Too Wicked to Love (21 page)

“That is indeed good news.” Brooks walked to the door. “But I would advise you not to go on any trips until this matter is settled, Your Grace.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked back. “It might give the wrong impression.”

John gave a tight nod. “Understood. A footman will show you out.”

“Please convey my best wishes to your bride,” the inspector said, then stepped out into the hallway.

John stood where he was for a long moment, not fooled by the seemingly casual conversation he had just had with the inspector. The man thought he was guilty, but he would investigate everything thoroughly before accusing the Duke of Evermayne of murder.

Tomorrow, he would go through his father’s notes again. There had to be something in there that would point the finger at Raventhorpe, or at least prove John’s innocence. If not. . .

If not, his new wife would find herself a widow before she even had time to be a bride.

Pushing the notion to the back of his mind, he left the room to rejoin his wedding celebration.

The guests had left. The sun had set. The girls slept peacefully upstairs in their nursery. And the new Duchess of Evermayne regarded herself in her looking glass as she prepared for her wedding night.

The thin white cotton nightdress she wore clung to the curves of her body in a way that hid nothing, with provocative lace insets to tease at a glimpse of skin and covered with a sheer white pretense of a robe. She had left her hair hanging loose about her shoulders, and even though she had shared her body with John before, she still reveled in the magic of the night.

They had said the words, and now she would become his wife in truth.

As if he had heard her thoughts, the door between the rooms opened, and John stepped through. He had shed his wedding attire and wore a lush robe of dark blue velvet. She rose from her dressing table as he closed the door behind him and turned to face her.

“You look beautiful.”

Heat warmed her cheeks. “I want to look beautiful for you.”

“You always do.” His lips quirked. “Even if you were naked, I would still find you beautiful.”

“John!” She laughed.

“I love the way you laugh.” He came to her, sweeping her into his arms. The flimsy material of her attire could not block the heat of his flesh, and her own body responded, pulse accelerating, heat curling low in her belly.

“You make me happy,” she whispered, then gasped as he peeled down her sheer robe with one firm yank, trapping her hands at her sides when the tie prevented further disrobing.

“Mine,” he murmured, then pressed her hard against him, taking her mouth in a kiss that drowned her in hot sensation.

Arousal seared through her, searching, hungry, demanding. She struggled to free her hands, but he held her fast, rubbing her against him. Her breasts swelled at the friction, her nipples surging to hard points that quickly became sensitized to excruciating pleasure. She groaned, surrendered, became pliant in his arms. Anything he wanted was his.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” He whispered the words against her throat as he nipped the flesh there. “Tell me.”

“I want to touch you.” When he raised his head to look at her, she stood on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his, tasting him, trying to convey what she felt.

His hands clenched in her clothing, then he ripped his mouth from hers. “Yes. Touch me.”

She let out a long breath. “Help me.”

He jerked open the tie of her wrapper, peeled it down her arms. The instant the garment was gone, she reached for the belt of his robe, tugged it open. He was naked beneath it, his erection thrusting forward as if eager for her touch.

She reached for him, curious, fascinated. When she closed her fingers around the shaft, his breath hissed from between his lips, and he leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He reached for her blindly, clasping his hand on her shoulder and thrusting his hips forward as she continued to explore him. Energized by his enthusiasm, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him, still running her fingers up and down that hot, hard flesh.

A guttural noise erupted from his throat. He pulled back from her so her hands fell away from him. He shrugged off the robe, let it drop to the floor.

She started to unbutton her nightdress, and he joined in. Once the last button came loose, he grabbed her gown in both hands and tugged it over her head, then threw it across the room. She stood before him, naked, uncertain. She started to cover her bosom, her sex, but he guided her hands so that she cupped her breasts.

“That’s right, offer them to me.” He bent and took one nipple into his mouth.

She shuddered, whimpered. Wet heat bloomed between her legs. Her head spun, rational thought swirling away. She swayed. He grabbed her hips, steadying her without ceasing his delicious torment.

“My wife.” He tongued her nipple, then moved to the other one, stoking the fires within her even higher. “God, I love you.”

“I love you. I want to . . . I hardly know what I want,” she groaned. She dropped her hand, found his shaft. “I want this.” When he looked up at her, his gaze hot and wild and hungry, she added, “I want my husband.”

“Aw, sweetheart.” He dropped random kisses on her bosom and neck as he straightened, then took her mouth in a carnal, openmouthed kiss that shut down her brain and singed her nerve endings. When he slipped his hand between her legs, stroked her there, her knees nearly buckled.

“Bed,” he commanded, bumping her back a step with his body.

“Bed,” she agreed, thrusting her hands into his hair and holding on as he fed on her mouth again and guided her backwards. When she felt the edge of the mattress against her bottom, she tried to ease onto it without breaking the kiss. She missed and would have slid to the floor if he had not caught her.

“Easy, love.” With a grin, he bent, grabbed her with one arm and stood up with her draped over his shoulder.

“John!” Scandalized, aroused, she laughed and slapped her hands against his back.

“My, my, what is this?” His big hand caressed her bare buttock. “What a lovely bottom you have, wife.” He gave her a light slap.

“John!” The light smack fueled her desire, stunning her. When he dumped her on the bed, then came down on top of her, his weight crushing her into the mattress, that desire exploded into aching, maddening need.

His erection rubbed against her thigh, and she spread her legs, arching her hips. “Take me, John. Make me a wife.”

He sucked in a breath, his dark eyes ferocious as he looked into hers. He took her wrists, pinned them to either side of her head. “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you.”

“Tell me you want me.” He rocked against her, nudged her with his shaft.

“I do want you.” She tugged at her hands, but he held her fast. Inexplicably, this only increased the feral need raging for release. “Make me your wife, John. Please, before I go mad.”

“My wife,” he whispered, lowering himself between her thighs.

“Your wife,” she agreed, then cried out as he eased inside her, so slowly she wanted to scream. He filled her completely, stoking the ache, easing and inflaming the hunger all at once.

“Mine,” he murmured.

“Yours.”

He grinned like a pirate, then hooked his arms beneath her bent knees and sent her to paradise, claiming her irrevocably as his wife.

“L
ady Evermayne.”

Genny grunted and buried her face in the pillow.

“Lady Evermayne.” The sleep-roughened baritone rumbled near her ear. “Wake up, my love.”

Genny frowned and eased one eyelid open. “What?”

John smiled down at her, his jaw darkened by his morning beard, lending him the look of a rogue. “Are you always so out of sorts in the morning, wife? Perhaps I shall have to brighten your mood.” He cuddled against her, his erection prodding her hip.

“Heavens, John! How can you be so randy so early in the morning?” Despite her protest, another part of her, that newly discovered sensual side of her, thrilled at his condition.

“ ’Tis a man’s natural state upon waking, love, and more so when I wake up with you.” He nuzzled her neck and cupped her breast.

The gentle hum of desire flickered to life in a body she had thought completely sated. She shifted beneath the covers, winced as her aching muscles protested. “You are quite the enthusiastic lover.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“Not at all. Just an observation.” She rolled over so she could look at him.

He propped himself up on his elbow, then bent and kissed her with lingering thoroughness. “Good morning, wife.”

“Good morning, husband.” Curious, she rubbed her hand along his jaw. “Scratchy.”

“I will shave this morning.” He studied her with concern creasing his brow. “How do you feel? Was I too rough last night?”

“No.” She stretched, grimaced as her muscles protested. “I am certain I will become used to it.”

“I apologize. I will endeavor to be more gentle.”

“I am fine, John. Truly.”

He traced his fingers along her cheek. “My little warrior. You need only tell me if I need to move more slowly.”

She could not stop the grin that curved her lips. “Well, that worked, too.”

He laughed and dropped a kiss on her lips. “I have created a monster.”

“No, you have created a wife. I want to be a good wife to you, John.” She looked him straight in the eye. “And as your wife, I do not expect secrets between us. You have not told me about your visitor yesterday.”

He sighed, lifted her hand, and pressed a kiss to it. “How did you hear about that?”

“Believe it or not, John Re—John St. Giles, I do notice when my husband leaves his own wedding celebration. Who was he?”

“I was hoping to spare you any worry.”

“Too late. I have been worrying since yesterday. Who was he?”

“Inspector Brooks from Scotland Yard.”

“What?” She sat up, her playfulness evaporating. “What did he want? You are still here . . . why? What did you tell him?”

“Calm down, love.” John sat up, then put his arm around her and leaned back, cuddling with her against the pillows. “He asked some questions. I answered them. I also told him about Raventhorpe.”

“Did he believe you?”

“I have no idea. I did give him Samuel’s name and Annabelle’s. I hope their stories will influence him to believe in my innocence.”

“What if it does not? What if he decides you are guilty?”

“He does not seem a man to make snap judgments. He will investigate, and hopefully, in the meantime, I will find clues in my father’s journal that will clear my name.”

“What if he comes back today and takes you away?”

“Now, now.” He tightened his embrace. “We cannot think that way. We only have this moment, and we cannot borrow trouble. I know I am innocent. There must be some proof of it somewhere.”

“I am scared, John.” She fought back panic choking her. “I only just found you. I cannot lose you already.”

He remained silent for a long moment. “Perhaps we should not have wed,” he said finally. “The last thing I want is to hurt you.”

“Stop right there.” She sat up so she could look him in the face. “I chose this of my own free will. I would rather have a short time with you than no time at all. I just . . . we have only been married a day. Is it selfish of me to want more than that?”

“No, sweetheart. Not at all.” He caressed her cheek. “I do not deserve you, Genny. Your love humbles me.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, his mouth gentle, reverent. As if he tried to communicate with a single kiss the power of his love.

Her own heart slowly turned over in her chest. She took his face in her hands, responded to the kiss with just as much care, as much feeling. Did he know? Could he feel the depth of her love?

“Hey, now.” He broke the kiss, then swiped her cheek with his thumb, holding it up so she could see the dampness. “Do not cry, love. Please. It breaks my heart.”

“I did not know I was.” She sniffled, swiped at the moisture trailing down her face. “I do not want our time together to be one of tears.”

“Agreed.” He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “No more tears. Smiles and cries of passion only.”

He surprised a laugh from her, one that emerged half like a sob. “I never realized how lusty you are, wicked man.”

“I hid it well when I thought I could not have you.” He made a face. “It was not easy, not with you invading my room in your nightdress all the time.”

“Well, I had the most improper dreams about you.”

His features sharpened with interest. “Oh?”

“They kept me awake some nights.”

“Only some nights? I must have been better at hiding my lust for you than I thought.”

“I am fairly new to lust.” An impish impulse had her yanking the bedclothes back to display the nearly irresistible erection that had been tenting the sheets. “Though I am willing to learn.”

“I thought you were tired. And in pain.”

“Is this painful?” She trailed her fingers along the hard shaft.

He narrowed his eyes. “It’s getting there.”

“Maybe I can help you.” She shoved aside her own covers and straddled him. “Will this work?”

“Oh, yeah.” He grasped her hips while she gripped his shoulders. “Hold tight, sweetheart.” He guided her so she sank down on him, taking him deeply into her body. “Oh, God, yes.”

“My goodness.” At his urging, she began to move up and down, at first tentatively, but then with more confidence. “This is like riding my gelding.”

He barked a laugh. “Hardly, love.”

She laughed. “Well, no, you are hardly gelded, are you?”

“Hell, no.” He tugged her head down and began kissing her. Slowly. As if he had all the time in the world to learn her taste, to savor her essence. He barely moved inside her, flexing his hips so that they rocked together in an easy, gentle rhythm.

Somehow, his tenderness devastated her more thoroughly than his wild passion. The tension simmered rather than boiled, building steadily, one slick stroke at a time. She grabbed the headboard, clinging as he moved her the way he wanted, teasing her with deep, slow kisses to her mouth and breasts. He unraveled her, one layer at a time, taking her apart, viewing her essence, learning her secrets. Swamped by emotion, stripped bare by sensation, she spoke from her heart.

“Give me your child, John. Give me a piece of you I can hold forever.”

His face tensed with a ferocity that should have scared her but only thrilled her. He gripped her hips more tightly, closed his eyes. Thrust once, twice. A guttural cry ripped from him as he surged one last time and held her there while he shuddered.

She watched him, fascination and tenderness and satisfaction curving her lips. She had pleased him, driven him past his famous control. And, just maybe, they had made a child this morning.

He opened his eyes, and the way he looked at her—utter possession, boundless love—set her quivering. He pulled her head down, kissed her. Then he flipped them over so she landed on her back with him on top of her. His smile had her parting her legs even as he slipped his fingers between them.

“Your turn.”

Father Holm urged his aging nag faster as it pulled his little cart along the road. Finally, after all these weeks, he knew for certain where he could find John St. Giles! The letter rested in his pocket like a lead brick, the onerous task of finding its owner beginning to weigh on him. But it was his sacred duty, and he took such things very seriously.

John St. Giles had just become the new Duke of Evermayne. All he needed to do was go to the Evermayne estate and hand the letter to the new duke. That had been the stipulation, that he personally deliver the letter to none other than John St. Giles. Then his duty would be discharged.

“Stop!” A brawny masked man emerged from the trees at the side of the road, pointing a revolver at him.

Father Holm slowed the cart. “I am a man of the Church! Do not incur God’s wrath today, my good sir. Step back from the temptation of thievery!”

“I said stop.” The fellow came closer, his weapon never wavering.

The vicar pulled up on the reins, bringing the cart to a halt. “Think about what you are doing, young man. I have no wealth for you to steal.”

“So you say.” The brigand signaled with his weapon. “Get down, Father.”

“Think about what you are doing, my son!”

“I am. And what I’m doing can get me out of a nasty fix.”

The vicar hesitated, then slowly began to climb out of the cart. “You will regret this wickedness, young man,” he warned.

Peter watched the vicar climb out of the cart and resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow. Damn Raventhorpe anyway for sending him on this mad quest. Find the vicar, he had said. Find out what he wants from St. Giles. They had split up to look for the holy man, and only by pure luck had Peter spotted him as the cart started along the road to Evermayne.

This fellow might well know something that would allow Peter to finally escape Raventhorpe’s employ. At the very least, perhaps this St. Giles fellow would pay for whatever information the vicar had for him.

“Young man, think about your soul,” the vicar said, once his feet were on the ground. “ ‘Thou shall not steal!’ ”

“Keep your sermons. What do you want with John St. Giles?”

The vicar stiffened. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Leave off, Father. Everyone knows you have been coming around here looking for the bloke for weeks now. What do you want with him?”

“That is a private matter between me and His Grace.”

“His Grace?”

“His Grace the duke.”

“What does a duke have to do with this St. Giles fellow?”

The vicar gave him a cautious look. “Surely you have heard? John St. Giles just assumed the title Duke of Evermayne. It was in all the newspapers.”

“Oh, sure. Sure. I knew that.” He hadn’t actually, but that didn’t matter now. If this St. Giles fellow was a duke now, he could certainly afford to pay for whatever secrets the vicar harbored.

“My son, stop this madness. Allow me to deliver my message to His Grace. I assure you, I have nothing of value worth stealing.”

“Yes, you do, Father. The message is what I want.”

The vicar stiffened. “No. I am on a mission to fulfill a sacred promise. I cannot give you the message. It is meant only for the eyes of John St. Giles.”

“For his eyes? So it’s a written message?”

The vicar gave a little groan. “Yes, a message from a dead man. Surely of no value to you.”

“Where is this message?”

“I will not give it to you.”

Peter pointed the gun in his face. “Yes, you will.”

The vicar raised his chin. “I will not.”

“Damn it, Vicar! I don’t want to shoot you.”

“Then do not shoot. Let us go our separate ways, my son.”

“I can’t. I need that message.”

“No. You will have to shoot me.”

“Damn it.” He stared at the holy man for a moment. “I don’t want to go to hell for killing a vicar, but I
will
get that message.”

The shorter man folded his arms. “I refuse.”

“Sorry about this.” He shoved his revolver in his belt, then swung a fist and clocked the churchman.

The vicar fell to the ground, groaning and rubbing his jaw. Peter grabbed him by the front of his coat, dragged him to his feet, and started pummeling the smaller man. Each time he struck, he said, “Give me the message.”

Each time, the vicar refused.

Finally, the older man collapsed, unconscious.

Peter stared down at the beaten pastor, scowling. How the devil was he supposed to find this message if the fellow couldn’t tell him where it was? Finally, it occurred to him. He could search the man, the cart, any bags he had. He started with the man and hit gold almost immediately. The vicar carried an envelope in his coat pocket. A name was scrawled across it, though the letters meant little to him since he could not read. He recognized a ‘G’ though; he had seen that letter when someone wrote his own name. And he knew that St. Giles had a ‘G’ in it.

“This has to be it,” Peter muttered. He stuffed the envelope in his own pocket. He started to stand, then noticed a coin in the road. “Must have fallen out of his coat,” he muttered, and bent down to pick it up.

A shot rang over his head and struck the cart.

The old nag screamed, then set off at a run, taking the wagon along with it. And thundering straight at him was a masked man dressed in black, riding a black stallion. On a stretch of road that had once belonged to Raventhorpe’s family.

Black Bill.

As the highwayman raised his gun again, Peter jerked his own out of his belt and fired it at the approaching rider, causing him to swerve. Then he ran like the devil himself was after him and plunged into the woods.

Gunshots brought Father Holm out of his stupor. When he opened his eyes, a masked man in black—a different one from the one who had assaulted him—was leaning over him. He should have been afraid, but something in the man’s calm demeanor made the vicar believe the man meant him no harm.

“How many fingers, Father?” the masked man asked.

“Three,” the vicar answered.

“Good. Let’s get you out of here. Can you ride?”

The vicar nodded. “If we go slowly. I am somewhat the worse for wear, I am afraid.”

“Where were you headed, Father? Perhaps I can assist.”

“Evermayne.” His head began to spin again. He patted his coat, shoved his hand in the pocket. Empty. “Gone,” he whispered.