
me
?"

"I do not think you will disappoint."

She smiled.  He didn't move.  Her hand drifted back up, unbuttoning his velvet waistcoat, peeling it away from his chest until she could feel the muscles just beneath his shirt.  A blood-red ruby was pinned to his stock.  Eva removed it and placed it on the lowboy.  She pinched one end of the silky cravat between thumb and fingertip and pulled, slowly, until the knot collapsed and the long strip of fabric was in her hand.

"I thought you wanted
me
to undress
you
," he murmured, an amused smile dancing about his lips.

"I do.  But I am the one in control here — and right now, I prefer to undress you."

She pulled off his waistcoat, let it fall to the floor.  He stood before her in shirt and breeches now, the rich lace of the former tumbling over the backs of the finest, most beautifully male hands she had ever had the pleasure of looking upon.  There was breadth across the palms, and a lengthy elegance to the fingers that proclaimed the finest breeding in England, generations of bluest blood — perfection.  They were a gentleman's hands, though there was nothing soft about them, nothing foppish, and certainly nothing benign.  Eva knew those hands had killed; most recently, they had taken the life of her odious stepcousin, Gerald, when Gerald had tried to kill the duke's brother, Andrew.  She was not fooled into thinking they were anything less than dangerous . . .

And she wanted those hands on her.  All over her.  But not just yet.  For now, she wanted to be the one doing the touching.

And so she walked another circle around him, this time, her fingers tracing his ribs beneath the fine shirt, trailing around his hip, and finally coming to rest in the faint curve of his lower back, just above the waistband of his breeches.  She stood just behind him, admiring the lean, beautifully inverted triangle of that proud, splendid back — then she grasped his shirt at the waist, pulled it free of his waistband, and let it drop, its hem coming down, as was the fashion, almost to his knees.

"Will you not take it off?"

She smiled.  "I wouldn't want you to be cold.  It might have a disastrous effect on your . . . condition."

"I can assure you, madam, that my condition is quite a
hard
y one.  And I am far from cold."

"Then step out of your shoes."

He inclined his head and, giving her a sidelong glance from over his shoulder, did as she asked.

"Unbutton your cuffs."

He did.

"And stand still."

She came around in front of him, never removing her hand from his body, letting it draw a slow, seductive line from hip to the front of his hard, muscled thigh.  He gazed down at her, a watchful predator, his eyes very, very black beneath heavy lids.  Eva met that heated stare, letting her hand rest right where it was.  He gave a slow smile of invitation — and moving her hand, Eva let her fingernail graze his thigh through the thin veneer of his breeches, exulting in the control he had granted her.  She wondered what he would ask in return.  Or better yet, what he would
give
in return . . .

Her fingers found the buttons of his drop front, and one by one, slid them through the holes.

She looked up into his face.  The lazy smile had faded, and in its place was something darker, something more intense; something far, far more dangerous.

Eva undid the last button, and the breeches slid down his thighs and around his knees.  Immediately the long hem of the shirt floated down to preserve his maleness from her triumphant gaze; Eva looked up, stared into those black, black eyes for a long moment, and then ran her hand over the rigid bulge beneath the shirt.

She was unprepared.  For the fierceness of his arousal, for the size of it, for the shock waves that simple touch flung through her own body.  Prickly heat suffused her.  It was all she could do not to throw him to the carpet and have her way with him right then and there; but no, she was surely more civilized than that.

He smiled, noting her momentary confusion.  "If you are trying to torture me, madam, you are doing a damned fine job of it."

Big, bad wolf, indeed
, she thought shakily — but managed to muster her most feline smile.  "Perhaps some wine will take the edge off your impatience?"  She palmed him through the shirt, seeing his nostrils flare, his eyes growing fixed and dark and deadly.  "After all, you still have to undress me."

"I am within inches of taking you right here, right now."

"Do so and I'll —"

"Kill me?" he murmured, lips twitching.

"Something like that."  She let her fingers fall away from him.  Then, casting an inviting smile over her shoulder, she went to her dressing table, where bottles of perfume, jars of cosmetics, pots, brushes, and boxes were arranged around a vase of flowers.  A bottle of champagne stood nearby, nestled in a bucket of ice.  Eva uncorked it, poured two glasses, and brought them both back to the duke.

She kicked off one slipper and handed him a glass.  She hooked a toe around the other, kicked it off as well, and raised her own glass to her lips.

"A toast," she murmured, eyeing him from over the rim.  "To . . . peace."

His dark gaze held hers.  "To peace," he echoed, leaving her wondering whether they drank to peace between the two of them — or to his country and hers.

She put the glass down.  "And now you may undress me."

For answer, he merely gave a dangerous smile, set down his half-finished champagne, and with a skill that unnerved her, went to work on her own clothes.

She shivered as he unclasped the choker of emeralds, his warm fingers grazing her neck, caressing the sensitive flesh as the heavy metal setting dropped away.  It was soon apparent — more than apparent — that he knew his way around a lady's gown better than her own maid did, deftly unhooking en eye there, untying a tape there, his fingers making short work of buttons, ties, and fastenings.  Off came her beautiful gown of dark raspberry velvet, off came the stomacher of rich rose satin, the tightly laced stays, the petticoats belling out over her hoops, until she stood before him, her skin pocked with gooseflesh, in just her chemise, garters and stockings.

She was burning up inside.

Absolutely on fire.

And then he reached out and pulled her close, his hands molding her waist, pressing firmly against the small of her back, holding her hard against him.  She felt his arousal driving against her hips, her pelvis, protected by nothing more than the flimsy lawn of his shirt . . . and the even flimsier fabric of her chemise.

Two layers of cloth.  It was all that separated them.

Eva moaned as his mouth slanted down atop hers.  She fought wildly for balance — between her heart which demanded absolute abandonment, and her head, which demanded absolute detachment so she could do what must be done.  She was quickly losing control of this situation . . . and that frightened her.

She pulled back, holding on to the threads of sanity.  "I — I'm nervous.  I need more champagne.  Can I offer you more, Blackheath?"

"By all means."

He handed her his glass.  Eva set them both down, then, regaining her poise, eyed him speculatively.  "I think I need you to lie down on the bed."

"We'll get there eventually."

"I need you to get there, now."

"Ah."  He gave her that slow, spreading smile.  "Let me guess.  This is where the . . . domination comes in?"

"How astute you are."

"Very well, then."  He moved to the bed and sat upon it, removing his own stockings and revealing the handsomest, most powerful calves she had ever seen.  Dark hair peppered his legs in a sparse mat; muscles stood out in wondrous relief, inviting the touch of a finger.  A tongue.  Ohhhh, Lord help her!

"And now, my dear?"

"Lie back.  I need to tie you up."

He laughed.  "Tie me up?  What, do you think I plan to go anywhere?"

"It is part of my fantasy.  You know me to be a dominant woman.  I know you to be a dominant man.  My fantasy demands that I master you, and master you completely.  So therefore, I must tie you up."

"I suppose it will be nothing short of interesting," he murmured, amused.

"Perhaps you will even find it exciting."

"I would very much like to touch you, Eva."

"Oh, I'll set you free after the first round."  She smiled.  "And I wouldn't tie you up so tightly that you couldn't have
some
movement."

He lay back on the pillows, raised his arms over his head, and regarded her with dark, watchful eyes that glowed with amusement.  Was he intrigued?  Probably.  Was he apprehensive?  Probably not, for he was arrogant enough to assume he could overpower her at any moment, escape no matter what binds held him.  He was indulging her, nothing more.  Finding some sort of strange satisfaction of his own, thinking that he was allowing a woman to be in control. 
Allowing.
  Oh, what a surprise she had for him!

Remembering the champagne, she carried the glasses back to her dressing table, opened one of her perfume bottles, and dabbed a bit of scent behind her ears.  As she replaced the stopper, she clandestinely tapped the few drops still poised there into one of the two glasses; then she refilled them both with champagne, brought them back to the curtained bed, and set them down on the night table.  The duke lay on his back watching her, his knees bent; the shirt had slid down his thighs, rumpling atop his abdomen.  She could see just the barest hint of dark hair and male flesh beneath the hem.  It was just enough to tease.  To tantalize.

Her mouth went dry.

"If you're afraid, Blackheath, we don't have to do this," she taunted, her voice a little shaky.

"Perhaps I am not the one who's afraid."

"You think
I
am?"

"You tell me."

She tossed her head.  "Ha, if I
was
afraid, I would most assuredly not tell you.  Besides, you'll be tied up.  Perfectly harmless."

He smiled, a slow, chilling smile that caused her insides to seize.  "Perfectly harmless."

"Totally incapable of doing anything I don't want you to do."

"Whatever you say, my dear."

She handed him the glass into which she'd tapped the few drops of perfume.  She raised her own.  They faced each other, two wary adversaries, over the crystal rims.

Enigmatic black eyes met glittering ones of green.

"To an enjoyable evening, then."

"An enjoyable evening . . ."

Chapter 7

Crystal clinked, and she allowed him to drain his glass before picking up the cravat she had discarded.  Loosely looping it around his wrists, she tied them in a figure eight before securing them to the bedpost above his head.

He smiled up at her, a chained wolf.

A chained wolf who was very much looking forward to eating her after she was through stroking him.

Eva's stomach was in knots.  She didn't know how long she had before the aphrodisiac took effect.  She shuddered inside, sitting down on the edge of the bed and affecting a satisfied, amused smile as she gazed down at her willingly helpless captive.  God help her, she wasn't even sure she could go through with the act; she wanted only to see how effective the potion really was, before passing it on to Marie Antoinette, wanted only to restrain Blackheath so he couldn't leap up and ravish her, wanted only to test it on this cunning devil while minimizing the dangers to her own heart — and body.  How long would he suffer before its effects finally wore off?  Or would he suffer until whatever savage lust he experienced was finally slaked?

"You do not drink much," he murmured, noting her half-full glass.  "Champagne not to your liking?"

"Oh, no, that's not it at all, Blackheath.  I want to be totally alert, totally aware, so that I can experience whatever is about to transpire with none of my senses dulled."

"I see," he said, pushing himself upwards a little, so that he was more comfortable against the stack of pillows behind him.  Furtively, Eva glanced down.  Though the shirt preserved his modesty, she had no doubt that he was fully aroused; but was he even
more
aroused?

"I also have a family intolerance to alcohol," she added, jumping as a spark exploded in the hearth.  "My mother died from overindulgence."

Well, that wasn't completely true; she had died of a broken heart, and only used the alcohol as a spiritual anesthetic on the way to killing herself with it.

"I am sorry to hear that," he murmured, his eyes taking on a strange gleam and fixating on her with the unwavering concentration of a predator.  She saw muscles beginning to bulge in his arms; rigid triceps, taut biceps, strained, defined tendons in the forearms.  "My own mother died in childbirth.  It is difficult to lose someone you love."

"You never forget, do you?"

His jaw was tensing up.  She could see the very controlled way he was breathing, as though each inhalation might shatter him.  "No.  You do not."  He had his teeth clenched now.  "Especially when you lose two parents within the same week."

"Then I am sorry for
you
," she said.  "What happened?"

"Mother was in childbirth with Nerissa and having a damned hard time of it. . . .  Papa couldn't bear to hear her screams of agony . . ."  He shut his eyes, tiny beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead now, his great chest rising and falling laboriously.  "He ran up to the tower to get away from the sounds . . . fell, and broke his neck."

"Dear God," Eva said, fingertips touching her mouth.