Any Wicked Thing (23 page)

He poured her a glass of port from the tray at his bedside, but she shook her head.

“I've had enough, thank you.”

“You are awfully tense, Freddie. You know everything we have done has brought you pleasure.” He took a sip himself and unwound the cravat from his shirt collar, draping it on a chair.

“Don't remind me. I've behaved like a hoyden.” She chewed a plump lip, a task Sebastian wished to take over himself.

“And I thank you for it.” He grinned. “We've had a lovely day so far, have we not?”

“If you say so.”

“Ah, Freddie.” He dragged the chair to the side of the bed and sat on it, patting her knee. “You needn't feel shame for enjoying yourself with me. You are made for this.”

Her eyes looked a bit bleak. Sebastian wondered if she had been practicing off-putting expressions in her mirror. Right now she looked like an actress in a second-rate tragedy. “Am I? I thought I knew who I was before you came. Now it seems I am nothing but a trollop.”

“You'll not get me to give you a reprieve with all this guilty-conscience nonsense. I have two more hours left and I intend to make use of them.”

“And use of me.”

She meant to make him feel pity, but he would have none of it. “Who have we hurt, Freddie? Old Warren, who puts his nose where it doesn't belong? We are adults. Youngish. Healthy. Before I arrived, you had resigned yourself to a spinster's life, buried in books and counting raindrops out of boredom. You cannot honestly say you would prefer to be untouched, false virtue intact. I wouldn't believe you if you claimed it to be so.”

“I suppose not. I showed you my colors ten years ago, didn't I? What have you planned for me tonight?” She gave a little sigh and shifted away. Sebastian was determined not to fall victim to her attempt to deter him, leaning forward to get closer to her. They were now knee to knee. He could smell her rose soap and the vanilla sponge pudding she'd eaten.

“That's my secret. But I assure you, you will be ready for it.” He reached for her hands and held them still, gently thumbing the skin over her delicate bones. She'd nearly ruined her hands with drudgery. “But first, we're going to get you out of this dress.”

There were tiny yellow buttons at the bodice, made to look like flowers. Sebastian freed them from their yellow-stitched loops, then untied the grosgrain ribbons over and under Freddie's breasts. He pulled her puffy little sleeves down to her elbows. She made no effort to help him, focusing her eyes on the fire he'd stirred up when they first came upstairs. It was still storming much harder than any spring shower had a right to, and he could feel the damp seeping into his bones. The sooner he got warm with Freddie, the better.

“Stand up.”

If he had been doing this with any other woman, he might have said, “Stand up, love.” He would have tossed off endearments without a thought. But this was Freddie, the girl who had plotted to bring him to his knees at the tender age of twenty-one and claim him for her husband. For life. Dukes did not get divorced.

No man was fit to be married at twenty-one—Sebastian had not even begun to sow all his wild oats during his grand tour, though he'd made an excellent beginning. He wasn't fit to be married now, although if some rich cit's daughter stumbled in his path, he'd better snap her up for the benefit of his creditors.

At least he hadn't fallen prey to his father's desire for a wellborn wife. Some simpering society ninny who embroidered and played the pianoforte and was so inbred she was cross-eyed. A woman who would close her eyes like a dead person and think only of the ducal succession every time Sebastian entered her. Who really would die if he told her what he'd done in Egypt.

The conversation with Freddie had picked at that scab today, and the oozy pus of it was contaminating his thoughts. He'd gone months without reliving it, but Freddie would help relieve him. He pulled her off the bed and let the dress drop at her feet. She stepped out of it, tripping on the flounces. Her freckled skin, rosy from their time outdoors, puckered with goose pimples. Carefully, he unlaced her short corset, his reward being the sight of her erect nipples beneath her white shift.

There was a tentative knock at the door. Freddie looked wild-eyed, and dashed behind a faded jacquard screen.

“A moment.”

Sebastian went to the door, opened it and stepped out into the hallway, shutting the door firmly behind him. Young Kenny was holding a flickering candle and a large tin can of hot water, the steam rising invitingly. Sebastian took it from him. “Thank you. That will be all. Tell the rest of the household to go on to bed. I won't need anything until morning.”

“Aye, sir. Yer Grace.” The man shifted from side to side, as though he hadn't heard his dismissal.

“Good night, Kenny. Sleep well.” He waited long seconds until Kenny collected himself and loped off down the corridor. Sebastian slipped back in the room, hoping that the man made it all the way downstairs. He didn't like to think of anyone eavesdropping over the next two hours.

When he came in, Freddie was seated again out in the open, unrolling a pale stocking. The strap of her chemise dipped down her shoulder. Her clothing had been neatly folded on the chair with Sebastian's neckcloth. She seemed resigned, but Sebastian wanted more from her than that. No lying like a lump and thinking of England for her, not that she would have any part of the Roxbury succession. He set the pail before the fire, took the stocking and garter from her hand, then unpinned her hair. It tumbled to her waist, a torrent of gold and bronze. He remembered how it teased his body as she moved over him this afternoon, when she was untroubled by reservations of any kind. But her mood had changed during the course of the day just like the fast-moving clouds over the moors. Sebastian knew he'd made a mistake bringing up the milkmaid business. What difference did it make if she wanted to keep her secrets? It was too late to change anything.

From the crease on her brow, he could tell Freddie was thinking, and thinking too much. Too hard. Her inhibitions were gathering like bees to her garden, buzzing warning notes to him. He had wanted her ultimate submission tonight, but it was becoming clear to him he might have to be satisfied with less.

She stood without his asking and pulled the chemise over her head. Her body glowed in the lamplight, each tiny freckle a flake of gold dust upon her fair skin. “Well, where do you want me?” she asked, her martyrdom layered fast in her words.

“Lie down on your stomach.”

She cast him an odd look, then complied. She raised her arms above her head as if waiting for him to bind them together, but that was not his current intention. Lifting the waves of hair from her back, he twisted them aside. Uncapping a jar of fragrant citrus unguent, he set it on the sheets, warming a dollop of the cream between his hands, then began to rub her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” she mumbled into the mattress.

“As I said, you are tense. We've had a busy day.” He worked at the knotted muscles and moved up to her neck, putting pressure on each rigid bit of spine. More cream, more smooth territory to cover, more friction between his palms and her skin. He traced her angel wings and she quivered at the tickling sensation. With every sure stroke, her body grew looser, her breaths almost purrs of satisfaction. He made his way down her back to the beautiful cheeks of her arse, circling and kneading until he determined she was melting into the bedclothes. His fingers skimmed down one leg to her toes, downy fuzz glimmering along her calf. The firelight was her friend, bathing her in golden glow.

Sebastian could look at her for hours, as long as he could touch, too. He bent her leg, rotating her foot at the ankle, tugging gently on each toe until she felt boneless. Her small foot, so pink and pretty, deserved a kiss. She startled as he pressed his lips to her arch, then methodically kissed his way up her white thigh. He felt her stir restlessly beneath him, as if she wanted to participate again. Good. He had broken through her reserve, at least for now. Which was fortuitous, as he was hard as granite. He had delayed his pleasure for hours, but could not wait much longer.

He dipped into the pot again, parted the crease of her bottom and painted a line of cream from one orifice to the other. Her sex was already wet, easily accommodating a probing finger. She wiggled to give him greater access, and he fondled her until she was close to breaking for him. But that would come later. Tonight was his, what he had been waiting for since he saw her in that shaft of sunlight the first day.

In general, he worshipped women, all their soft, uncomplicated curves. His intent to bring them to the forbidden was no perversion on his part—he knew the benefit of every avenue explored, every door opened. He'd spent his life immersed in sexual indulgence and was the better for it. Even his Egyptian prison had taught him something unexpected, at first unwelcome, ultimately the thread that kept him alive. There was nothing he had not done in the art of amusement, for his own and others'. He would bring Freddie to capitulation tonight without bonds or blindfolds—she would be a willing captive to his sin, once he initiated her.

He coated his cock, stroking himself until every bit of him was covered with citrus cream. To his regret, he'd learned one could never have too much lubrication.

Freddie turned her head so she could make eye contact with him. “I—I must talk to you before we proceed.”

He didn't want to talk. He wanted to fuck. Sebastian could feel Freddie's tension creep back in and spread to him. He continued to glide his hand over his cock, not letting her words dampen his erection.

“What is it?”

“You have not—you have not withdrawn as you promised. We agreed I was not to fall pregnant.”

Sebastian almost laughed. There could be no better motivation for her than what he planned tonight.

“You know, people do things differently in parts of the world where a woman's virginity is prized even more than it is in England. Young girls who wish to save themselves for their husbands can still take lovers without breaking their hymen.”

“How can a man tell, anyway?” she muttered into the pillow.

A very good question. He'd had no idea when the milkmaid came to him ten years ago that she was no one's wife, but virginal Frederica Wells. He hated to think of words such as “unspoiled” and “ruined”—people placed far too much consequence on a bit of tissue that could be ruptured so naturally. “The truth is, often we can't, unless there's a great deal of blood. But I told you the other day there were ways to have sex without fear of conception. What we did today, for example. Mutually exquisite, was it not?”

The back of her neck turned rosy, but she said nothing.

“Some married couples regularly enjoy each other in the way we are about to, without fear of adding any more mouths to feed.” He flattened his hand on her bottom in ownership.

“Wh-what you did with that toy.”

“Yes, Freddie.” He waited for her to object. Maybe it was all too much for her to deal with today—he had certainly put her through most of the paces in a remarkably short period of time.

“Will it hurt?”

His heart jumped. “No. Not if I'm careful. And I will be.”

“Why would you want to?”

Because it is forbidden. Taboo. Because I acquired a taste for it in Egypt.
“You'll be tighter there. And you won't have to worry about a baby.”

“I—I think you'd better tie me up.”

He had wanted her voluntary submission, but for her to ask this was possibly even better. She trusted him with her safety, even though she was uncertain of what was to come. But he didn't want her afraid—of herself, or of him.

“Let's try it without the restraints. You know what to say if you're unhappy.”

“Rutabaga. Honestly, Sebastian, can't we come up with a better word? It's absurd!”

“I can almost guarantee you will never have to say it, Freddie.” And he was anxious to prove it to her by starting to worship her beautiful freckled ass.

She shrugged, and he continued his massage, this time concentrating on her lower back, the tops of her thighs, the soft, tender space between her vagina and anus. His fingers teased each orifice, plying cream and sensation on her sensitive skin. She melted once again under his hands, and he knew it was time.

He settled himself over her, pressing the tip of his cock to her puckered rose. He watched her struggle with herself not to twitch in embarrassment. More cream, more penetration. He stared as he slowly disappeared into her, blood singing in his ears. His awareness was heightened by blissful friction and total dominance. She had given what he needed without constraint, indeed with a sigh that told him her pleasure was as great as his.

If that were even possible. He had never felt like this in all his life.

The dance was delicate, fragile, its subtleties a revelation to him—he, who had experienced everything. He continued to refine each deft thrust until he knew she was as enthralled as he, then lost himself in the heat of the perfumed room. He made no sense of her urgent cries, nor his own. There was nothing but the hardness of his shaft in her welcoming passage, the fire in his balls, the rush of his seed. He waited until the waves subsided, then tumbled off her to lie on his back in the bed.

She lay in profile and was still, her hands still gripped together in sacrifice over her head. One blue eye met his.

“If you turn over, I will finish it for you.”

She blushed, was flushed all over. “I'm all right.”

“Better than all right, I hope.”

“It was—unexpected. Quite different from when you put—that thing there.”