Any Wicked Thing (22 page)

Frederica took a sniff. “Apricot jam between two almond biscuits.” She sounded wistful even to herself.

“Mm, yes.” The sound of crunching was practically deafening. She gave a little sigh. “You smelled of apricots the first night I fucked you. Apricots and roses. You're in luck, Freddie. There's one more left.”

He remembered that, too
. She felt the biscuit slip between her lips. Frederica knew just what it looked like—two thin round crisps, apricot jam sandwiched between them. She'd put up the jam herself last summer. Eating the biscuit was like swallowing a burst of sunshine. His finger touched the corner of her mouth. “You have a crumb. Right there.”

Her tongue swept out, but his beat her to it. He tasted of apricot, almond, chocolate and lemons, with a trace of whiskey for bite. He kissed her as if he were going to eat her next. She melted into the back of the sofa, all thoughts of escape pushed firmly from her mind.

Each time he kissed her was a variation on perfection. No two kisses seemed the same; like snowflakes, they had their own permutations and eccentricities. This afternoon, he was definitely a warlord out to storm her castle. She was helpless to resist, and not just because her arms were bound and she was blinded by white linen. Every parry of his tongue required retreat and surrender, hardly a hardship when defeat ended in sensual splendor. She felt him free a breast from her bodice, his thumb flicking her nipple to a hard point. He gave a satisfied growl into her mouth, then bent to suckle.

She knew only sound and touch now—the pop of the logs in the fireplace, the spatter of the rain on the window, the wet, sucking sounds of his mouth tugging on her breast, the blood rushing in her ears beneath the blindfold. Her legs parted under the batiste skirts, waiting for his hand to give her pleasure.

He slowly broke away, his breathing labored. “I am getting ahead of myself. We have not finished with your sensory test.”

Damn him and the food. There could not be much left on the tray by now except for the nasty fish paste sandwich. He held something else before her. She puzzled over it, trying to remember the small squares and circles and triangles Mrs. Holloway had so painstakingly offered up. He had eaten all the cress sandwiches and most of the sweets before he blindfolded her. She was suddenly ravenous, both for food and for Sebastian. She had a wicked vision of dabbing clotted cream on—

“It's a nut bread and butter sandwich.”

“Spot-on.” He held it to her mouth and she bit into it delicately. There was a black walnut tree on the way to what passed for a village hereabouts. Once home to the castle serfs, most sensible Yorkshiremen had picked up and moved on from the cluster of buildings more than a century ago. All that remained were a few humble cottages, a vacant pub and a tiny church that was open for worship every third Sunday. An unlucky young clergyman rode the circuit once a month, was in fact due next week. Frederica would loyally troop into the village, as she had even more sins to pray over now that Sebastian was here.

Despite her misgivings, young Kenny had climbed that walnut tree and shaken the branches last fall, and it had rained nuts for Frederica to gather and Mrs. Holloway and Alice to shell. Luckily, he hadn't fallen again, for she did wonder what another accident would do to the poor man. So much of her time this past year had been spent in homely pursuits—gardening, preserving, making do with nature's bounty when her funds dried up. She was uncertain if she could trust Sebastian to straighten out her finances. More than likely once he was paid for Goddard Castle, he'd disappear again and she'd be back to shaking trees and praying to get over his skilled, sinful touch. But she sat still now, not resisting, longing for the oblivion he guided her to.

He touched her, his fingertip circling her wet nipple as she sat dazed against the back of the sofa, her bodice somewhere down around her waist, her hands tied, her face half-masked by his neckcloth, the nut bread forming a lump in her throat. She was completely at his mercy, the gush of liquid between her legs a shameful acknowledgment that she did not find his mastery of her objectionable in the least. He plucked the fabric of her yellow-sprigged skirt up and a shiver ran through her despite the warmth of the fire. It was probably far too late for prayer, and every third Sunday would be inadequate anyhow.

H
e could scent her arousal over and above the applewood burning and the lingering aroma of the Mrs. Holloway's delicacies. And while he knew she had washed upon retiring upstairs, he could still smell himself, his imprint upon her body from their afternoon. His head spun from the drenching sensual hold she had over him.

It was he who was supposed to be in control, yet her very helplessness was driving him mad, wrapping him in knots tighter than those at her wrists. Of course, her tongue was still as sharp as ever, but she was unusually subdued, splayed open to him on the tattered sofa, her nipples raspberry-dark and hard, the smooth skin of her mons glistening with dew. She was silent as he dipped a finger in and brought it to his lips, the taste far sweeter than anything the tea tray had provided. Slipping from the sofa, he knelt before her and slanted her hips, then feasted. She shattered on the first lick, so ready was she for him.

But he was not done, could not get enough of the flavor of her. She tensed beneath his hands, struggling to be quiet when any of the staff could enter the room. He should have locked the door—it was careless of him to expose them like this—but somehow the threat of possible discovery made him even harder. Juvenile of him, he knew. He was past the age of deriving enjoyment from flaunting his sins in front of servants. His first night with Freddie had been a cautionary tale—the disaster of being discovered by their fathers still haunted him.

But it had been Freddie who had forgotten to lock the door, creeping in on cat feet as he'd sat drifting in his opium haze, a half-drunk flask of brandy at his side. He'd left his evening clothes in his room and changed into an Italian silk robe, an extravagant memento of his years abroad. He'd climbed the tower with a candle stub to see the stars and get away from all the foolishness downstairs.

He'd seen stars. And luscious skin. Bountiful breasts that burst from a tightly laced stomacher, giving Freddie a waist he didn't know she possessed. How could he have known that naughty creature in short, saucy ruffles and mobcap was Freddie? She hadn't spoken above a dusky whisper, putting her finger to his lips as she fisted his cock. She'd been more enthusiastic than skilled, but he was more than happy to thrust up into her hot, tight cunt.

As he was now.

He studied her as she lolled against the sofa. Freddie would so hate to be seen like this, her naked breasts quivering, her legs loose, her lips forming a secret smile that he was sure he wasn't meant to see. Because her vision was obscured, it was as if she had no idea of the image she presented, so entirely wanton she took his breath away. Her cries drove him to kiss her quiet and lace her up before Warren came in with a blunderbuss.

Her wrinkled forehead told him she was frowning. Perhaps she thought he would sink into her again, spill mindlessly inside her as he'd done earlier. How he wanted to—but delay would make what he planned for tonight all the more delicious. He would take her further with one more step. The more she wanted him, the easier it would be to show her his most needful pleasures.

Sebastian fumbled with the ropes and unwound his cravat from her pinkened face. Her eyelashes were curled up from the confinement, her eyes unfocused. If anyone saw her, even with her skirts down and her hands folded in her lap, they would know what he had done to her. And that she had loved it. He tucked a strand of hair back under its pin. She blinked a bit like a startled fawn, then rubbed her wrists.

“Why did you stop?”

He straightened the ribbon over her bosom. “We have all night.”

“Until midnight, you mean,” she said, starch creeping into her voice.

“I'll have to throw out the clocks, Freddie. Perhaps I can persuade you to forget it's your day.”

She rose unsteadily from the sofa. “There's no chance of that, Your Grace. I shall hold you to your word.”

“Even if it means depriving yourself?”

She flushed with pique. “Really, Sebastian, you have an exaggerated sense of your own consequence. I am perfectly able to go without you rooting around my body for a day.”

He laughed. “You make me sound like a badger.”

“More like a rat. A large one.”

“You cannot insult a man as long as you tell him he's large.” He watched her walk to the window, her head high, her shoulders thrown back in pride. He knew he could rob her of it and make her moan again within minutes, but it didn't seem sporting. “I have a few business matters to attend to, letters to write and so forth, so I absolve you from my company until dinnertime. I won't be using the library, so if you want to get back to your book for a few hours, I have no objection.”

She didn't turn around. “How kind.” Her voice was flat, but he wasn't fooled. He picked up the last decent sandwich, ham with a dab of brown mustard, then put it down again. He wanted nothing that would erase the taste of Miss Frederica Wells in his mouth. Nonsense, really, but there it was.

He left her to dwell on the raindrops that coursed down the wavery windows and returned to his tower. He opened the satchel that contained the many threatening missives that his father's man of business, Paulson, had pressed upon him. As Sebastian had told Freddie, he'd been imprisoned once already. Although he was certain that any sojourn in an English gaol was apt to be far more sedate and comfortable than his previous accommodations, he was still unwilling to subject himself to prove it. He wrote to Paulson, inquiring about the disposition of Freddie's funds and the exact direction of the solicitor in York.

In a few days, he'd pack her up in the moldering old travel coach and escape the moldering old castle. They could make a vacation of it—it would be heaven to get out of the gloom of Goddard Castle, although the medieval city of York could be every bit as gloomy. Sebastian thought of the architecture he'd seen on his travels in Greece, simple square houses built into hillsides, blindingly white against the Aegean Sea. He'd trade every decrepit property he owned for one of them.

Roxbury Park required refurbishment. Neglected by his father for more than a decade, the Jacobean wing really needed to be torn down and the drains replumbed. But its productive farmland was Sebastian's one hope. His tenants knew what they were about, so if the weather in the south cooperated, he might escape penury yet.

He wondered if Freddie missed her girlhood home. He could almost see why she had dug in up here, reluctant to make another change. But his father's scholarly madness had leached over to her and she seemed to prefer being hunched over foolscap to anything else. Hunched over himself, he studied his columns for the next few hours, growing increasingly needy and nervous to get his hands on Freddie's money. And on her body, too. It was becoming clear to him that just as he had tempted her to sin, he was equally tempted. If they had married all those years ago, would he still be attracted to her? It would be a novelty to be attracted to one's own wife—the gossips in the ton would never believe it of him. But he'd been unconcerned with rules for ten years. Why should he care now if he broke any?

D
inner had been disposed of. Sebastian could not even remember what he had eaten, so anxious was he to get Freddie alone in his room. The conversation had flagged long before pudding was brought to the table. Freddie had been less than engaged in his flirtations. She sat on his bed now, fiddling with the yellow ribbon that trimmed the dress she had worn to tea. Her skirts were still crushed from his earlier exploration, her cheeks flushed from the wine he had pressed upon her at dinner. She was nowhere near to being tipsy or relaxed, however. She looked very much like someone who was going to have a tooth drawn, so Sebastian knew he had his work cut out for him.