Just Wicked Enough (21 page)

K
ate spent the following morning with her mother. It was terribly difficult not giving any indication that she knew of her mother’s illness. But now that she did know of it, she felt guilty for not noticing sooner her mother’s sallow complexion, how her eyes no longer sparkled. She’d always thought of her mother as a locomotive, unstoppable. It was disconcerting to realize she was only human after all.

But her spirit was formidable, and Kate had little doubt that her mother wouldn’t draw her last breath until she’d seen each of children married—to a person of her choosing.

She carried that thought with her after she returned home and wandered through the house, searching for Michael. She found him in the study, drawing lines on a large sheet of paper. “What are you doing?”

He glanced up. “It was an idea I had for one of the rooms at Raybourne. I thought to convert it into a library.”

“You already have three libraries.”

“But this one would be warmer, cozier. Would reflect the softness of a woman. It would be more welcoming than austere. I thought to call it Kate’s Library.”

Kate’s sob echoed through the entry hallway as tears filled her eyes and spilled over on to her cheeks. His thoughtfulness was simply too much.

“Kate, it’s nothing to weep over. It was only an idea. We don’t have to do it.”

She shook her head frantically, the emotions of the past few days building. “My mother’s dying,” she rasped. “That’s the reason my father attended your stupid auction, that he was so willing to outbid the other fathers.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” He came out from around the desk, lifted her into his arms, and cradled her against his chest. She wound an arm around his neck and buried her face in the nook of his shoulder. He smelled so good, as comforting as the library he was designing for her.

Michael carried her up the stairs to her bedchamber, while her tears dampened his shirt and the weight of her grief tore at his heart.

He laid her on the bed, knelt beside her, and brushed her hair back from her face.

“I’ve never liked my mother,” she said in a voice that spoke of sadness and profound loss. “She’s always been so hard, so demanding.” She released a brittle laugh. “Everything has to be done her way.” She lifted her gaze to his. “But I don’t want her to die.”

“No one thinks you do,” he said quietly.

“My father told me that he didn’t love her when he married her, but now he’ll do anything to see that she’s happy.”

“Which worked to my advantage.”

“I can’t imagine my life without her.”

“She’s not in the grave yet, Kate.”

“Perhaps she can spend some time with us at Raybourne.”

“If that would please you.”

She’d spent so much of the past few years avoiding her mother that it seemed odd now to want to have her so close. But she had no regrets where her mother was concerned. Still, she felt she needed to warn him. “She can be quite meddlesome.”

“I shan’t be bothered by that.”

“Even if you were bothered, I don’t think you’d tell me.”

“Any member of your family is always welcome in our homes.”

Sighing, she sat up. “We also need to begin making all the arrangements so your mother can come to Raybourne.”

He nodded. “I’d planned to speak with the builder this afternoon. Shall we have a luncheon in the garden first?”

Reaching out, she brushed his hair back off his brow. “I’d like that very much.”

Following lunch, Kate and Michael mapped out a strategy. He would secure the builder, while she began interviewing and hiring the additional staff for the estate. Together they would interview nurses when the time came because Michael was far more familiar with what was required in that regard, but he respected Kate’s opinion on the matter.

That he wanted her to help him meant more to her than she could express.

She was in the library writing out the list of staff positions that she wanted to fill when the butler entered the room, silver slaver in hand.

“A gentleman has come to call, my lady.”

Neither her father nor her brother would stand on ceremony if they’d come to visit her. She had an uncomfortable feeling regarding her caller. She looked at his name embossed on the card, both surprised and not surprised that his name didn’t cause its usual thrill. They were both married now and any sort of excitement over his arrival was inappropriate. But more than that, she was more irritated by his arrival than anything.

And she didn’t want to contemplate Michael’s reaction should he discover she’d entertained Wesley in his London home.

“I’ll meet with him in the garden.” She was being polite to see him, but making sure they weren’t in a situation that would arouse speculation. Surely no one could fault her for the discretion.

She patted her hair, self-consciously ran her fingers over the high collar of her dress. Beneath the cloth was once again, evidence of Michael’s enthusiastic lovemaking. She wondered briefly what Wesley would think if he saw the marks. Considering he’d never left one behind, she doubted he’d know what they were.

When she got outside, he was standing at the edge of the terrace. He turned as her footsteps echoed around them. She came to an immediate stop at the sight of his bruised and swollen cheek. “What happened?”

“Your husband happened.”

She remembered Michael’s swollen hand, his comment that he’d rammed it against something. She didn’t know why she took perverse pleasure in the fact it had been Wesley’s face. “For all his brooding he never struck me as the type of man who would hit another.”

“Yes, well, he is. Extremely barbaric.”

“I don’t suppose I need to point out he would be none too pleased to see you here,” she said.

“All that matters to me is that you’re pleased.”

“Quite honestly, I don’t know if I am. My husband—”

“Isn’t about. I waited until I saw him leave.”

She didn’t like the fact he was spying. “What do you want?”

“I want you, of course.”

“Yes, well, it’s a bit late for that.”

“Let’s walk, shall we?” He glanced around. “Servants may be discreet, but they still have ears.”

“As long as we remain visible. I’m not going to slip behind any trellises.”

“I just want to talk.”

Nodding, she stepped on to the cobbled path that wound through the gardens.

“I wanted to make certain you were all right after my revelation the other night.”

“I’m fine.”

“After he took his fury out on me, I wanted to reassure myself that you remained unharmed.”

“You waited two days to reassure yourself,” she felt the need to point out.

“Because I couldn’t catch you alone before now. I’m grateful to see that you’re unharmed. I have something for you.”

They were well beyond the house now. He removed a slip of paper from inside his jacket.

“I penned you a poem.”

She thought of all the poems he’d written her. She’d kept them all, housed them safely in a box she kept at the back of her wardrobe.

“I’m not sure you should have done that,” she told him. “You’re married.”

“It doesn’t stop my longing for you.”

She shook her head. “Wesley—”

“Please take it.”

She did as he requested, clutching it in her hand. “I can’t promise to read it.”

“It is enough that you have it. Are you going to remain married to him?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I would divorce Melanie in a heartbeat if you were available again. Or better yet, we could both get an annulment. Neither of us has been married that long. It’s a much quicker resolution than a divorce.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “I can’t believe you’re suggesting this.”

“I never stopped loving you.”

Her heart lurched with his admission and she shook her head. “Falconridge is my husband. He needs—”

“But he doesn’t love you. He married you strictly for your money.”

“I don’t need you to remind me what he did.” She almost told him that Michael had his reasons, but she’d not justify them to Wesley. Michael was a very private person.

“Even if you won’t leave him, there’s no reason we can’t see each other,” Wesley said.

“Why is it that it continually escapes your notice that we’re married?”

“They are both marriages of convenience. No one expects faithfulness from one’s spouse under those circumstances.”

“I do.” She held up the crumpled paper. “Thank you for the poem. I’ll have the footman show you out.”

“Kate.” He reached for her and she stepped back.

“You broke my heart the day you married her. You can’t come to me now with poetry and promises and expect me to be glad to receive either.”

She spun on her heel and rushed to the house, desperate to escape her doubts as much as she wanted to escape him.

Much later that night, Kate lay breathless and trembling beneath her husband, while another shudder racked his body. She was fairly certain they’d peaked at the same time, her cry and his groan sounding in perfect harmony. She swept her hands up over his dew-slickened back, eliciting a soft moan from him, before he tenderly moved away from her.

The customary bereavement at his leaving swamped her. She’d left candles burning tonight to add to the ambiance of his nightly visit. She watched as his silhouette moved around the bed, headed for the door—

“Michael, will you stay and hold me for a few minutes longer?” she asked, quickly.
Stay and make me forget about Wesley’s visit and the lovely poem expressing his love for me that I’d been too weak to resist reading.

“If it pleases you,” he said quietly, slipping back beneath the covers. “I’ll hold you as long as you like.”

She nestled against his side and placed her head in the nook of his shoulder. One of his arms came around her back, holding her close, while his other hand began to trail idly up and down her arm.

She despised that she’d had to ask him to stay, that he never stayed of his own accord. That he didn’t care for her enough to want to relish the moments afterward.

She rose up on her elbow. “Go on. You can go now.”

In the flickering shadows cast by the flames of the candles, she could see his brow furrowing.

“Kate, what’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “I want you to be here because you want to be here.”

“I do want to be here.”

“No, you don’t. You always leave as quickly as possible—”

“I assumed that would be your preference.”

“Oh.” She studied him, wishing tonight they’d left the lights on. “What’s your preference?”

Cradling her cheek with his palm, threading his fingers through her hair, he drew her back to his chest. “To hold you for a bit longer.”

Snuggling more closely to him, she relished the almost inaudible moan that escaped from him and the slight rumble of his chest that caressed her cheek. There was such an earthy fragrance to him after they made love. Burying her face in the crook of his shoulder was much more pleasant than burying her face in the pillow upon which he’d lain before leaving her.

With her finger she circled his nipple, took pleasure in his low groan.

“Why don’t you ever kiss me?”

It was subtle, but she felt him stiffen beneath her, as though every muscle dreaded his revealing the answer.

“I thought it would be easier for you to pretend if I didn’t,” he finally said.

She angled her head so she could see his profile more clearly. “I don’t understand.”

Very tenderly, he moved her hair aside, hooked it behind her ear.

“I know when I come to your bed, you pretend I’m someone else. My touch, my scent, my groans, the feel of my body…I can’t change them or prevent you from being aware of them. But my taste…I thought not kissing you would make it easier for you to pretend.”

A tightness nearly crushed her chest. He’d told her that first night to pretend he was Wesley. Did he honestly think when he carried her to such wondrous heights that she could think of anything at all?

She was surprised by the disappointment that assailed her because he might think she could do it, because he had great success himself at thinking of someone else.

“Who do you pretend I am?”

Once again, he began stroking her arm. “I’m married to the loveliest woman in all of London. Why would I have a need to pretend I’m with anyone other than you?”

Tears stung her eyes. It wasn’t poetry but it was so damned close and so heartfelt. A small sob escaped.

He rolled her over, the concern in his eyes only making her cry harder. “Kate? What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t explain. That tonight he touched her heart. She cupped his chin and stroked her thumb over his lips. “Will you kiss me?”

“If it pleases you.”

She nodded. “It would.”

She watched as his Adam’s apple slid up and down as he swallowed. She didn’t think he’d looked this nervous when he’d stood in front of the church exchanging vows with her. “I won’t bite.”

He released a low laugh. She pressed her fingers to his chest. “You don’t do that often enough.”

“I do it more frequently since you’ve come into my life.”

Then he lowered his mouth to hers and she wasn’t thinking about laughter. She was thinking only about the wonder of his kiss, the way his tongue slowly outlined her lips, his hand cupping her cheek, and his thumb stroking near the corner of her mouth until it became part of the kiss. It was strange—considering all the liberties his tongue, lips, palms, and fingers had taken with her body all these many nights—that she should find his kiss just as erotic, just as persuasive, just as capable of delivering passion as anything else he did with her.

As she sighed, he slipped his tongue between her parted lips, eagerly exploring her mouth with bold sweeps that dared to leave no portion untouched. Her own tongue responded in kind, darting and teasing, coming to know the shape, texture, and taste of his mouth. The wine at dinner and the chocolate cake he’d had for dessert. And it occurred to her that their dessert was always some form of chocolate: cake, pudding, raspberries with a chocolate glaze. And she found herself laughing at the sweetness of it.