Wicked (14 page)

“Your hair is such an unusual shade. Did you inherit it from your mother?”

“I have no idea. I don’t remember much about her.”

“We have that in common.”

“You don’t remember your mother, either?”

“No, not at all. I don’t even know her name. Or my father’s.”

“How sad for you.”

“Yes, it is sad. It’s always bothered me.”

“I can imagine it would,” she said. “I have fleeting visions of me being very tiny, sitting on her lap.”

“If you look like her, she must have been very pretty.”

“I’d like to think she was.”

She turned so she was facing him, and still, she didn’t shove him away, which was an encouraging sign. Then again, she was on her third glass of wine and that was just the ones he’d seen her drink. She’d probably had more at the supper party, and he was tantalized by the notion that she might be intoxicated.

He thought liquor worked wonders on a woman’s disposition, and he was more than happy to take advantage when inhibitions were lowered.

She gazed up at him, her green eyes probing, digging deep.

“Tell me something,” she said.

“Anything.”

“Why did you agree to Stanley’s scheme?”

He shrugged, trying to be flip. “Why not?”

“Don’t act like that,” she scolded, frowning.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s a game, like the entire affair doesn’t disturb you.”

“All right,” he nodded. “Let’s be candid.”

“Let’s be.”

He pressed himself to her, pushing her against the wall. He could feel every inch of her, her firm breasts, her flat belly, her shapely thighs. His cock sprang to attention, turning hard as stone.

“He asked me,” James admitted, “when he’s never asked me for any favor before. I said yes. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

“Why couldn’t you refuse? What is his hold over you?”

“He has no
hold
. Despite his gruff exterior, he’s showered my life with blessings. I’m grateful for them.”

“Why did he do all this for you? It can’t be because his wife demanded it.”

“The rumor is that I’m his natural-born son.”

“Are you?”

“How could I be? Can you picture Edwina—or any wife—welcoming a bastard child into her home? She was kind to me. She didn’t live long after I arrived—her health was failing when I got here—but for the period when I knew her, she was very kind.”

“You don’t resemble him in even the slightest way.”

“No. That’s why I’ve never given much credence to the gossip.”

“And Mr. Oswald? What does he say? Have you asked him?”

“A thousand times.”

“What is his explanation? It can’t be that you were the one lucky street urchin, selected from all the street urchins in London.”

“He claims it was exactly that. He claims he wrote to the orphanage and requested a healthy, smart boy to entertain Edwina in her last days. I was the one who was sent.”

“You believe him?”

“Of course not. It’s how he manipulates me. He realizes that I’d love to know, so he hides the truth. If I learned it, he’d have no further means of influencing my behavior.”

Suddenly, his heart was pounding. He never discussed the situation with others. Lucas had been apprised, but mostly, people assumed he was a poor relative or that he was Stanley’s ward and reared at Summerfield out of legal duty.

James never clarified any misconceptions, and he most definitely never expounded on his place in the household. Yet with no effort at all, she’d drawn out the whole story, and he didn’t like that she had such an ability to delve and pry.

Needing a moment to compose himself, he took her glass of wine, downed the contents, then spun away to refill it. He sipped at it, watching her as she watched him in return.

He set the glass on a nearby table, then he came back and rested his palms on her waist, pulling her to him. She studied him, wary and a tad aggrieved, but she didn’t tell him to stop.

“Why would you sire a child for him?” she inquired. “I don’t understand it.”

“I told you: He asked it of me.”

“How could you blithely lie down and commit marital acts with impunity? We’re not even remotely acquainted. How could you consider it?”

“Physical lust is different for a man than it is for a woman. It’s simply that: physical conduct. A man can do it with any female. There doesn’t have to be an emotional attachment.”

She scoffed. “You make it sound sordid and unpleasant.”

“I’m just stating the facts.” On explaining it aloud, he seemed so cold and callous. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t been thinking; that was the problem.

When Stanley had first broached the subject, James hadn’t viewed her as a real person, and he’d figured he wouldn’t like her very much. After all, if she was the type who’d agree to Stanley’s proposal, she had to be a ninny. It had been easy to scheme against her.

“But if I’d been amenable,” she said, pressing the issue, “if I’d let you try, I would have birthed your son, and Stanley would have been hailed as his father. Wouldn’t that have bothered you? Wouldn’t it have galled you to keep silent and pretend the boy wasn’t yours?”

“I hadn’t thought it through that far. It was extremely difficult for Stanley to confide in me, and I felt I could repay my many debts to him by giving him the one thing he’d always craved most in the world.” He laughed miserably. “I thought we’d finally be even.”

“And you’d be free of him,” she mused, absolutely getting it.

“Yes, and my son would have been heir to Summerfield. It was enough for me, and I’m very vain. I liked the notion of having a secret to hold over Stanley for a change. It intrigued me.”

She raised a brow. “You’ve furnished some very pretty excuses, James. Perhaps I don’t hate you quite as much now.”

“See? We
are
making progress.”

“It appears we are,” she concurred.

He was tired of chatting, tired of stirring a pot of old memories. What was the point? It simply left him morose.

They couldn’t alter the past, couldn’t forget that James had plotted with Stanley to her disadvantage. They could only move forward in some sort of rational way.

He’d probably forsaken his vow to Stanley, had probably abandoned his intention to deflower her. But nevertheless, a relationship was blossoming between them. Should he ignore it? Should he pursue it?

If he jumped into a liaison, what was his goal? Would he be doing it for Stanley? For himself? What was the benefit to himself? What was the benefit to her?

He was positive there was no benefit for her. There was just detriment, but he was randy and unprincipled. If she was offering herself, he would take much more than she’d meant to give him, and he wouldn’t hang around through any wretched ending. Yet she didn’t know that, and he wasn’t about to apprise her.

She likely presumed him possessed of the honor that Stanley lacked. If so, she’d assumed wrongly.

He was desperately attracted to her. What man wouldn’t be? She was smart and pithy and beautiful. He’d have to be blind and stupid not to desire her, and suddenly, she seemed much more amenable to an affair, when he had no idea why she’d have changed her mind.

He was certain it was the wine talking. She’d had too much of it, when she wasn’t a regular drinker. It was late and they were alone. She’d brushed her hair while he’d watched. The act was intimate in a manner he couldn’t describe, more intimate than if she’d removed her clothes.

In their world, it was a tantalizing gift, and if he lingered long enough, what others might she bestow?

He dipped down and nibbled at her nape, taking small bites that made her squirm and chuckle.

“I want you to kiss me again,” she stunned him by saying.

“I plan on it.” He licked her skin with his tongue. “What brought this on?”

“When I decided to pamper myself this month, it dawned on me that there are many things I’ve never tried.”

“Kissing is one of them?”

“Yes.”

“So…I’m in the perfect position to show you how it’s supposed to be done.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“You’ve had an enormous amount of wine. You know that alcohol lowers inhibitions, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“It’s entirely possible that you’ll allow liberties tonight that you’ll regret in the morning.”

“Yes, it is.” She grinned. “But I’m on holiday, remember?”

“Yes, I definitely remember.”

“I’m in the mood for a little excitement.”

“And I am just the man to provide it.”

“Would you call me Rose?”

“Absolutely.”

“And just for a bit, would you pretend I’m the most wonderful woman you’ve ever met?”

James chuckled. “I’d be happy to.”

Rose sighed with pleasure.

She was pressed to the wall, his long, muscular body crushed to her own, and she’d never endured anything quite so marvelous. He was nibbling at her nape, goose bumps cascading down her arms. Her skin was tingling, her pulse racing.

She was trying to figure out what she was doing, where they were headed, but she had no idea.

She didn’t know him, didn’t particularly like him, and he’d thrust himself into her path with the worst of intentions, but their encounter on the road the previous night had altered her. She felt attached to him in ways she shouldn’t be, felt that he understood and cared about her, which was nonsense. Where he was concerned, her emotions were now a jumble of confused yearning and regret.

He was a cad and a bounder, the exact sort of man she should have avoided like the plague, and normally would have. But she’d attended a supper with Stanley, and as they’d returned home, her cheeks had ached from all her fake smiling.

During the lengthy evening of socializing, she’d had an enormous amount of time to ponder her situation.

She’d agreed to remain at Summerfield for one month, and gradually, it had dawned on her that she could use the interval to rest and regroup. She’d told James that she considered herself to be on holiday, and she’d meant it.

She’d never gone on holiday before. As a girl, she’d been a year-round boarder at school, and as an adult, she’d never earned enough money to frivolously travel. After drinking more and more wine, an ember of excitement had begun to burn.

There was no need to cower in her room, moping and bemoaning her fate. Mr. Oswald had insisted she was his honored guest, so why not act like it? She’d never stayed in such a fine house, had never been fawned over or spoiled. Why not indulge? Why not treat herself? Why not?

In a month, when she packed her bag and trotted down the road, she was sure—wherever her destination—it would never be a place so grand as Summerfield.

So…she planned to enjoy herself. She would eat and dance and revel at every party that was hosted. And she was going to misbehave with a very handsome, very remarkable libertine.

It was a reckless decision, and—as he’d mentioned—she’d had too much wine and was likely making bad choices, but she’d proceed anyway.

Once she departed Summerfield, her life would return to the drudgery of work, and there would be no opportunity for flirtation. If she resumed teaching, she wouldn’t be allowed to marry. She’d have to remain a spinster. So if she stole some kisses, in the dark of night, in the privacy of her own bedchamber, where was the harm? Who would ever know?

He abandoned her nape to finally capture her lips in a torrid kiss that was wild and exhilarating and much too thrilling to be refused.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him nearer, and he appeared to relish her boldness. He groaned low in his throat and leaned into her, his firm torso crushed to hers in a way that was invigorating and arousing.

“You have too many clothes on,” he murmured.

“Well, I’m not taking any of them off.”

“How about just a few of them?”

“How about I leave them right where they are?”

“What fun would that be?”

He started kissing her again, his tongue sliding in and out of her mouth in a stirring rhythm that made her nipples throb and her womb clench. He was touching her all over, his busy hands gliding across her shoulders, her waist and hips.

He stroked in broader and broader circles until he was caressing her buttocks, holding her loins to his, and the feeling was indescribable, like nothing she could have imagined or anticipated.

Her limbs were rubbery, her knees weak. She could barely keep her balance, and if he hadn’t been gripping her so tightly, she’d have collapsed to the floor in a stunned heap.

It occurred to her that—in her drive to engage in a dalliance—she might not have fully grasped the significance of what she’d set in motion. She’d viewed herself as worldly and mature, that she could use him to learn the secret details of amour, but she wasn’t prepared for the unrelenting onslaught. She was about to beg him to do whatever he wished to her—and damn the consequences.

There was a sofa next to them, and he drew away from her and lie down. He tugged her down too, so in a thrice she was stretched out on top of him.

He was still kissing her and hadn’t stopped for a single second. As the embrace went on and on, the temperature of the encounter spiraled out of control. His hands were on her bottom again, and he was flexing into her, the fabric of her skirt the only barrier separating them. Each brush of his loins sent shocks of delight coursing through her entire being.

“Why are you moving like that?” she managed to ask.

“Because it feels wonderful.”

“Yes, it does.”

“It’s a preliminary step toward mating.”

She froze. “We’re not mating.”

“No,” he hastily said. “We’re simply enjoying ourselves.”

“We’re sinning, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but I never thought a bit of sin was such a bad thing. Not when it feels this good.”

She definitely agreed. The reason ministers complained so vociferously about carnal conduct had to be that they hated to have people discover the pleasure it elicited.

If maidens and spinsters had any idea of the ecstasy to be had, they’d ruin themselves with impunity. If females knew the truth, who could ever convince them to behave?