Any Wicked Thing (3 page)

Freddie blushed as brightly as her hideous dress. “Not if you were the last man on earth. And there's to be a scavenger hunt. You won't want to miss that.”

“How old are we? Eleven?”

Just then his father tapped his crystal goblet at the dais and the room fell still. No wooden drinking vessel for the Duke of Roxbury. Sebastian leaned back as the duke rambled on about Goddard Castle through the centuries. He was so long-winded Freddie drank both her glasses during the speech, so Sebastian flagged down another footman for her. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes gleamed in the candlelight. The poor little thing was getting drunk for the very first time.

He stumbled up when the talk got around to the scavenger hunt and its rules. Sebastian always broke rules when he could, and the quest for a mock unicorn held no interest for him. He whispered to Freddie that he was leaving, and she waved him away. She sat transfixed at his father's nonsense, an odd smile on her face.

When faced with the four stone walls of his little room, he had a desire to escape. He changed into an elegant striped robe, a souvenir from a grateful Italian widow, stashing his comforting brandy flask in a pocket. He made his way through the Byzantine halls of the castle by flickering candlelight, carrying a tooled leather case with his smoking utensils inside. Precious balls of poppy resin mixed with headache powder rattled around between the implements, promising peace.

His father had warned the guests about the north tower. It was unsafe, therefore off-limits for the foolish revelers. There was a rope with threatening signage blocking the steps, which Sebastian cleared easily even though he was more than a bit drunk himself. Soon he would be entirely at one with the universe. A universe where his father was in a different galaxy altogether.

He gave up counting the steps, but there were many. They were worn and slippery beneath his bare feet. Once he reached the top, he found himself in an odd-shaped room with half its ceiling gone. The black Yorkshire sky was sprinkled with stars winking down on him, cementing his idea he was rather insignificant in the grand scheme of things. He swept away some rubble and settled in the window alcove, or what would have been a window if it was still intact. A pleasant summer breeze swept through the space, nearly clearing his muzzy head. That would not do.

With the sort of patience his father would apply to reconstructing a medieval document from fragments, Sebastian opened his case and heated his metal needle, turning a pea-sized lump of opium into a cone. Holding his pipe over the flame, he warmed it, then placed the cone into the bowl. Some of his friends skipped all these laborious steps and simply wrapped the opium in rice paper and inserted it into their rectums, but Sebastian respected the traditional way. The ritual was nearly as compelling as the smoke. He inhaled deeply.

Heaven. Or hell. Opium was highly addictive. He felt the need for it more urgently every day, especially since he was now subject to his father's disapproval. His supply was limited, and not apt to be replenished in Yorkshire. He could fob himself off with drink or hashish for a time, but this was his greatest, most sinful pleasure.

He took the flask from his pocket and drank, feeling the heat of the brandy dance with the cool detachment of the drug. Sebastian no longer felt insignificant but invincible now, like a prototype of mankind. He removed his robe, rolling it up under his head, and stared at the night sky. So many stars, so far away. How many men had seen the same grouping of constellations since the world began? Perhaps as many as the stars themselves. He sipped and puffed until the stars spun.

His cock called to him. It had been some weeks since he'd had a woman, an unnatural state for a man of one and twenty in full possession of his wild oats. He wrapped his hand around his shaft and set his imagination free. There was no shame to it. He was halfway to stroking himself to completion when the masked milkmaid tip-toed in.

At first he thought she was part of his opium dream. She was a fetching piece, her hair covered by a ruffly mobcap, her skirts hiked up to reveal her garters. Her girdle was laced so tightly that her breasts burst over the trim on her low-cut blouse. But she was not his usual fantasy. If she blushed, it was hard to tell for her powder and rouge under the black mask. Her lush mouth opened. She had a naughty beauty patch at the corner of her reddened lips. Sebastian had an urge to kiss it off.

He didn't miss a stroke. “Hello, darling. You must be my reward for bad behavior. Do you want to help me finish this properly?”

Her eyes widened and she gave a strangled gasp, not at all the sound he preferred from his ladies. No doubt she was shocked. One of his father's dull guests was bound to be. This one looked a bit younger than most of the women downstairs. He hadn't noticed her at dinner, but then, he hadn't been looking hard.

“Come closer. You are much too far away.”

She took a step forward and coughed.

“Don't mind the smoke. I'll share if you like.”

The milkmaid shook her head so violently that her little cap fluttered.

“Very well, then. I trust you have no objection to a bit of brandy.” He unfisted his cock and extended the flask, his arm moving in slow motion.

She kept her hands in the pockets of her apron. “You are wicked,” she whispered.

“Very. Let me show you how much.”

“I—I was looking for you.”

Sebastian grinned. That was more like it. At least someone had taken note of him downstairs through the boring banquet. “Well, you've found me. What are you going to do with me?”

She was silent. Sebastian thought he might drift off to sleep before she finally spoke again. “H-have my way with you.”

“Capital! As you see, I'm ready. Lift your skirts, love, and ride me.”

She glided across the floor and blew out the candle. They were enveloped in the mystery and safety of darkness. When she kneeled over him, her breasts were close enough to lick, so he did. He didn't need light to know they were perfect in every way. To aid him, she untied her cotton blouse, and his hands filled with warm woman.

“Lovely,” he sighed. “What does your husband think?”

She shrugged. “No one appreciates m-me.”

She sounded so sad. “That's a pity. I promise, I shall appreciate every inch of you, as you will appreciate me.”

She smelled of roses and ratafia. He grasped her corseted waist and planted her on top of him, smoothing all the ruffles away between them. He was nearly giddy—she was not wearing drawers, and he could felt the wet of her cunt on his skin. The hardness of her nipples under his thumbs lured him to kiss one, and then the other, suckling until she shook. One hand slid under her skirts and he slipped a finger through her curls into her passage. She was tight but soaked.

He could not wait. Well, he could, but why bother? She was a gift to him, one he deserved after being trapped here without his usual indulgences. He didn't need illumination to guide himself to her entrance, thrusting in as she bucked above him. For an instant, doubt crossed his mind, but then he imagined her rouged lips open with the slyest of smiles.

Somehow he'd seen that imagined smile before, and recently. He shook the doubt away as he buried himself in her warmth.

“You're like a cat at the cream, love. Do you like it?” He gasped.

“Oh, yes.” Her voice was little more than a breath. Gripping her hips, he raised her up and down in a languid motion until she found her rhythm, and then she did all the work. Her cunt clenched his rod as if he'd been made for her. For a fleeting moment, he wondered who this skillful little lass was, and then she robbed him of thought altogether. There was nothing but the sound of their bodies gliding and slapping against each other, their breaths harsh, the stars twinkling above.

Some considered opium an aphrodisiac, but Sebastian knew better. It didn't so much heighten the performance as prolong it, although he was very much afraid he was about to embarrass himself. The milkmaid was relentless in milking him in record time. He surged up helplessly and spilled into her.

Too soon. Too fast. Couldn't be helped. Perhaps he'd stay an extra day and give his father's naughty guest another go. Show her what he could really do when he was sober. He'd learned a lot when he was away. Wanted to learn more.

Oh, but she was hot around his cock. So sweet. She hovered over him uncertainly, as if she didn't know they were done. He pulled her down to kiss her, thank her, when the door opened and a shaft of lantern light beamed onto the bare stone floor. There was a shuffling of feet. The door closed, the bar sliding across with a snap, the sound echoing in the chamber.

She froze in his arms. Her heart thudded wildly, not simply in satisfaction, but terror. But they were in the alcove. Perhaps they wouldn't be discovered. He put a finger to her lips and felt her nod. Pray God it wasn't her husband.

And then his heart stopped.

“It's a grand success, Phillip. They'll be talking about this party for decades.”

“Thanks to you. What would I do without you?”

There was a chuckle. “I hope you never find out. I wish to serve you the rest of your days. You need someone like me to keep you organized.”

“Why don't I show you how much I appreciate you for a change? I do love you, you know. Always have.”

There was a rustle of fabric, the clink of spurs, a hiss of pleasure. And then Sebastian fought to block the grunts and sighs from his mind. He lay like a dead thing, and almost wished he was.

They would have been fine, safe and still behind the corner, if the milkmaid hadn't lurched up and vomited all over him.

The sound of her helpless, seemingly endless retching brought the attention of the two lovers, and spared Sebastian from listening to his father suck another man's cock.

“What the devil? Who's there?”

In seconds, his father was standing over him with the lantern, his chain-mail vest glimmering. Freddie's father, dressed in a belted velvet and fur-trimmed robe, was a step behind him.

No one said anything for a long moment.

Sebastian would be hard-pressed to determine who was more upset, but then the milkmaid burst into tears and settled the issue.

“Frederica!” her father rasped.

Freddie?
His lusty little milkmaid was Freddie?

Simply. Not. Possible.

The girl was scrambling to cover her breasts, a look of sheer mortification on her face. Her mask was askew, and a strand of golden brown hair had escaped from her ruffled mobcap. Sebastian reached up and ripped the black silk from her face.

It was difficult to keep one's composure, naked and covered in vomit, realizing one's life as one knew it was definitively over. He hadn't even kissed her mouth. The scent of apricot ratafia was nearly overwhelming, explaining so much. He and Freddie were foxed and would be forced to marry, but there was no excuse for his father and his secretary.

“I—I'm s-so s-sorry, Sebastian.”

He ignored her. There were years ahead when he'd have to listen to her, but tonight was not one of them. He squinted up into his father's pale face.

“You could be hanged for your perversion.”

“Do not threaten me, boy.” His father's tone was icy. He was every inch the Duke of Roxbury, even if he had been on his knees a few minutes ago.

“Wells was in your employ long before my mother died. Did she know?”

His father stiffened. “She understood. She was a duchess. She had you, and was content.”

Sebastian didn't believe that for a minute. “She was unhappy. Fool that I was, I blamed that on your preoccupation with this medieval shite. Now I know why you ignored us. Were you afraid I'd find out? Is that why you went away on one of your ‘buying trips' every time I was home, sent me away every chance you could?”

“Don't whine, Sebastian. I've given you every educational advantage, not that you've been worth the blunt. Getting into one scrape after another. Cavorting with the lower classes.” The duke flicked a dark eye on Freddie. “I see you have not changed.”

“Don't worry. I'll marry her! I didn't even know who I was fucking.”

The duke's lips thinned. “Charming. But you certainly will
not
marry her. The next Duchess of Roxbury must be one of the Upper Ten Thousand, with sufficient dowry to replenish the Roxbury coffers. Frederica is—is unsuitable, for all that she is a very nice girl.” He laid a hand on his companion's arm. “I'm sorry, Joseph, but there it is. You of all people know how we are fixed. I can scrape together some money for Frederica's future, but she cannot be my daughter-in-law.”

Sebastian felt an unaccountable rage. He'd just been spared a bullet—he would not be trapped into marriage as Freddie had no doubt intended—but he was not the least grateful. “So the father is good enough for you to fuck, but the daughter is
unsuitable
for me?”

“Don't be crude, Sebastian. Frederica, my dear, you are unwell. Do something about your bodice and go to your room. I'll speak to you in the morning about my arrangement for you.”

Freddie tripped to her feet, clutching her gaping blouse. She gave Sebastian an imploring look, her eyes filled with tears. He'd never seen her so miserable, not even when she had fallen out of a tree and broken her ankle when she was a child. He had carried her all the way home, watching her chin quiver trying to be brave. Now her tears flowed freely, leaving tracks in the paint on her face. Five minutes ago he'd thought she was a beauty. Now she was just Freddie.

“Is this what you want, Freddie? Money for your silence about his indiscretion and mine instead of an honorable offer of marriage?”