Too Wicked to Love (15 page)

But she was right, she had a problem. He just did not think he was the solution.

“John?” she prompted, when he did not answer.

“You should not have come here,” he said.

“But I am here.” She came right up to him, her face set in determination. “I want you. I want
this
heart”—she flattened her palm against his chest—“and
your
arms around me.” She leaned against him, her curves molding to his body as if she were made to fit there.

“Genny . . .”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

All reason flew out of his head. He closed his hands around her upper arms. Push her away. Think. But that sweet mouth . . . that lush, female body . . . He dragged her closer, stumbling backwards. Landed on the bed.

With a cry of alarm, she fell with him, their kiss torn apart as they landed in a tangle of limbs on the bed, with her sprawled atop him. She squirmed, trying to find purchase. He tried to help. Her nightgown rode up, and his palm landed on the silken skin of her bottom.

They both froze for a long moment. Then she raised her head. The look in her eyes spoke of dawning discovery and desire.

He could not stop himself; he smoothed his palm across the sweet curve beneath his hand, watching her eyes, ready to stop. She hissed in a quick breath, her eyelids drooping halfway in a look of pure sensual enjoyment.

God damn it. He took her mouth in a long, hot kiss.

She tried to kiss him back, her inexperience stoking all kinds of fires she could not know existed. He squeezed her buttock, then splayed his hand across her whole bottom and pressed her against him. She made a little sound of surprise, then rubbed herself against his erection in one slow, tentative movement.

Dear God, he was only human.

The thought burned through his mind as he rolled over, gathering her beneath him. Every inch of her pressed against every inch of him. Delicious torment. He could slide into her right now. Have her.

“Touch me,” she begged.

He wrapped her braid around his hand and bent her head back so he could probe her mouth, touching his tongue to hers. Teaching her. She responded—a prize pupil. He slipped his hand beneath her nightgown, found the hot feminine folds. Stroked her. Once. Twice.

She cried out beneath his mouth, arching her hips into his touch. “John.”

Her voice moaning his name shattered his tenuous control. He shoved her nightdress to her waist, stroked his hands over her flesh. Belly, thighs. Soft. Female. His.

The scent of her arousal clouded his mind to everything but mating. He jerked her nightdress higher, but it caught beneath her. At the same time, she gripped his shirt with both hands, tugged.

“Off,” she gasped, then stole his breath with a wet, openmouthed kiss.

They tangled, hands and arms and clothing. He jerked off his shirt, tossed it aside. She helped him strip the nightdress away, threw it somewhere toward the head of the bed, then stretched out beneath him in a sensual display of the female form.

What she lacked in height, she made up for in curves. Her breasts were larger than most women’s, a bit more than a handful for him. Her waist dipped inward, flaring out to generous hips. Those smooth, round thighs cradled a dark thatch of hair that guarded the delicate folds he had caressed only moments before.

His, damn it. All his.

He stretched out over her, pressing her into the mattress, her plump breasts crushed beneath his chest, her hands stroking over his back in silent encouragement. She whispered his name, over and over again. Like a prayer. Like a plea. Arched her hips against him.

He kissed her, lost himself in the taste of her, in the sweet way she tried to kiss him back, how she wrapped her legs around his waist. He fed on those succulent curves, touched, kissed, sucked, nipped. She gasped, she moaned, she whispered his name over and over again. Encouraged him with her hands and her voice until he sensed she was ready.

He slipped his hand downward and stroked the moist treasure he had discovered between her trembling thighs, focusing all his skill on bringing her pleasure, watching her face as he brought her closer and closer. Her eyes had slid closed, and the wonderment on her face as the pressure built held him in rapt attention.

“That’s it, sweet girl. Let it take you.”

She clenched her fists in the bedclothes, arched her hips, tossed her head from side to side. Keened, whimpered, begged. Finally, she arched and stiffened, coating his hand with the hot rush of her climax.

Watching her take her pleasure destroyed the fragments of his control. As she lay there panting, he got off the bed and stripped off the rest of his clothes. She made a sound of protest when he left her, but it changed to a purr of pleasure as he came back naked, hard, and ready.

“Yes.” She arched her hips. “I have been dreaming of this. Please, John . . .”

He took her hips in his hands, pushed inside her, shuddering as her hot, wet female flesh closed around him. Home. His. All rational thought spun away.

She clung to him with her arms and legs, met his thrusts with touching eagerness that spiked his hunger even higher. He kissed her lips, licked her throat, cupped her bottom, and held her steady to take him even deeper inside her. The shocked wonder in her gasp stroked over him like a hand on his cock. He buried his face in her throat as the orgasm roared through him, ripping a hoarse groan from his lips.

The pleasure continued to thrum through him as he slowly came back to himself.

Genny’s heart pounded beneath the cheek pillowed against one generous breast. Her hands stroked over his back, his hair. She let out a long, contented sigh. “I never knew it could be like that.”

The awe in her tone cut through his sexual satisfaction. He nearly groaned. What the devil had he done?

Yielded to his own desires, taken her when he had no right.

Damn it, what could he offer her? He could not marry her, not with the hangman waiting for him. He had no future to share. Nothing but heartache and widow’s weeds awaited her if she stayed with him.

He had to make her walk away.

“Get dressed.” He pulled out, rolled away, her little mewl of protest battling his good intentions.

“What?”

The puzzled hurt on her face pricked at him, but he forced himself to think of her, of how he would hurt her if this thing continued. “I said get your clothes.” He rose from the bed and grabbed his trousers, yanking them on. “Time to go, Genny.”

“Not yet.” She grabbed her nightdress and scooted from the bed, clutching it in one fist as she lifted her chin and braced herself as if for battle. “You do not want me to go, John Ready. Admit it.”

He studied her face, noted the obstinacy there. The admiral’s daughter had braced herself for war.

But he did not want a war. And neither did he want to hurt her.

“This should not have happened,” he said gently.

She sucked in a breath at the words, then jerked her nightdress over her head and shoved her arms through the sleeves. “Oh, really.”

“I owe you an apology,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing can come of this.”

“I thought we were talking about marriage. I thought . . .” Her voice died away. “Tell me the truth, John. What happened here?”

“A mistake. I cannot marry you, Genny.”

“Cannot? Or will not?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” She strode up to him, stared up into his face. “We just made love in your bed, John. I thought that was a promise.”

He wanted to touch her. Didn’t dare. “I know. I am sorry.”

“Sorry? I thought you were different. I thought this”—she flung out her arm to indicate the bed—“meant something to you.”

“It did.”

“It did.” She waited, but he said nothing more. “And now that you have had your pleasure, you escort me to the door like someone you met on the street?”

“Genny, that is not what I mean—”

“Then tell me what you do mean, John. Because I just gave myself to you thinking we were making a promise to each other. Thinking we were going to get married.” Her voice thickened. “Tell me I did not make the same mistake twice.”

“You should never have come.” One tear slipped down her cheek. His chest ached at the sight. “Oh, God, please do not cry.”

“I am not crying,” she said, ignoring the evidence of tears trickling down her face.

“I never meant for this to happen,” John said. “But I cannot marry you, Genny.”

She stared at him with green eyes glittering like gemstones through her tears, her mouth set. “I thought you were different. I thought you were honorable.”

“I am honorable.”

She glanced at the bed, then back at him. “Are you?”

He could not reply. He was a cad. He knew it. But it was for her own good.

At his silence, she sucked in a long, shaky breath, then turned and left the room without looking back, closing the door with a soft click behind her.

He was alone.

He nearly reached out for the doorknob, then clenched his fingers hard enough that his nails gouged his palms. He hung his head, letting out a long, slow breath. He was a bastard. He deserved to be skewered and roasted alive over an open fire for what he had just done to her. But he would not call her back. He would not apologize.

Better she hated him and had a chance at a real life than if she stayed with him and let him destroy her.

The walk back to her room seemed colder than she remembered. Longer. Darker. When finally she slipped into her bedchamber, she closed the door behind her and leaned back against it.

And let the tears fall.

She did not sob. Barely made any sound at all. Was not even certain if she could. Silence ruled the evidence of her pain in her stinging eyes, the trails of moisture flowing down her cheeks in the chill night air, her trembling limbs. And the gaping wound in her chest where her heart used to be.

How could she have been so stupid . . . again?

She opened her mouth, sucked in a shuddering breath. Curled her fingers against the solid wood of the door, sagging as her knees buckled. Grabbed the doorknob, pulled herself up. Made herself walk to the bed with slow, careful steps. The slick dampness between her thighs lingered as a reminder of her misjudgment.

So, so foolish. Naïve. Incredibly obtuse.

She had trusted him. She had gone to him and stripped her soul bare, offered him everything she had, everything she was, confessed her most dangerous secret. And he had taken what he wanted, then discarded her like scraps from the dinner table.

How could she have imagined this would work out well? Had she built a fantasy of what she wanted her relationship with John to be rather than what it actually was? Had she written a fairy tale in her mind and tried to make it come true?

She had been here before. But this was worse than what had happened with Bradley—far worse. Because this time she had truly let herself fall in love.

She crawled into her bed, dragging the covers around her as she curled into a ball. The soft pillow absorbed her weeping as she clutched her blankets close. She could not remember anymore what qualities had attracted her to Bradley. But John. . .

She had taken the risk. Had been so affected by his kindness, his bravery, his sense of honor. The passion they shared. Her defenses had crumbled; her cautious heart had softened. Had she imagined all of it? She had thought she had found something special. Something uniquely hers. But it had proven to be illusion. Fairy dust. His words tonight had torn her heart to shreds.

She had gone to him with the idea that he might accept her proposal. That they might even make love to seal their agreement. But no, “make love” was never a term to be applied to John Ready. He had
taken her body.
Yes, that was more accurate. He had refused her proposal. Had taken her like she was any common female. Nothing special or romantic about it.

At least she had not blurted out that she loved him. That would have truly annihilated any trace of dignity she possessed.

But even that small comfort did not ease the devastation throbbing inside her. Maybe nothing ever would.

“You are strong,” she whispered.

But for once, she did not believe it.

P
eter Green awoke that morning with a knife at his throat.

“Good morning, Peter,” said the wielder of the weapon.

“Good morning, my lord,” said Peter, trying desperately not to wet himself as his heart thundered like a racehorse. “Back from France, I see?”

“Rumors of your poor performance reached me even there.” Raventhorpe leaned over him. “I was just trying to decide if I should kill you in your sleep or wait for you to awaken. As you can see, I decided on waiting for you to awaken.”

Peter’s mouth went dry. “How did you find me?”

“It was not all that hard,
Peter Black
. You might want to be more imaginative in your naming conventions. Then again, you may not have the chance.”

Peter swallowed hard. He had thought he would be safe here in this tiny room. It was beneath the eaves of the tavern several towns away from his home. Even the scullery maid did not want these quarters! He had thought he had been clever, that no one could find him, yet here was Lord Raventhorpe perching on the edge of his bed like a raven come to foretell his death.

If he did not convince the earl of his loyalty, the raven might be proven right.

“I wasn’t hiding from you, my lord,” he hurried to say. “I didn’t even know you were back in England. I was hiding from the Baileys. They’ve been looking for me.”

“Again,” Raventhorpe said, “proof of your incompetence.” He pressed the blade hard enough against Peter’s throat that it pricked the skin.

“No, no, no!” Peter tried to shrink back into the bedding, but it was cheaply made and did not yield very much. “I started watching them instead, my lord! I changed my name and took a room here and started watching them!”

“Indeed?” Something like genuine surprise flickered across Raventhorpe’s sharp face. “And did you learn anything?”

Peter started to nod, then remembered the blade, and said, “Yes.”

Raventhorpe pulled the knife back a hair. “Tell me.”

Peter took the opportunity to swallow. Though he outweighed the skinny earl, he did not even attempt to dislodge him or gain the upper hand. Should he miscalculate, Raventhorpe would respond like a poisonous snake and kill him without a second thought. The man was completely cracked in the head, which made him more dangerous than even a big fellow like himself.

“There seems to be one man guarding the lady more than the others, some bloke named John Ready. Well, the other day I was following him and he went somewhere that might be of interest to you.”

“Indeed?” Raventhorpe withdrew the knife and sat back, still close enough to strike but far enough away that Peter felt comfortable taking a breath. “And where was that?”

“An estate house on Evermayne lands.”

“Evermayne?” Raventhorpe breathed. “Evermayne! By the devil, I thought that bastard looked familiar! John Ready, is it?” He laughed, a truly evil sound that made Peter wonder if he was indeed in the presence of one of Satan’s minions. Or perhaps Old Nick himself.

“Do you know him then?” Peter asked.

“I believe I do.” The amusement slid from Raventhorpe’s face to give way to cunning. “This John Ready may well be John St. Giles. And even if he is not, the man known as John Ready shot me some weeks ago. He owes me for that—and for other things.”

“John St. Giles? There was a vicar asking about a fellow named John St. Giles at the pub the other day.”

“A vicar? How curious.” Raventhorpe gave him a considering look. “Perhaps you did save your life today, Peter. You might yet be useful to me.”

“Anything you need, my lord. I’m at your command.”

Raventhorpe stood and tucked the blade away beneath his coat. “I know you are. And now you know it, too. I want you to follow John Ready and anyone else associated with him. And find out more about that vicar, such as what parish he comes from.”

“Yes, my lord. Should I send word to your estate if I find anything?”

“No. I am not staying there. At the moment no one knows I have returned, and I would like to keep it that way for a while. I will contact you.” The earl started to turn away, then paused and glanced back at him. “But I will be watching you, Peter, so do not even think about betraying me. I trust you like your manly parts right where they are, correct?”

Peter swallowed hard and nodded, resisting the urge to slide a protective hand over himself.

“Good. Then we understand each other.” Raventhorpe swept out of the tiny room, his black cloak swirling.

Peter stared up at the ceiling and whispered a prayer that he would somehow escape this hellish partnership.

Guilt dogged his steps as John made his way down to breakfast the next day. He had had everything planned out so well. Samuel and Cilla were due back from their honeymoon today, which meant much celebration and excitement, and tomorrow was the picnic the Baileys were throwing, including the infamous play. Then the day after the picnic, he was going to announce the truth of his identity to the assembled guests of Nevarton Chase. It was the least he could do for the people who had shown him such hospitality. Whether or not they forgave him for his deception was another matter.

But what happened with Genny had not been part of his plans. How could he look her in the eye, or her family? He did not doubt she was probably spitting mad at him, and she had every right. But he loved her too much to drag her into danger with him, no matter how much he longed to do the right thing, claim her as his wife.

If somehow he was able to prove his innocence and escape execution, he would come back to her, offer marriage. But for now, he could not have her, plain and simple. Elizabeth had died because he had not been able to protect her; he would burn in hell before he allowed the same thing to happen to Genny.

He itched to start the process of claiming his title, to get it over with, but he did not want to disrupt the Baileys’ picnic with such drama. Randall could not act on his despicable plans for the Duke’s daughters until he legally inherited the title, which meant he would have to succeed in declaring John dead. That bought John a little time, certainly another day or two. Besides, he wanted to tell Samuel first, privately. They had watched each other’s backs enough times that he felt he could count on his friend to forgive him the deception and to believe in his innocence.

He walked into the breakfast room to find the entire household already assembled. Automatically, he sought out Genny. He expected her to be glaring daggers at him this morning. Instead, she kept her eyes on her plate and pushed her food around with her fork.

“Good morning, John. My goodness, but don’t you look handsome!” Dolly beamed at him. “You’ve shaved your beard!”

He rubbed his newly smooth jaw. Now that he was no longer as concerned with being recognized, he had gotten rid of the beard in preparation of claiming the title. “I have.”

“I like it,” Annabelle said with a flirtatious grin. “I prefer a man to be clean-shaven.”

“Annabelle, I’m certain that’s not the reason he did it,” Dolly scolded.

“I, for one, prefer a man with whiskers,” Helen said with an impish grin at her husband. He returned her smile.

“What about you, Genny?” Annabelle asked. “What do you think?”

Genny looked up, her expression indifferent. “What?”

John’s heart froze like a chunk of ice in his chest.

Annabelle frowned. “Are you all right, Genny? You don’t look very well.”

“She did not get much sleep last night,” Helen answered, patting her daughter’s hand. “I believe the encounter with Black Bill gave her nightmares.”

Annabelle waved a hand toward John. “John has shaved his beard, Genny. How do you like it?”

Genny blinked as she raised her gaze to his face. “Very nice,” she said before dropping her stare to her plate again.

But it had been enough. John’s blood ran cold at the utter lack of spark in her eyes. Where was the bright, sensual Amazon who had come to his room last night and boldly proposed to him? Who had made love with him like a wildcat? He had expected her to be breathing fire at him this morning or perhaps freezing him out with icy disdain. That was consistent with the valiant little fighter who had stolen his heart. The creature before him now might have been a doll from the nursery, so lacking in animation was she.

Good God, what had he done to her?

“Well,” said Sir Harry, “I am certainly glad you are all safe despite your harrowing experience last night. Hope you are feeling more the thing soon, Miss Wallington-Willis.”

Genny remained silent.

“Thank you, Sir Harry,” Helen said, squeezing her daughter’s hand.

Genny looked up. “Thank you, Sir Harry,” she repeated obediently, then went back to studying the meal she was not eating.

John frowned from the sideboard, scooping food on his plate without really noticing what he was taking. Was she trying to make him feel guilty about what he had done?

It was working.

“Let me tell you, Sir Harry, I’ve never been so scared in all my life,” Dolly said. “That Black Bill is a beast! He accosted my Annabelle!”

“He did?” Sir Harry’s hazel eyes widened behind his spectacles as he turned to Annabelle. “Miss Bailey, did that vagabond assault your person?”

“Hardly,” Annabelle said. She attempted nonchalance as she picked up her teacup and took a sip, but her face pinkened.

“He stole from her!” Dolly cried.

“She was the only person he did steal from,” Mrs. Wallington-Willis said. “If he were anyone but a criminal, one would assume he had formed an attachment to Annabelle.”

“Absolutely not!” Dolly exclaimed. “That villain can’t have my daughter!”

“I’ll hunt him down and roast him over an open pit before I let him near her,” Virgil growled.

Annabelle made a dismissive motion, but humor gleamed in her blue eyes. “An attachment? The man’s a highwayman!”

“True,” Helen said with a small frown. “But he is first and foremost a man.”

“Easy enough to avoid him.” The admiral took up a piece of toast. “We talked about that, Bailey, Ready and I. Taking precautions for the future.”

“I have found that it helps to avoid certain thoroughfares,” Sir Harry said. “Especially those going through Raventhorpe lands or whatever used to be Raventhorpe lands. Richard sold off many of his properties over the years, most recently this one to you, Mr. Bailey. Though people are no longer purchasing land from the earl, since Black Bill apparently comes with the package.”

“Makes it hard to get ready cash, I’d imagine,” said the admiral.

“I like the house,” Virgil said, picking up a piece of toast. “Bought it because we expected Annabelle to be marrying an earl, and we’d be coming back to England all the time. Now that she didn’t marry him, I haven’t decided what to do with it.”

“Maybe we should just keep it, Pa,” Annabelle said. “We might want to come back here and see Cilla and her family.”

“I believe Samuel intends to live at least part of the year in America,” John said, seating himself at the table. He flicked a glance at Genny a few seats down, but she kept her gaze lowered. “So you would have ample opportunity to see her there without the inconvenience of a long sea voyage.”

“Oh.” Looking disconcerted, Annabelle sipped her tea again.

“I don’t know if we should keep it,” Dolly said. “Too many bad memories for me. I broke my leg right on the stairs there after Lord Raventhorpe kidnapped my baby. I was running too fast.”

“That’s not the house’s fault,” Annabelle said. “That was Richard’s fault, and he’s somewhere in France, thank goodness.”

“Yet his influence lingers,” John said. Still, Genny would not look up. He tried to focus on the conversation while at the same time keeping an eye on her. “Last night, Black Bill gave us the name of the man he thinks is behind the attempted kidnapping, a fellow who supposedly works for Raventhorpe.”

“You don’t intend to take that seriously!” Dolly exclaimed. “Black Bill is a thief and probably a liar.”

“He’s not a liar,” Annabelle said. “He doesn’t like being called that.”

“I’ll call him more than that before I send him to h—to purgatory,” Virgil muttered, apparently recalling the presence of the ladies at the last moment.

Dolly frowned at her daughter. “I don’t like the way you’re defending him, sweetheart. He held us all at gunpoint and could have killed us!”

“But he didn’t,” Annabelle said. “He let us go. He gave John the information he needed, and he didn’t take anyone’s purse.”

“No,” Helen said. “Just your handkerchief, correct?”

Annabelle reddened. “Just that,” she agreed.

“Why did he do that?” the admiral demanded. “The gal was wearing diamonds and pearls last night. He could have made away with a fortune from that alone.”

“Hardly seems like an intelligent sort of brigand,” Sir Harry said. “Why take a handkerchief instead of gems? Unless, of course, Mrs. Wallington-Willis is correct, and the highwayman has taken a fancy to you, Miss Bailey.”

“I can’t figure what he was thinking,” Annabelle said. “I was there, same as the rest of you. I saw and heard what you did.”

“But you had encountered him before,” John said, setting down his silverware. He dragged his wandering attention from Genny and focused on Annabelle. “The day Raventhorpe drugged you and tried to escape with you to Scotland. You said he rescued you.”

“He did. He stopped the coach and held a gun on Richard so I could tie him up. Then he knocked Richard out with his own ring.”

“The one with the sleeping drug in it that Raventhorpe had used on her,” John clarified for the others. He flicked another glance down the table. Genny still was not looking at him. He had forgotten about her vulnerability. How fragile she was beneath that deceptive complacence. How he wished she would use her barbed tongue to put him in his place.

“Astounding,” Sir Harry commented. “Either Black Bill is the most foolish dolt who ever walked the earth, or he is stunningly brilliant.”

“He has an agenda,” John said. “He hates Raventhorpe.”

“I would expect that would put him and us on the same side,” Sir Harry said. “Do you agree, Miss Wallington-Willis?”