Any Wicked Thing (5 page)

Frederica had been a remarkably stupid girl the night she'd taken advantage of that fancy dress ball so Sebastian could take advantage of her. Or vice versa. She wasn't sure she was all that much smarter now, for just the thought of Sebastian's long dark body anywhere near hers gave her palpitations. But he couldn't stay up here forever in his father's castle folly. A few days of it would bore a man like him senseless.

The late duke had purchased the near ruin on a whim almost a dozen years ago. It had sucked up a vast proportion of the Roxbury treasury and was still a drafty, dangerous place, the moors beyond it even worse with their sinkholes and fierce winds. Sebastian would soon go back to London or Paris or wherever there was sufficient amusement to be had and leave her alone.

Frederica removed her spectacles and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She didn't want to see her embroidery anyway—she was making a dog's dinner of the vines and flowers on the pointless pillowcase. Why embellish something that was to be drooled on? It was not as though she'd ever have a man in her bed to impress with her neat French knots and chain stitches. And if that was all he'd be looking at—

A perfectly wicked thought crossed her mind. True, she had pledged to herself to never marry. She planned on hiring a much nicer companion than Mrs. Carroll in two years when she came into her funds, and living modestly on her inheritance, with perhaps a faithful dog or a few cats. Perhaps both. Men were, on the whole, disappointing creatures who cared for nothing but their own comforts, and often had fleas besides. Sebastian was the very model of such a man—selfish, careless, reckless. The play upon the family name—he was known as the God of Sin by the chin-wags—was surely deserved.

Frederica's paltry attempt at sexual experience a decade ago should probably not even be counted as such. While she had undoubtedly lost her virginity, she'd never been transported to heaven as was rumored possible. Over the years, she had achieved it for herself with considerable effort without going insane or blind, but how lovely it would be to be brought to abandon by a skillful lover.

A Sebastian who was not dead drunk or full of poppy smoke. A Sebastian who had had ten years to hone his skills and earn his disreputable reputation. Of course, he might have picked up something far less desirable than knowledge—gentlemen were dying off left and right from debauchery. But if Sebastian didn't have the pox or nasty little insects nesting in his nether hair, he just might do again.

How very shocking. She was considering making a second mistake with Sebastian. In a real bed this time, with embroidered pillowcases and clean linens and candles scattered about the room illuminating his masculine perfection.

Of course, there was a considerable impediment to her plan. Sebastian Goddard hated her.

She
would
see him. But not like this, not in a worn-out dress with her hair every which way. She would bathe and ask for apple cider vinegar to bring out the shine in her light brown hair. She would powder her face and chest to conceal her unfortunate freckles, perfume herself from top to toe, find a dress that revealed just enough of her skin. And then, if she could figure out a way, she would seduce Sebastian all over again and see if the God of Sin was a misnomer or the God's honest truth.

U
naware of the nefarious plans that were presently in train, Sebastian Goddard, eighth Duke of Roxbury—with a long string of other honorifics to his name—entered the inner ward to find his father's elderly butler clucking over a haphazard pile of trunks.

“What's all this, Warren? Miss Frederica hooking it?”

The butler blinked owlishly at him. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“Is she running off? Have I scared her senseless before she's even set eyes on me?” He hoped so. It was his ardent wish to rid himself of the duplicitous Frederica Wells for life.

“No, sir. It's her companion, Mrs. Carroll. It seems she's been dismissed.”

“Indeed? Did I tell her to hop the twig? I confess I have no memory of it.” Sebastian had dined with the woman last night—a saucy redheaded piece who all but wrote him an invitation on her dinner napkin to join her later in her bedroom. He was not averse to fucking older women, but did not want to complicate matters. Fucking anyone else in Goddard Castle was bound to bring him bad luck. Fucking Freddie had caused him no end of trouble and discomfort. He'd learned all about karma on his travels, and didn't wish to put himself in further jeopardy.

“Not you, Your Grace. Miss Frederica did so herself.”

“Did she, now? Without her companion to stand in the way, I suppose she expects me to fall into her vile clutches so my virtue can be compromised.”

Warren opened his mouth like a dying carp but said nothing. He seemed flustered by most everything Sebastian said. The duke would have to watch it so the old man didn't have an apoplexy—good help was hard to come by in this blasted, bleak Yorkshire hell.

What had his father been thinking of, buying this wreck of a castle? He'd asked the same question of Freddie ten years ago, and it made as little sense to him now as it did then. The Duchy of Roxbury had a perfectly respectable if dilapidated ancestral estate in Dorset. But his father had buried himself in all this rubble, neglecting his duties for years. Sebastian had been left with crushing debt and was now forced to sell every foot of unentailed land and every spare candlestick and chamber pot. It would be a pleasure to dispose of the castle, if he could find someone mad enough to buy it. He'd run out of assets, putting off evicting his unwanted ward as long as he possibly could. He'd always hated the castle, though his hatred of Freddie and his father had dissipated somewhat over the years. But no matter what he felt, the terms of his father's will were clear.

He passed by the armory, Warren following him like a spaniel. Dull battle-axes and battered shields and stringless longbows hung on all four walls, prompting Sebastian to contemplate taking down something to help him vent his frustration. The restocking of the armory had occasioned that house party a decade ago. His father had thought it more important to acquire maces than proper mattresses, and Sebastian had been profoundly uncomfortable the few nights he'd spent here. The night of the fancy dress ball, the pater had clomped around in tarnished mail organizing a scavenger hunt for a papier-mâché unicorn, just a pretext to allow for dalliances in the castle's cobwebby corners, specifically his own. Utter nonsense. The evening had been a dead bore, and Sebastian had planned to leave the very next day. At that point, he'd thought his father was only dicked in the nob.

To be fair, ultimately the night had not been boring. He hadn't waited around for breakfast the next morning to see a telltale blush on Freddie's cheek or listen to his hypocritical father.

He needed to get Freddie settled and out of his hair. He needed to find a wife of his own. One with pots of money who could turn a blind eye to his particular peccadilloes. Or participate in them.

He'd been a duke for eighteen months, although most of that time he hadn't even known it, cavorting in exotic places in blissful, necessary indulgence until he was finally found and informed of his father's demise. He'd missed the funeral, not that it mattered. And now he was saddled with an ape leader until he could marry her off or she turned thirty, two whole years from now.

It seemed cruel to bear the title and responsibility but have none of the benefits of a dukedom. There was precious little money and absolutely no fun, what with the dusty ledgers and disgruntled tenants and rapacious creditors to be dealt with. There were constant threats of debtors' prison, so this trip to Yorkshire came at a very convenient time. No one would think to look for him up here, since his un-interest in his father's interests was widely known. Sebastian Goddard conceal himself in a creaky suit of armor or pore over inscrutable manuscripts? Not bloody likely.

The butler cleared his throat. “Your Grace?”

“Sorry, Warren. I was woolgathering.”

“Miss Frederica would like you to take tea with her in the solar if it would be convenient.”

“Would she, now.” Tea? He'd rather swallow glass. But he might as well get this over with. Freddie had avoided him the two long days he'd been up here, as well she should. After their last meeting, he had little to say to her now and even less desire to see her. But it had to be done.

He had known Frederica Wells since she was in leading strings, a motherless girl brought to Roxbury Park when his own father hired hers. Sebastian had been sent off to school at the earliest opportunity, but his best childhood memories involved Freddie. As he recalled, she'd trailed after him like a stubborn puppy and he'd tormented her as little boys from time immemorial tormented little girls. There had been the requisite spiders. Mud pies. He hoped none was on the menu today.

His father had had great academic hopes for him, all dashed. Not that Sebastian was stupid—despite his rigorous resistance, his head was loaded with useless facts and figures—but he had not shared his father's passion for medieval antiquity. The pater had fancied himself a great scholar, hence the castle and the unicorn. When one was a duke, almost all manner of caprices were overlooked, even buggering one's secretary.

Freddie, the daughter of that secretary, was probably Phillip Goddard's idea of a virgin princess sent to help him lure the unicorn out of the woods. As there wasn't a forest for miles, unicorns did not exist and Freddie was no virgin, she must have felt somewhat useless living in the middle of this wasteland all these years.

No wonder she'd once plotted to ensnare him. But evidently seduction and forced marriage were no longer on her mind. The
on dit
around town was that she'd refused several proposals, had even gone crazy and attacked Warfield with a broadsword to make her point. Sebastian reflected Warfield was probably in need of attacking. The man was an unprincipled letch, almost as wicked as Sebastian himself.

He admired the Archibald crest on the keystone and knocked at the solar's massive oak door. He thought he heard “Come,” though through the thickness of the door and stone walls it was impossible to tell. But when he pushed open the polished wood, he stopped listening altogether. All his other senses went on alert, however. Who needed ears when the sight of Frederica Wells was enough to drive any man quite as mad as the king or his father or the frog-loving Earl of Archibald?

Where was the chubby chit he remembered? The girl who fenced and fished with him? Or even the girl crying crocodile tears? In her place was a curvaceous creature with gilt-streaked hair, her tongue licking a lucky wayward crumb from plump, pink lips. Whose plumper white breasts nearly spilled from a flimsy dress that was surely too low-cut for tea. And damn it, where was her flirtatious companion Mrs. Carroll when he had most need of her? He'd been without a woman too long if just the sight of his old enemy caused him such stimulation. This was Freddie, whose pigtails he'd pulled, whose feet he'd tripped, who'd bedeviled him like a little leech until he went away to school.

And when he had come home, she'd tried to trick and trap him, until her head was turned by the promise of a few pounds.

“Hallo, Freddie. I see you started without me.” He swiped a minuscule biscuit and swallowed it whole.

She wrinkled her perfect little powdered nose. No doubt she found the childhood nickname abhorrent. He'd have to continue calling her that to keep her at arm's length, make sure she knew she held no sway over him. Damn her father for dying ten years ago; damn his father for dying more recently; damn Freddie for not finding some other man to bother with her hair and her breasts and her rosy mouth.

She inclined her head, as if she were a queen greeting a vexatious subject. “Sebastian. Or should I say Your Grace, although that seems very odd. How was your trip north?”

By God, she had nerve. The last time he'd seen her, she had been half-naked and white-faced, every freckle on her body like a spatter of mud, their worlds smashed to pieces. One would never know from her sangfroid that they were anything to each other but passing acquaintances. He threw himself down into a chair that looked like some deposed king's throne, devilishly uncomfortable as were all the authentic furnishings in the castle. No wonder the knights in days of old were always riding off to do battle—sitting down at home was as good as getting a jousting stick up one's arse.

“Beastly. I've remembered why I never came back to visit. Every single minute is a fresh reminder.” He gave her a pointed look, and was pleased to see her blush of discomfort.