Wicked, My Love (19 page)

Then the tables turned. His finger found her mound again, and her mind turned blank as she cried out. She was tumbling down, down, down to a place of dark pleasure. Her body surrendered to his thrusts, his finger flicking, their skin slapping, her breasts bouncing. His groans mingled with her high, quiet whines as she writhed and pushed and ground against him, desperate for some resolution to this aching, mounting pleasure.

Then he moved his finger just a fraction higher. Her world went silent and a thousand tiny explosions burst beneath her skin, burning up all her tension in hot waves. She opened herself as wide as she could, wanting all of him as she contracted around his cock.

“Fuck,” he uttered. She closed her eyes, her muscles going limp as her body drifted into an amazing peace. But all that energy, frustration, and desire now blazed in his body. He grabbed her leg, goosey and languid, and pressed it high against his chest, letting the other dangle free. He penetrated her, deep and fast, rock hard and heavy. Despite her desire to curl into a happy, satisfied ball, she met him thrust for thrust in this beautiful violence, wanting him to know the same pleasure he had given her. Judith's words echoed in her mind, reminders not to let him violate her pristine vessel with his seed. But this wasn't violation; this was adoration, worship, praise. She didn't dare suspend his joy. And in some small place in her mind, the idea of having a child—his lovely child—thrilled her.

Then, in a twinkling he was gone from her
body. “Wh—?”

His hard cock pressed against her belly. He grunted as spurts of warm liquid splashed onto her skin. His body heaved with his breathing until, finally, he grew silent. He knelt beside her and kissed her gently on the mouth. She framed his face in her hands, keeping him close enough to see him. “Thank you,” she whispered, not looking away, not ashamed or angry or scared. Of all they had done, this was the most intimate act of all. “I never thought it would be you. Never in a million years.”

“If you had told me a week ago that we would…” He didn't finish but chuckled and then kissed her again. “Did you enjoy it?”

She smiled, free and unguarded. “What do y
ou think?”

“What do I think?” He drew back, his face becoming blurry as his old teasing tone returned, but she could hear a quiver beneath the words. “I think I've bought you for a night and I've just gotten started.”

“There's more?” Could it be any more miraculous?

“This is just the beginning.” He intertwined his fingers through hers and lifted her from the sofa. He retrieved her glasses from the hall and slid them onto her face, giving her nose a small kiss. Hand in hand, they scrambled, naked, up the stairs, laughing like wild children who had escaped the nursery. And in a way, they had escaped, just for a few hours, from all the troubles that hounded them. The sun would rise tomorrow, bright and harsh on old, dull Isabella, the spinster, and Lord Randall, the beloved, privileged Adonis, but in the darkness tonight, she was his exotic, beloved courtesan.

***

In the bedchamber, candles flickered, the flames dancing on the wineglasses that had been set on the bedside table. The lacy chemise Isabella had admired now rested on the bedcovers, red silk ties curled beside it. Randall lifted one, letting the shiny fabric drape down.

“Mrs. Perdita is being naughty,” he said, making clicking sounds with his tongue.

“She said I was s-supposed to tie you to the bedposts and dance for you.” Isabella laughed, jittery and unsure. She didn't know what she was talking about. Perhaps Mrs. Perdita was joking.

He cocked a brow and flashed a devilish smile. “She did? Well, you better get to it. I want a show, my courtesan.” He gave her a tiny, painless spank.

She gasped.

He leaped onto the bed and spread out his arms. “Tie me up, love.”

She paused, the ties draping from her hands as she studied his body in the candlelight—the contours of his chest, his belly striped with muscle, the light curls about his manly part, which was now relaxed. She was transfixed. He was so beautiful, he could be art—Michelangelo's
David
. “I'm waiting,” he prompted, something dark and titillating in his dusky tone. She shook her head, waking from her dream to find she wasn't dreaming.

She pulled the lacy chemise over her head with trembling fingers and flipped out her hair, feeling the heat of his gaze on her body the entire time.

She approached the bed, unsure, and carefully crawled atop, wrapped one ribbon around the poster and then about his offered wrist. He stared on with glittering eyes, his lips unsteady, as if he might break into laughter at any moment. Having rarely sailed or done anything that required an intricate knot, all she could manage was a big, looping bonnet bow.

“Am I doing this correctly?” she ventured.

“Perfect,” he murmured, pressing his face between her breasts. “Hmm…just perfect.” His lips found her nipple, suckling her. She had to stop for a moment, arrested by the waves of pleasure cresting through her. He groaned, releasing her, and let her finish her tying business. Sitting back on her calves, she studied her work. Two large, pretty bows bound him. She giggled.

“You look like a big Christmas gift.”

“Oh, I have a big gift—an enormous gift just for you, love. If you want it, you'll have to dance for it.”

“I'm not going to dance!”

He jabbed her with his toe. “But you're my courtesan, remember? You're breaking the rules.”

“You know I'm not a good dancer.”

“I love how you dance. I've never seen another woman dance quite like you.”

She put her glasses on the mattress and slowly rose to her feet. “I don't think that is a compliment. And don't you dare make fun of me.”

“I would never make fun of you.”

“Except all those thousands of times you have in the past.”

“But you weren't naked then.”

She laughed and began to awkwardly sway before him. Closing her eyes, she let her hair swish about as she hummed softly, her muscles beginning to relax. In her mind, she wasn't Isabella, but an exotic, graceful eastern dancer.

“Stunning,” he whispered. “Come here; let me feel those wild, luscious tresses of yours on my body.”

She knelt down, letting the wild, unruly mess pool around his face as she kissed him, her tongue swirling with his. And he couldn't do anything to stop her from getting what she wanted. When she pulled away, he tried to follow her lips, but the ribbons constrained him. He released a frustrated, grunt-like groan. “Come back,” he beckoned.

Aha!
Suddenly she understood this game: she was supposed to torture him. And she excelled at that! To test her hypothesis, she slid closer, putting her nipple just an inch from his mouth. When he rose to taste it, she snatched it away.

“You evil, evil vixen.”

“I think I understand this game.” She laughed and then kissed his neck, his chest, his belly. She felt the contraction of his muscles as he sucked his breath. She trailed her kisses lower, placing one on his manly part which rose, hard and ready to greet her. She now studied his sex, its contours and shape as she caressed him with her fingers and mouth.

“Oh, dear God,” he muttered.

A man's penis wasn't the dirty, ridiculous thing that Judith had claimed, but a stunning, paradoxical creation, hard and fragile at the same time. She loved touching its skin, feeling the heat beneath, the power she had over it.

“Take off the chemise, Isabella,” he said, hoarse and quiet.

She wasn't going to comply so easily; it was against the rules. But she crumbled when he uttered, low, teeth-clenched, beseeching, “Please.”

She slowly rose to her feet and drew the chemise off, inch by inch, up her thighs, over her curls, her belly, her breasts, her head, until she was standing nude before him again.

“I can't believe I let this body live beside me for so many years unexplored,” he said. “I blame you for hiding yourself from me.”

Her throat tightened. “Well, up until a few days ago, I thought I had a future that didn't include a poorhouse and desperation.”

“No, no, no, Isabella,” he admonished. “Don't say that. Not tonight. No anxious thoughts are allowed in this bed. Just pleasure.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You should be. Now I'm rather low. My cock is downcast. There's nothing to be done but to shake them for me.”

“Pardon?”

“Shake those lovely tits, love.”

“Randall!” She gave him a tiny kick.

“Ouch!” he cried, overreacting. “I love your breasts. You don't know what torture they've been giving me this last day. Just one tiny shake, please, my courtesan of sublime ravishingment.”

“‘Ravishingment'? That's not even a word.” She giggled, shaking her shoulders, trying to jiggle her bosom. In the process, she stepped onto the edge of the mattress, losing her balance. She gasped and waved her arms frantically, but she couldn't stop the fall. She tumbled over, landing on the carpeted floor beside the bed. She felt no pain except that of embarrassment. So much for being the exotic, dancing courtesan; the old Isabella kept breaking through to spoil everything.

“Darling!” she heard him call. “Love! Are you well? Talk to me. I'm damnably sorry. Say something.”

“I'm not a very good courtesan.” She pushed off the rug.

He released a long, relieved breath. “No, love, you're not. You better get me out of these ties before you hurt yourself any further.”

She climbed onto the bed, replaced her glasses—resigned to being dull, clumsy Isabella again—and began to work on his bows. He waited patiently as she extricated one wrist, all the while watching her face, no doubt wishing she were another woman—a graceful, lithe one, like a ballet dancer. She was pulling the second ribbon free when, in a fast motion, he grabbed her arm and flipped her onto her back. “Randall, what are you…”

With amazing speed and dexterity—as if it were some kind of timed sporting event—he bound her in tight, bowless knots. “Impressive, no?” he asked, sitting back on his haunches to survey his work.

“You tricked me!”

“You of all people should know that I'm wily and sneaky, and not to trust a word I say.” He stroked his chin with his index finger and thumb, exaggerating his thinking pose. “What to do with you? How can I revenge all those years of insulting and belittling?”

“You called me names too. You belittled me.”

“But I'm not tied up now, am I?” He winked. “You had your chance.” His eyes drifted from her face, down her chest, over her sex, and to her toes. “And I know the perfect torture,” he said. “Something to shock our innocent Isabella's unsullied mind. You will not want to see what is about to happen.” He removed her glasses, letting his tongue lick her ear and then pulling away. She strained against the ropes, wanting to feel him again. He laughed, thick and dark. “Turnabout is fair play and such, darling.”

He proceeded to kiss the heated pulse on her neck, trailing kisses down, his breath tickling her skin, until he reached her left nipple. His tongue flicked over the tip as his hand pleasured the other. He kept up this torturous game until she was whimpering. “I hate you,” she gasped. “You're cruel.”

“Well then, I won't feel any guilt for the pleasure I'm about to inflict.” He slid his knees between her legs, spreading her. She was wild with the thought that he was going to enter her again, but instead he moved his lips lower, licking her belly button, down her pelvis to her curls and then…
Oh
my!

Six hours later, Randall stared at the ceiling, not the least bit sleepy despite a night of repeated lovemaking. He should be spent. Instead he was restless. His head ached as if he had drunk too much, but the only thing intoxicating him the evening before had been Isabella's body. He had excessively overindulged in her. Now her cheek lay on his shoulder, her arm draped possessively across his chest as she slept. The fat, full moon spilled blue light through the crack between the curtains and the last candle was sputtering, about to die. She snuggled closer, a sweet smile curling her mouth. What did she see in her dreams? Was he there?

In his arms, she had laughed, explored, and climaxed over and over. But deep in the night, their courtesan game chafed his nerves. He wanted her to gently touch his face, as she had that moment on the sofa, when she gazed at him, her eyes tender and vulnerable. He wanted to make love to her slowly, tenderly, and release deep in her womb, complicating his life even more. He wanted her to whisper three words that he wouldn't dare tell her.

The sun was coming. He didn't know how many more hours they had until the news of the fraudulent investments broke. But this pending disaster had been looming even before Powers's nasty little trick. Randall had been struggling to keep his world afloat for the last year. Now he wasn't sure who or what he was trying to save. Nothing seemed real anymore, except the pressure of her soft breast pressed against him, her thigh across his leg. She said the game was for a single night. And in those hours, he had managed to break through that cold, hostile wall she always kept between them, discovering a trusting, loving, and playful woman on the other side. Emotions had washed through him more profoundly than he had felt with any other lover, as his body had moved in hers. He pretended along in this courtesan game, but was he truly pretending?

Memories drifted through his mind. When did he learn to be the man everyone wanted? He started as the golden boy sailing through school, taking the don's own words, embellishing them, and retelling them back. In Parliament, he took his party's arguments and spun them into golden, majestic stories. He knew a truth: people just wanted to hear their own thoughts. That was how he charmed them. This was his gift. He could ride this cushiony bubble to prime ministership if he married right, if he mopped up the mess with Harding, if his bank didn't fail, if he didn't have the desire to speak his own mind or be his own man…if he didn't fall in love with the wrong woman.

He glanced at the wrong woman. Her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, her mouth lay open, and her warm breath rustled the pale hairs on his chest. He closed his eyes and kissed her forehead, lingering there.

Someone was bound to figure out that Izzy May was actually Isabella St. Vincent, the famed author and women's rights advocate. He could laugh it off and say that last night was a small joke between them. He could say he was drunk and confused. He could sweep Isabella under the rug to save his career. Even as a mistress, she was damaging.

What if he let it all fall apart? What if he walked away from his political career and let his bank fail? “Randall,” she murmured. Her fingers tensed, then relaxed again. The acute pain in his heart made his eyes water.

Oh God, what madness had he agreed to last night? How could he face her and pretend it was all a game? He nestled his face in her hair, her citrus and sugar scent mingled with the earthy scents of lovemaking. He wished he could make this night last on and on.

But he couldn't keep her. He had responsibilities to his family, his country, and she to her bank and the Mary Wollstonecraft Society. To keep her, he would have to sacrifice his political career and disgrace his family's name. Mere half-Irish, rights-of-women advocating, merchants' daughters were not allowed into the sacred Hazelwood family tree.

Their lives were so different, yet their bodies fit s
o perfectly.

In his mind, he began to turn over the words he would tell her. They would be sweet, lovely, yet heartless at their core. He would rip her heart apart—that tender, fearful organ he was just beginning to understand.

But how could he go on living beside her and not think about this night?

He drew her closer, remembering what she had said earlier that evening in the gaming hell: “At this moment, everything is possible… There is no playing it safe now. In an instant all could be realized or lost.”

“Lost,” he murmured, his eyes moistening.

He didn't realize that he had drifted into sleep until he awoke to the gray, drab light of the morning streaming under the curtains. He jolted up, knowing something was wrong before he could name it. He was in bed alone. The lace chemise she had danced in was now neatly folded on a chair. The silken ribbons that she had strained against in orgasm were rolled into little circles and placed atop the shift.

Where
did
she
go?

He slid out of bed, pulled the covers over himself, and padded downstairs, barefoot.

He found her by the front door. She wore another of his ex-mistress's dresses, her hair tidy and hat in place, showing no signs of the previous eveni
ng's ravishment.

“Good morning,” she said, focusing on sliding her gloves on. “Mrs. Perdita was so kind as to retrieve some of my things from the hotel.”

No morning kiss? No “Did you sleep well?” No “By the way, I fell in love with you last night. What are we going to do about this emotional mess?”

He squinted in the slant of the early sun beaming through the half-circle window above the door. “W-what are you doing?” he stammered, his brain confused and still dulled from sleep.

She raised her head, her face pale and expressionless. “I'm going to take the train to Tupping-on-the-Water to visit Merckler Metalworks.”

For a moment, he couldn't speak. He stood, draped in his bedcovers, his mouth gaping, his feet cold on the wood planks. Did she not feel anything? Did she not wage some emotional battle in her head that made her question everything she thought she was, as well as her past and her future? Exactly who had been bought and used last night?

“Do you think I might like to go?” he asked, hearing the anger rising in his voice. “Seeing as my future is at stake as well?”

“You were sleeping.” She shrugged, as if this were just another day, as if he hadn't taken her maidenhood the night before and then proceeded to make wild, uninhibited love to her into the early hours.

“That's typically what I do at six in the morning.”

“Well, I've got to get down to the train station to catch the first train.” She spun on her heel.

He seized her elbow. “You are not leaving me! You're going to have to wait until I get dressed. And I'm a little hungry. I don't know about you, but I had a rather physically taxing night. I pleasured an insatiable courtesan who demanded that I take her over and over.”

This was going all wrong. He was supposed to deliver his gentle speech about how they could never be together. She was supposed to become upset and beg, while he remained firm but compassionate. She wasn't adhering to her lines in his play.

“That was last night,” she said, and yanked away, flashing him a scorching look that, through her thick lenses, could set fire to forests.

“Yes, last night when I took your virtue—when you knew a man for the first time.”

Her chest palpitated with her rapid breath, her nostrils dilated. “I'm going to the train station now. I've got to find out if this Merckler Metalworks knows of its fraudulent stock.”

“No.” He dashed around her, blocking the door with his body. “First, we are going to talk about what happened last night.”

“What is there to talk about?” she cried. “The game was a courtesan for the evening. Now it's done.”

“What?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Do you have a heart in there?” He tried to cup her left breast. She slapped his hand away.

“Do you have a brain in there?” She pointed at his head. “We played a game. It had rules. You shouldn't have played if you can't abide by the rules. Why are you so…so emotional? This is why you lose at cards.”

“Emotional. No, love, I'm what you call normal. Where is the lady who was here last night? You're—”

“Isabella.” She flung up her arms. “I'm Isabella. Your enemy. The strange, scary girl. The lady you could never…never…” She didn't finish her words but rushed to the door. “Ugh! I've got to go.”

Again, he blocked her. “You are not leaving this house without me. You will sit down and have some goddamn tea.”

“Don't tell me what to do,” she shouted.

“Don't make me tie you to the dining room table and force-feed you, because I will,” he shouted back.

Her eyes narrowed. “You have five minutes. I'm not missing the train because of you.”

He stared at her, all those gentle smiles and tender eyes from the evening before were gone. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Her mouth dropped. “I'm trying to save our bank. That's what's wrong with me. I'm sorry if financial disaster interferes with your sleep.” He tossed up his hands, dropping his covers.

She gasped, pressed her hand to her mouth, and pivoted.

“That's right, don't look at me!” He spread his arms wide, letting his Percy dangle free. “But you certainly couldn't stop looking last night. You couldn't get enough. I had to pry your mouth off my cock.”

“Don't you ever talk about last night again!”

“Last night!” He stepped in front of her, trying to force her to see his naked body. She only turned the other way. They continued this little don't-look-at-me game as he yelled, “Last night! Last night! When you climaxed five times, including when you were straddling me.” He backed her into the corner. She kept her face to the wall, refusing to look at him. “Last night! When I came on your breasts.”

“I said never talk about it again!”

“Of course, we shouldn't talk about it. We might have some
feelings
or, heaven forbid,
emotions
.”

“Y-you sound like Judith now,” she said, her voice muffled by the wall.

“Oh God, how do I sound like that zealot—pardon me. I mean
wise
advocate
.”

She slowly turned. “Don't—don't talk about Judith that way. She says…she says…”

“What?” He crossed his arms. “Just say it.”

“That I'm afraid of my emotions.” Her words burst from her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Like my father's or mother's death or…” Her voice closed to a tight painful squeak. The tiniest tear tried to roll from the corner of her eye. She quickly brushed it away.

His heart contracted. He had never seen her cry for anything except hay and flowers. It destroyed him. All his rehearsed words about how they couldn't be together flew away. He had seen her fall from trees, scrape her knees, bury a father, be betrayed by a cheating business partner, but never had he seen her truly cry. What the hell was he doing? “Oh, Isabella,” he said tenderly, stepping forward to wrap her into his arms. “I'm sorry.”

She pushed against his chest. “What do you know about anything?” Her voice cracked as she threw her words like jagged knives. “T-this is the first bad thing that's ever happened to you. It's so terrible. People might not love you. They might not think you are a fine old chap.” Her lips trembled.

“Let me hold you, my love.” He kept his voice low and soothing, edging closer to her, as if she were a wild, injured animal. Another tear dared to form. She swiped it away as if it were something shameful. “Don't. You can cry.” He tentatively caressed her taut shoulder muscles, trying to draw her into his embrace.

But she made a quick move, ducking under his arm. She yanked the door open and slipped away before he could catch her.

“Dammit.” He chased after her. He was about to step over the threshold when he remembered that he was naked.

A tiny girl, holding her mama's hand, stopped on the street, pointed at him, and giggled. Her mother shrieked and covered her child's eyes. “You—you wicked reprobate!” she yelled at him.

He leaped inside and snatched his bedcovers from the floor. Holding them bunched over his private parts, he scrambled to the parlor and shoved the window open. He poked his head out and recognized Isabella's slim form and odd, wispy gait heading down the walk toward the train station.

“You wait for me, Isabella!” he shouted. “You can't leave me.”

***

The sun was bright and she turned her face to it, trying to dry her eyes. It had been a game, for God's sake. How dare he talk about her emotions? He, whose life until last week had been like a happy holiday to Brighton. Emotions were useless. They couldn't change the flip of a card, the spread of a cancer or catching of a chill, nor stop an errant bank partner. They just throbbed like a fresh, bleeding wound.

What did he want from her anyway? What did he want her to say?
I
think
I
may
be
falling
in
love
with
you. Your old enemy, clumsy and awkward Isabella. Pathetic, isn't it?
Did he really think she would just stand there and listen to his charming, silvery words, explaining how he could never return her love—if this feeling were indeed love, because love shouldn't feel so gut-wrenchingly terrible. It shouldn't burn in her stomach or slice clean through her heart. It shouldn't feel like a death. If this was love, she hated it.

She hated herself.

This
is
your
fault. Stop acting like a baby. If you can't take the risk, you shouldn't have played.

She raised her head, stiffened her spine, and walked on.
Be
strong.