Wickedly Yours (The Wickeds Book 4)

by Kathleen Ayers

  Malden came up so close to Arabella their noses nearly touched. She could see the bits of gold and green circling his irises. The rough stubble of his chin was clearly visible.

  “I am sleeping in the parlor. There are two chairs. You need not be concerned for your virtue. It will be quite safe.” He stood back and walked from the room not sparing her a backward glance.

  13

  Arabella held her hands out to the roaring fire in the small parlor the inn’s owner had led her to. Sparsely furnished, the room nonetheless was spotless and smelled pleasantly of lemon and beeswax. A vast improvement over the stale smell of the common room. Before the hearth sat two overstuffed chairs, the fabric covering them faded. Stuffing hung out the back of one and she saw the hint of a spring poking out of the other.

  After bringing a basin of hot water, soap and a towel, the owner’s wife departed leaving Arabella in peace. The soap smelled vaguely of lye and the towel rough, but it was wonderful to feel somewhat clean. She longed for a bath, but such a luxury would have to wait.

  Not certain when Malden would return, she hastily claimed the chair without the spring poking out. Despite the way the chairs looked, hers was remarkably comfortable and she sank into the cushions with a sigh. The fire was warm and cast a beautiful golden glow over the room. As she held out her hands to the flames Arabella had the most horrible urge to cry. She rarely cried, but then she was not herself.

  Perhaps that was a good thing.

  Corbett had terrified her. If he had succeeded in his quest to marry her, whether willingly or forced, Arabella had no doubt she would truly have put her in a sanitarium. She hugged her arms to herself, shivering at how close she had come to such an existence. Even more horrifying, she’d nearly condemned her sister-in-law to the same fate. All in her bid to protect her brother. How smug and self-righteous she’d been in assuming she was qualified to decide Nick’s fate for him.

  “I’ve asked for dinner.” The door opened to reveal Malden. He stepped into the parlor wearing a clean shirt, still wearing his indecently tight breeches. She caught only a faint whiff of horse, but the aroma was mixed with soap. He hadn’t bothered to shave.

  “I believe it will be roast. The innkeeper’s wife says there’s enough to go around.” He clapped his hands together in anticipation. Moving towards her, he spied the coiled spring sticking out of the empty chair.

  “Comfortable?” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “Very.” She returned her gaze back to the fire deliberately stifling the urge to grin back at him. She wished Malden weren’t so attractive.

  “I would have given you the better chair by the way.” A dark brow raised as he nodded at her. “You need not act so smug you’ve bested me somehow.”

  Arabella relaxed, allowing herself to sink further into the deep hollow in the cushions, a testament to years spent sitting in front of the fire. What would that be like, she wondered, to spend a lifetime with someone? It was something she’d never truly considered.

  I shall never know. The best I can hope for is not to be sent back to Twinings.

  “Hungry?” Malden asked.

  “Famished.”

  A knock at the door was followed by the delicious odor of roast and freshly baked bread.

  “I hope you’ll find the room comfortable.” The innkeeper entered the parlor followed by a buxom girl carrying two trays. In his arms he held two quilts. “Between these and the fire, you’ll be toasty warm my lord.”

  “We are more than comfortable,” Malden said graciously. “I wish my own sitting room were half as welcoming.”

  The man beamed at Malden’s praise. “It is my pleasure, my lord. There’s plenty of wood.” He nodded to the pile next to the fireplace. Polly has brought you something to eat.” He dipped his head in the direction of the girl bustling about to lay out the trays. “Roast is a specialty of my wife. And the bread is fresh baked. I hope it pleases you.”

  “It smells wonderful,” Arabella interjected.

  The innkeeper bowed and the girl dipped before bidding Arabella and Rowan a good night.

  Rowan turned with a surprised look on his face. “Your courtesy surprises me.”

  “I can be kind,” she insisted.

  “Can you?” The words dangled in the air. “I’ve yet to experience such a thing.”

  Did he truly find her so lacking in common decency? The thought pained her. She shouldn’t care what Malden thought of her. “I’ve heard stories of your charm and appeal amongst the women of the ton. I fear it has been drastically over-inflated.”

  He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m too tired to spar with you tonight. I reserve the right to trade insults with you on the morrow once I’m better rested.” A grunt sounded from him as the spring found its target. “Not a word, Arabella.”

  A bottle of wine sat on the table next to the food and Rowan poured each of them a glass.

  “I don’t drink spirits,” she informed him with a sniff.

  The broad shoulders shrugged. “Well I certainly do. I asked for scotch, but I suppose this will need to do.” He held up the bottle. “I’m hoping it doesn’t taste like vinegar.” Taking a sip, he smiled and turned his attention to the food.

  Beef, potatoes and peas graced two large plates. The food was not fancy in the least, but it was plentiful. A loaf of bread and a crock of butter completed the meal. Lifting the glass of wine in a mock toast he said, “Here’s hoping you don’t like your roast and the peas find no favor with you.”

  Arabella stabbed at the roast, his cheery mood annoying her. “I adore roast. And peas. I am also fond of bread.”

  Shooting her a mischievous glance, Rowan sliced off a hunk of the still warm bread, slathering it with butter before handing it to her. “I am relieved to find some things find favor with you.”

  His tone was teasing, but the comment struck another nerve. Corbett too had mentioned the same deficit in her personality. No wonder she lacked popularity amongst the ton. She had a distinct lack of positive character traits.

  “Thank you,” she whispered as she took the proffered piece of bread. Eyeing the wine, she thought of the mountains of empty bottles her father would trip over in his study. Perhaps her father had also been filled with self-loathing.

  Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the glass of wine from his fingers and took several swallows before setting the nearly empty glass back down. The taste, akin to some fruit gone sour lingered on her tongue. Not completely unpleasant. A warm, fuzzy feeling burst from her stomach and spread down her limbs.

  “You just told me you didn’t care for spirits.” Malden sipped at his glass. “You are very contrary, Arabella.”

  She ignored the comment, too engrossed in the light fluffiness filling her head. She admonished herself for enjoying the liquid, fearing for a brief moment that she would lose all control and instantly become a drunkard like her father. Ridiculous, of course. Nick drank spirits and was certainly not a sot. Besides, was her reputation of such importance? No one truly liked her anyway so she doubted drinking wine would make things worse.

  They ate in silence for some moments before she reached across and poured herself more wine. The glow now spread through her entire body. No wonder her parents had been so enamored. Wine was synonymous with euphoria.

  She snuck a look at Malden, who had fallen upon his plate like a ravenous beast and was now eyeing what was left of her roast.

  Feeling emboldened, she took another sip. “Do you find me dour?” She pushed the remainder of her roast towards him.

  He didn’t answer for the longest time, only stared at her intently considering how to answer. Heat suffused her cheeks and it wasn’t because of the fire. Or the wine. It was the way he looked at her. Pleasure twisted low in her belly and mixed with the wonderful feeling the wine gave her. Arabella had the sudden urge to curl around Malden like a cat and beg to be stroked.

  “Dour women,” he leaned back in his chair, hooking one
long leg over the arm, “do not wear,” he sipped his wine, “the undergarments of a courtesan. Particularly, a red chemise.”

  Her cup trembled as it met her lips. The deep baritone of his voice caused a delicious sensation to waft across her body. Her toes actually curled at the sound. Then his words sunk into her wine fuddled brain.

  Dear God, he’d seen the chemise.

  “Do not drink so much or so fast.” His eyes ran over her form. “Are you wearing it right now? The red chemise?”

  Her breath caught. “This is an improper conversation and I—”

  “It’s a simple question, Arabella. Yes,” the length of his fingers stroked the stem of his glass, “or no.”

  The way he touched the wine stem was fascinating. What would it feel like to have him touch her in such a way? Long ago, during her debut, there had been one or two gentlemen who dared to touch her. She’d allowed both a kiss but found she remained unmoved. Her lack of reaction caused one man to declare she was frigid. Corbett’s touch had disgusted her.

  Instinctively, Arabella knew Malden’s would not.

  “Yes. I’m wearing the red chemise.” She held out her glass for more wine. “I suppose you find that odd, given that I am so dour and unpleasant.”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  Arabella rarely spoke about herself to others, but the wine loosened her tongue. “I assume you are familiar with my parents?” At his nod, she continued. “My mother, the illustrious Charlotte, was fond of such undergarments. As a girl I’d often watch her dress for an evening out. She always chose such lovely materials and colors.” Her mother’s underclothes had been nothing short of scandalous and Charlotte wore them for her numerous lovers. Shortly after her mother’s death, Arabella had wandered into Charlotte’s dressing room. Her mother’s maid had rifled through Charlotte’s dresses but left the decadent underthings to Arabella. She supposed that had been the start of her affinity for such garments.

  “We should not be speaking of such things,” Arabella mused in a soft voice. The entire night felt surreal. Perhaps she was dreaming and none of this was real.

  “No. We should not.” He peered at her over his glass.

  “Why did you come for me?” The question had plagued her since he had appeared brandishing a pistol at Corbett. “You don’t even like me.”

  “Not in the least,” Malden admitted as he studied his wine.

  Affronted, she snapped. “It’s a simple question.” She mimicked the words he’d used earlier. “I suppose it was for Nick’s sake.”

  He drained his wine glass and faced her with a hungry look.

  Arabella’s heart thudded dully, and the tips of her breasts puckered beneath her dress. He likes me just a bit.

  “It was most assuredly not for Nick.” He shrugged, his eyes not leaving hers. “I’ve been obsessed with punishing you for your deceit. Possibly it was for that. Punishment.” His voice had lowered to an erotic growl that played across her skin.

  “I’m not sure how I should reply to that.” Dark wicked images filled Arabella’s head of Malden. Touching her. Stroking her skin.

  “Perhaps it’s best you don’t.”

  Malden’s leg hung over the arm of the chair, so close she could run her fingers over the sculpted muscles of his thigh if she wished. And she did wish to.

  Arabella turned and looked back into the fire, ashamed at the direction of her thoughts. Perhaps a love of scandalous undergarments wasn’t the only thing she’d inherited from her mother. Charlotte had been terribly flirtatious, which was a polite way to say Mother was a bit of a whore. She’d often heard her parents arguing about Charlotte’s behavior.

  “Why did you do it?” Malden murmured.

  There was no anger in his tone nor accusation, just simple curiosity. For a split-second Arabella thought he was speaking about her agreement to marry Corbett. He wasn’t. Malden wished to know why she’d helped Corbett in his failed attempt to take Jemma back to Bermuda. She stayed silent for the longest time, and just stared into the fire, wondering how to explain her motivation. How does one rationalize assisting in the kidnapping of one’s future sister-in-law?

  Finally, Arabella said, “Have you ever considered how difficult it is to be one of the Devils of Dunbar? No,” she shook her head before he could answer, “I don’t suppose you have. You’d never understand unless you were born to it. There are such expectations, you see, and not all of them good.”

  “I am familiar with expectations.” A small trace of bitterness tinged his words, but he didn’t elaborate.

  “The Duke of Dunbar and his family must serve the Crown. This is not lip service, Malden. It is part of our family history, along with the tales of witchcraft and such.” She gave a snort and waved her hand. “Nick’s parlor tricks aside, to have our loyalty questioned was more horrible than you can imagine. My parents died because of the rumors. My father shot my mother and then turned the gun on himself. Oh, I know,” her words slurred a bit, “my parents would have probably come to a bad end on their own. At least that’s what Aunt Maisy says.” She took a deep breath. “After, it was only me and Nick.”

  Treason. Suicide. Her adored older brother treated as if he were the devil because his eyes were two different colors. Even Mother had never looked directly at Nick, horrified she’d given birth to a monster. The entire ton held their breath in anticipation of Arabella making the slightest misstep. Flirt too much at a ball. Dance with abandon. Laugh at an innuendo. Become the whore her mother was.

  She did none of those things.

  The only small joy she allowed herself was silken undergarments, whispering against her skin while she dressed like an elderly matron. A small remembrance of the mother she both hated and desperately loved.

  “You did not know Nick when he mourned Jemma, thinking her dead,” she continued. “You did not despair he would drink himself to death and leave you alone in the world.” Arabella turned back to the fire and sipped her wine. “I wished her never to hurt my brother again. I wished her to disappear.”

  14

  Bloody hell.

  Part of him hadn’t wanted Arabella to prove herself human. Far easier to resist a devious woman with no conscience, though his cock seemed not to care either way.

  Damn.

  He found himself enraptured by the way the fire lit the pale oval of her face, her eyes dark like coal. A bruise had darkened against her cheek from Corbett’s harsh treatment and Rowan had to push away the rage he felt. He admired her beautiful hands, so slender and elegant, moving in a nervous fashion against her skirts as she spoke about her parents. The lustful nature he saw that Arabella kept trapped beneath the somber attire.

  “We should speak of what happened with Corbett.” He found himself saying.

  “I do not need you hovering about demanding I allow you to soothe me. She stood abruptly almost tipping over the small table laden with the dishes from their meal. “How many times must I tell you?”

  “That’s just as well.” His hand went to reach for her skirts least she topple into the fire.

  An offended puff of air left her lips. “Perhaps I should sleep in the stables.”

  The glass of wine sloshed a bit, sprinkling Rowan with red drops. Swaying on her feet, she reached out a hand for balance and Rowan trapped her neatly between his legs.

  Her eyes widened. “What do you think you are doing? Release me this instant.”

  “No.” Rowan hooked his leg around her hips, pulling her closer. Taking the glass from her hand, he tugged Arabella down into his lap. She was softer than he’d imagined, her bottom lush against the arousal in his breeches. The front of her dress, a hideous high-necked atrocity he longed to strip from her body, hid the rounded curves of her breasts, but he felt their fullness pressing against his chest.

  Arabella’s lips parted, the simple act drawing his attention to the gorgeous red of her mouth. She looked too shocked to speak. But she didn’t swat at him or slap his face. Nor attempt to get away. “I am not i
n need of comfort,” she said quietly.

  “Maybe I am.” He set his glass down before cupping her face between both his hands. Gently he stroked the line of her jaw, pausing over the bruise and cursing Corbett.

  A soft, feminine sound of approval came from Arabella as she tilted her chin into his hand and lifted her mouth.

  When his lips met hers, Rowan groaned. The taste of her was exquisite. Darkness and vulnerability mixed with innocence and the heady taste of wine. Her lips were pliant beneath his, offering no resistance. Arabella’s inexperience was obvious as she seemed not to know exactly how to move her mouth. Knowing another man had not kissed her thus aroused him more.

  Arabella pressed herself closer, unknowingly twisting her plump bottom in a teasing motion against his already aroused cock. A soft mewling escaped her lips.

  Rowan held her more firmly, drinking deeply of Arabella. He wanted more of her. All of her.

  She arched, her lush curves molding against the lines of his chest. Her hands wound through his hair, raking her nails against his scalp. Closer, she seemed to urge.

  His hand moved to cup one rounded buttock, squeezing gently, kneading her soft flesh, before running down the length of her thigh. He demanded her lips to part, to surrender to him, as his tongue found hers.

  Arabella shivered at the uncertain invasion. But after only a moment of coaxing, her tongue curled around his, mimicking his actions. She was moving gently back and forth against the hardness in his breeches. A whimper came from the back of her throat.

  He cupped one breast, tracing the outline of her peaked nipple, imagining the nub pushing against the red silk of the chemise. If he touched Arabella between her legs, she would be wet. Ready for him. A growl escaped him, and he pulled his mouth from hers. He’d forgotten himself.

  I’m about to take her on this chair.

  Dazed, Arabella looked at him from underneath the dark sootiness of her lashes, her lips swollen and slightly parted. The black pitch of her eyes blinked. “Rowan?” Her voice was low and sultry, the sound of a woman who wished to be bedded. His cock twitched madly, urging him to take her. “Why did you stop?”