Too Wicked to Wed (12 page)
The housekeeper’s face, now limned in a spill of dull light, betrayed a look of dawning horror. The keys fell back against her apron, the gnarled fingers fisting twining together so tightly that the frail bones looked ready to crack.
“M-master Connor? But that’s impossible! He hasn’t come here since he was a wee b-bairn!”
Alexa managed a fleeting smile. “Nonetheless, he is here now.”
Rather than soothe the woman’s distress, her words only elicited a more agitated wringing of hands. “Lord, have mercy. The house in holland covers, and the larder all but empty. The earl—the present one, that is, and not his nipcheese pater—sends a bit of blunt each quarter. Not much, ye understand. Just enough fer Joseph and me to keep the slates from sliding into the sea. He made it abundant clear he never meant to come here again.”
“I am sorry for the sudden change in plans,” replied Alexa. “But His Lordship is in need a place of peace and quiet where he won’t be disturbed by any acquaintances from Town.”
“Is he ill?” Concern was evident in the tautness of the woman’s tone. “Poor mite—bit of a frail child he was, quiet and prone to fits of fever.”
Alexa nearly laughed aloud at the idea of anyone referring to the Irish Wolfhound as a “poor mite.” However, she controlled the quirk of her lips and nodded gravely. “Yes, I’m afraid he is ill.” It might be stretching the truth a bit, but it relieved her of having to make a more detailed explanation.
The announcement brought on a new chorus of clucking. “The chill…the dust…the damp…”
“We’ll manage.” She might be unfamiliar with the workings of a brothel or how to dodge murderous thugs, but in taking charge of a penny-pinched household, Alexa was right at home. “First things first, Mrs.…”
“Callaway, milady,” replied the housekeeper with a bob of her head.
“Mrs. Callaway,” she repeated. “To start with, please summon Joseph. Our coachman could use some assistance in carrying the earl to his room. I shall go inform him that help is on the way, and then, if you will show me the choice of chambers, I shall decide which one is most suitable…” She turned while speaking, already engaged in making a mental checklist of what needed to be done next.
“Just as you say, Lady Killingworth,”
Alexa nearly tripped over the granite step.
Hell’s Bells!
The woman thought she was the Wolfhound’s wife? It was, she realized, a logical assumption. And one that might prove awfully awkward to correct.
But for now, she would…let sleeping dogs lie.
The pattern hadn’t changed, the colors had merely faded to a ghost of their former hues…
Connor wished he might say the same for his memories of the room. He looked away from the damask draperies framing the narrow, diamond-paned windows and let his eyes skim over the heavy oak armoire and matching chest of drawers. Devoid of any decorative details, they looked to be relics of an earlier century, the sort consigned to the attics by anyone with a modicum of taste, he thought. Or a bonfire.
Ah, but beggars can’t be choosy.
His mouth thinned to a sardonic sneer. His father had long ago stripped the house of any valuable pieces of furniture, leaving precious little choice from the cast-offs of previous occupants.
Damn the chit for bringing him here.
He turned abruptly, tangling the linen sheets and eiderdown coverlet around his limbs. To his relief, he found the pain in his side had lessened considerably. No doubt the bottles of vile-looking liquid arrayed on the bedside table had something to do with his current condition. Still, the fact that the fever seemed to be gone was encouraging. He was determined to be on his feet as soon as possible. Avoiding, of course, any repeat of the highly embarrassing incident in the carriage.
Tugging at the pillows behind his head, the earl swore under his breath. Had he really fainted…
The oath had barely died away when a tentative knock sounded on the door. “Are you awake, sir?” Without waiting for confirmation, a female bustled in, bearing a tea tray.
The years had altered her appearance considerably. Her face, coarsened by exposure to the salt air and chill winds, was now a sea of wrinkles and her fingers were as gnarled as driftwood. She was also much stouter. And grayer.
But then again, so was he.
Her voice, however, had not changed a whit from the brusque brogue he recalled so clearly from his childhood. Nor had her manner of not mincing words. “Tis about time you paid a visit to Linsley Close, Master Connor—or I should say, Lord Killingworth.”
What, he wondered, did she see? A lad whose thin, bony features had grown even harsher, chiseled by years of dissipation and disappointment? No doubt he, too, was much changed, and not for the better.
His reply was a gruff “Hmmph.”
Undeterred by the growl, the housekeeper set down the tray and began to stir a splash of cream into the bowl of steaming porridge. “We thought you should try to take a bit of nourishment.”
As his stomach gave a loud rumble, he realized that he was ravenous. “Thank you for the warm welcome, Mrs. Callaway.” He eyed the gruel with a grimace of distaste. “But in case you have forgotten, I have never been overly fond of boiled oats. I would prefer a slab of beefsteak.”
“There is none.”
“Mayhap you might—mmmph!” The earl was forced to swallow the rest of his words, along with a helping of the porridge. “If you don’t mind, I am now of an age to be capable of feeding myself,” he grumbled, reaching up to remove the spoon from his mouth.
Mrs. Callaway handed over the bowl, but remained standing by his side. “Very well.” Crossing her arms, she fixed him with a basilisk stare, as if to ensure he didn’t slip the stuff to the large marmalade cat who now lay purring at the foot of the bed. “If you finish every bite, Her Ladyship allows that you
might
be permitted a bit of boiled fowl for supper.”
It took the earl a moment to digest the meaning of her words.
“May I be the first to offer my congratulations, milord. It’s high time you settled down,” she continued. “Isolated as we are here, we rarely hear a word about your doings in Town—save for the occasional bits of scandalous gossip.” Ignoring the earl’s sputter, she poured him some tea. “She seems a very sensible and capable lady.”
“You may quickly revise that opinion when you get to know her better,” muttered Connor, once he had recovered his voice.
“Eh? What’s that?” She cocked an ear and bent in closer. “I am afraid my hearing isn’t as good as it used to be.”
“Just as well.” Feeling in need of something a good deal stronger than tea, he waved away the cup. “Bring me some brandy, if you please.”
Mrs. Callaway pulled a face. “Oh, I don’t know, sir. I had better consult with Lady Killingworth—”
“On second thought, I shall ask her myself.” He braced his shoulders against the pillows. “Kindly tell my…lady that I wish to see her. Immediately.”
“I’m afraid you may have to wait for a while, milord. She has just gone out for a walk.”
So the impertinent chit thought she could run tame at Linsley Close?
He would soon see that notion put to rest.
Along with a number of other gross misconceptions.
Alexa climbed over the stile, careful to avoid the sections of rotted wood. Despite the musty sheets, sagging mattress, and pervasive chill of the drafty bedchamber, she had dropped off into a deep slumber earlier in the day. But on waking, she had suddenly needed to escape from the manor house and…
Think.
Lud, everything had happened so quickly! She had been too shocked by the attack, too worried about the Wolfhound, to think clearly, and had relied on instinct rather than intellect.
In the light of day, however, her position appeared a good deal more precarious than she had first imagined. She didn’t need the slip of her boot to remind her she was on very slippery footing.
One little misstep…
Gathering her skirts, she jumped down to firmer ground. As the earl had taken pains to point out, looking back was an exercise in futility. Better to keep moving ahead, though she couldn’t help feeling it was not always easy to escape the past.
Regrets, remorse, and old mistakes seemed to have no trouble keeping pace.
At least she had the quick-thinking Mr. Daggett to help keep her one step ahead of disaster. She had no doubt that the rogue—who could likely mesmerize a cobra with his silver-tongued charm—had won over Aunt Adelaide, and that all was going according to plan back in London. The elderly lady had a soft spot for handsome, well-spoken gentlemen.
Sebastian, on the other hand, would be not be easily fobbed off with some farrididdle. With any luck, the message would take some time to make its way north to the family hunting box in Scotland. After that, if all hell broke loose, she would simply have to face it.
Turning sharply, Alexa crested the hill and found herself looking out over the sea. Whitecaps frothed upon the wind-whipped water, foam and spray thrown up by the collision of two such powerful forces of nature. The dull roar of the surf against the cliffs echoed the same message.
As if she needed any reminder of the tumult caused when opposites hit up against each other.
Still, the scene had a stark, elemental beauty to it. A spattering of sunlight sent quicksilver highlights dancing across the rough seas. High above the shimmering water a lone kestrel floated on the swirling air currents, while gulls skimmed along the deserted strand. She stood for a moment longer, listening to their raucous cries, before turning back to the narrow footpath.
It led around a high outcropping of granite, its weathered crags fringed with tufts of wild grasses and whin, then skirted a stone fence and followed the twists and dips of the rugged hillside down to the distant paddocks. The going was steep, and Alexa had to pause more than once to catch her breath. Looking around as she leaned up against a broken gatepost, she noted that the land had the same untended, abandoned look as the manor house.
Land left fallow. Structures allowed to crumble.
Lord Killingworth clearly had no interest in preventing his property from falling into a state of ruinous disrepair.
She wondered why.
There was no sign of another soul. Indeed, the only other living creatures she had seen were the soaring sea birds and a small vole scurrying through…
A stirring in the tall grass close by caught her eye. Bleating softly, several shaggy goats rose from behind a sheltering mound of sandy soil and began to graze, accompanied by a pair of tiny kids. She had to look twice. Their appearance—coats of long, finespun strands of pale ochre and gray—was very different from that of any livestock she was accustomed to seeing.
Intrigued, she climbed atop the fence and reached out to touch one of the animals. In spite of the tangled knots and clinging burrs, the wool was soft as silk beneath her fingertips.
Looking up from its munching, the animal gave a grumpy snort and pulled away.
Alexa stared thoughtfully at the twist of hair left in her hand, then tucked it away in the pocket of her pelisse. The sun had dipped behind a covering of clouds and the wind was beginning to cut through the felted wool. Chilled, she hurried her steps toward the house.
Not that she expected an overly warm welcome when she got there.
I
understand that felicitations are in order,” said Connor with scathing politeness. “I wasn’t aware that you were married.”
“I assure you, sir, I am no more happy about this unfortunate misunderstanding than you are.” As Alexa’s cheeks were already flushed from the wind, it was hard to tell whether she had colored at his sarcasm. “If you have any suggestions on how to correct the erroneous assumption without stirring up trouble, I would be delighted to hear them.”
His jaw tightened.
She had a point.
Apparently taking his silence for agreement, Alexa continued, “It seems that the best way to avoid a scandal is to go along with the charade for the short time we are together here. There are only two elderly servants, and the place is remote enough that word of a Wolfly wife will never reach Town.”
“It can’t be short enough,” growled Connor. It was, he knew, an ungracious remark but during the long wait for her to return from her walk, he had worked himself into a truly foul mood.
Uncomfortably aware of his tangled locks, unshaven face, and sapped strength, he felt helpless.
Humiliated.
He resented her intrusion into his life—all the more so for the unwanted spark of attraction she set off in the deep, dark places he didn’t want to think about.
Damn the chit.
Even if he wished to like her, he couldn’t afford any such tender sentiment. Not for a whole regiment of reasons.
“That dressing on your wound has to be changed,” said Alexa, patently ignoring his rudeness. “And as the fact that you have been shot is best kept under wraps, I had best see to it myself.”
Though he wished to object, Connor realized that a relapse would only make the present situation more untenable. Gritting his teeth, he leaned back and submitted to her ministrations.
As she leaned closer, her slim fingers working at the fastenings of his nightshirt, Connor couldn’t help noticing that the long walk had restored a bit of life to her features. The blue of her eyes was no longer washed out and the salt air had brought a glow back to her creamy skin. She had, he also noted, removed the pins from her hair and tied it back with a simple ribbon. The dampness had given it a sinuous curl. Like a waterfall of burnished gold, it cascaded down her back, stirring a tantalizing scent…
“Lift your shoulders, sir,” murmured Alexa.
He shifted so that she could slide the nightshirt down off his arms and his chest.
“Now turn to your right.”
Damnation.
He was beginning to have a notion of how a horse must feel on the blocks at Tattersall’s, poked and prodded for every little imperfection. Laid nearly naked, the rumpled linen bunched around his hips, Connor felt uncomfortably vulnerable. Stripped of his pride.
Snipping away the bandages, Alexa leaned in to examine the wound. “No sign of infection,” she announced, making one last swab of the stitched flesh before starting to apply the ointment supplied by Cameron’s army surgeon. “The fever seems to have passed as well. How are you feeling, sir?”
Weak as a newborn kitten. Snappish as a cornered wolf.
Which made him all the more angry at her for witnessing his pitiful state. In a bedroom, he wasn’t used to feeling awkward, unsure.
Unperturbed by his surly silence, Alexa methodically folded a padding of lint and tore off a fresh length of linen. “Lean forward, so that I may ensure that the bandage is wrapped snugly.” Her voice betrayed no emotion. She might have been speaking of tying up a parcel of candlesticks or broken forks.
By God, if he were to suffer embarrassment, so would she!
Slipping his arms around her, he gave a little yank.
Taken by surprise, she fell awkwardly against his bare chest, the momentum tumbling both of them back into the pillows.
Her cheek was soft as a sun-ripened peach, the flesh like velvet against his bristly chin as she struggled to right herself.
“Sir!” she squeaked, her lips pursing in outrage just inches above his.
Damn, but her mouth looked lush and tantalizingly sweet…
Connor had intended all along to kiss her, but not quite so hungrily.
Though lacking their usual strength, his hands framed her face in a sure hold, tilting her head back to open her more fully to his advance. His tongue slid inside her, tasting the salt of the sea, the tang of wild heather, and some ethereal spice that was indescribably feminine.
A groan, undeniably male, rumbled deep in his throat.
His fingers twined up through her curls, still damp with drizzle, and worked the ribbon free. Ringlets fell like a shower of silk across his shoulders. Another groan sounded as he traced the delicate shell of her ear. The tip of his thumb lingered in a stroking caress of its sensitive lobe, and though the sea was half a mile away, he was aware of a strange sound in his ears, like the pounding of surf.
The desire to tease her into confusion had now crested into something far more powerful. Swept up in its current, Connor deepened his embrace.
In her twistings and turnings, Alexa had come to be straddling his middle, her skirts rucked up about her waist, her stockings sliding down her shapely legs. Only a ruffle of lace and a thin layering of lawn cotton and linen lay between the heat of her innermost thighs and the fast-steeling ridge of his arousal. The force of his embrace pitched her forward, and as she slid along his length, Connor felt a stab of exquisite fire.
The flames licked hotter as he realized she was no longer fighting off his advances. The shock of the first assault had softened from her mouth. Her lips had parted and needed little coaxing to open fully to him. He nipped at her flesh, then filled her with another long, lapping kiss.
Her tongue touched his in tentative response.
“Hellion,” he murmured, slowly releasing her. “You like playing with fire, don’t you?”
“I—I…” Her dazed reply trailed off to an inarticulate gasp as he arched his hips into her. Knees clenching around him, she began moving again, back and forth in a slow, rocking movement that threatened to explode every last vestige of self-control. Her palms, pressed flat against his nipples, were also teasing the sensitive nubs of flesh into arousal.
A wave of liquid heat, far more potent than the costliest brandy or champagne, surged through him, rousing another groan from deep within his throat. He was already cupping her breasts, and it was tantalizingly clear through the rain-damp wool, that their tips were turning to hot little points of flame beneath his touch.
“Sweeting.” Connor hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but was gratified to hear her moan in response. He ran his hands to her waist, then slowly caressed the curves of her hips. She arched into his arms.
Women had always come easily to him. They seemed to take his aloofness as a challenge, though in truth it wasn’t. Apparently Alexa Hendrie was no different.
And yet she was.
Utterly different. He had never desired anyone in quite the way he wanted her. Perhaps need was a better word…
Need.
Connor could feel her growing damp. By now, her passage would be slick with honeyed heat. He ached to thrust himself inside her, to be enveloped by sweet, sweet warmth. Mayhap she could light a spark in his chest, one strong enough to thaw the chill that gripped his core.
Hell, his devil-benighted bones were getting tired of the unremitting cold.
His hands suddenly froze on her thighs.
Ye God—what was he doing?
She was an inexperienced young lady and he was a world-weary rake. Despite his many faults, he had never preyed on innocents.
And yet…
Just how innocent could she be? She had dared to disguise herself as a man, she had dared gamble with rakish gamesters. What other rules had she flaunted? What other risks had she taken? He was still sure she hadn’t much experience in being kissed. But that didn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t much experience with men.
The thrumming of his blood grew louder. He knew enough of Alexa Hendrie to have learned that her passions—be they anger, compassion, or some other elemental emotion—were easily aroused. That there was a powerful physical attraction between them was undeniable. If she had already indulged in the forbidden pleasure of an illicit affair, surely that released him from all strictures of honor?
Fair game.
That was how it was played among the members of the
ton
who craved excitement. The young lady had made it clear she thought herself up to the challenge of hazarding her chances with rogues and reprobates. But did she truly understand the rules?
It took him a moment to realize the sound in his ears was not the echoing of his own doubts, his own searching questions.
“S-sir, this must s-stop. At once!” His fleeting hesitation had allowed her to recapture her breath. And with it a measure of reason. Drawing in ragged little gulps of air, she sought to disentangle herself from his arms. “Any overexertion may bring on a relapse of fever.” A flutter of her hand grazed his forehead. “Indeed, your brow is burning. I—I had better mix a draught of willow bark.”
The earl was quite sure the heat of his flesh had nothing to do with any recurring illness. Still, reluctant as he was to lose the intimacy of her warmth, he had no choice but to let her go.
“I am in no danger of expiring, Lady Alexa.” He decided the best course of action was to make a sardonic joke of what had just occurred, rather than admit that these odd flares of fire between them were as confusing to him as they were to her. “But neither herbs nor drams will have the least effect on what ails me. Cold water, perhaps, but only if applied somewhat lower than my brow.”
Alexa blinked, clearing the last smolderings of passion from her gaze. “No doubt you are quite unused to going more than a night or two without a female warming your sheets.”
“And polishing the knob of my bedpost.” Connor shifted under her weight. Would that he were as ruthless as his reputation implied. He had no doubt she had been his for the taking. Gentlemanly scruples could be a deucedly inconvenient—and uncomfortable—encumbrance. Especially when the lady in question showed not a whit of appreciation for his noble sacrifice.
“Then I breakfast on virgins. All depraved rakehells do, you know.”
“Oh, you are…” Her words cut off in a gasp as her wriggling pulled the rumpled nightshirt—along with the last shred of decency—down from his groin.
“Wicked?” he suggested with a lascivious grin. Oh, yes, it was truly, truly wicked to take such sinful amusement in seeing her eyes grow wide as saucers. “I did warn you of the dangers in consorting with a Wolf.”
Her gaze remained riveted on his rampant arousal. That she appeared more fascinated than shocked goaded him to even greater wickedness.
“You are welcome to touch it, if you like.”
The movement seemed to recall her to the utter impropriety of her position. With a faint gasp, Alexa scrambled off him, her feet finding the floor amid a welter of flapping skirts and flailing limbs. Bodice askew, garters fallen around her ankles, hair tangled in wanton disarray, she looked delightfully
en déshabillé
, as if she had just been tumbled up against a tavern wall.
Honor be damned.
At that moment, he was sorely tempted to follow her out of bed and do just that. Instead, he contented himself with a crooked grin.
“You are tantalizingly lovely.”
“You are dangerously delirious.”
“Then perhaps you ought to come back to bed and minister to my dying needs.”
The purse of her lips, still swollen with the force of his kisses, suddenly curled from indignation to an expression of outright horror.
Connor turned to see the source of her dismay. The housekeeper, her arms loaded with a tray of tea and freshly baked scones, had nudged the door open without a warning knock. “I thought Your Lordship and Your Ladyship might be wanting a bit of refreshment—” One look at Alexa sent her crabbing backward with an audible gasp. “I beg your pardon,” she stammered. “I hadn’t thought…I didn’t mean…”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Callaway. You may put it on the dressing table,” said Connor easily. He couldn’t resist adding, “I am sure that my…lady would welcome a reviving cup of tea after all her strenuous exercise.”
A daggered glare was accompanied by a very unladylike word, said just loud enough for him to hear it.
The housekeeper set the tray down, gave a quick bob of her head and lost no time in hurrying from the room, taking great care to close the door behind her.
Alexa was still for a moment. As she turned to mix up a glass of the medicine, the earl saw that her hands were shaking slightly. He certainly accomplished his goal of embarrassing her, but the fact gave him precious little satisfaction.
“Look, it was you who suggested the charade of newlyweds,” he said, seeking to temper his earlier sardonic comments with a note of gentler humor. “I was merely playing my role as the besotted husband.”
“Playing it to the hilt,” she muttered.
He couldn’t help but chuckle as he took the glass she had prepared. The young lady might nearly have lost her virtue to a rakehell rogue, but her spirit—and her sense of humor—were still intact. “Our acquaintance does seem to be marked by flair for dramatic scenes.”
“It was you who began the first act by shoving me up against an erotic etching and kissing me.”
“It was you who chose to barge onto the stage of a bawdy house,” he countered, enjoying the fact that quick wits and clever retorts were among her repertoire of charms. Indeed, dialogue with her was nearly as exhilarating as the sexual play. “Besides, you have to admit you like being kissed.”
Her cheeks took on a guilty flush. “Being ravished by a lecherous libertine? I most certainly do not!”
“Your words say one thing, but your body, when I touch you, says quite another. Had I delved within your folds and caressed your most secret spot, I could have easily brought you to ultimate ecstasy.”
Her hot denial suddenly died away, and in her face he saw the confusion aroused by her own, undeniable passions. Which only made her appear more sweetly desirable.
