Wickedly Yours (The Wickeds Book 4)

by Kathleen Ayers

  At his words a flood of wetness seeped between her thighs. Her skin felt raw all over, the silk of her gown chafing against the most sensitive parts of her body. Arabella was a virgin, but she also knew what was happening between them.

  I want him to touch me. Put his hands on me.

  “I’m a wanton. Like my mother,” she gasped as the heat of his mouth covered her nipple, suckling her. “I’ve always been afraid her nature would become mine.”

  The weight of his hand moved underneath her skirts, stroking the sheer silk covering her legs. He lingered over the hollow of her knee before his fingers found the space between her thighs. Settling her astride his lap, he wrenched up her skirts.

  “But only for me.” The possessive rasp came from him. “Only me.”

  She could feel the cool air of the coach against her stockinged legs as he found the slit of her underthings. “Part your legs, my love.” His voice was rough.

  My love. More wetness. The hard length of him pressed with determination beneath her buttocks. Deliberately, Rowan rotated his hips, rubbing his arousal against her.

  “This is very uncalled for,” she whispered against his mouth. “Most improper.” She pushed back, the feel of him at once easing and increasing the mounting pressure between her thighs.

  “This,” his voice was low and heavy with desire, “is most called for.” A light touch wound through the soft hair covering her mound, before a finger pressed against the slick wetness of her flesh, moving with purpose through her folds. He seemed in no hurry, teasing and caressing the hidden bundle of nerves.

  “Please.” Arabella clung to him.

  Two fingers filled her, thrusting inside with gentle force. The sensation was unlike anything she’d ever felt. Her muscles tightened against his hand, wanting more. Her entire lower body ached. Need built with each stroke against her flesh.

  “Kiss me, Bella.”

  She did as he asked, lifting her lips to his, while his hand continued to move in a deliberate fashion. The ache grew, spilling the pleasure down her legs to her toes. As his fingers continued to move inside her, his thumb flicked lightly against the source of the ache. Shamefully she tried to force the lower part of her body more firmly into his hand.

  Her entire body coiled tighter and tighter, each caress of his thumb and fingers threatening to undo her. The urge to lose control was frightening. And wonderful.

  “Let go, Bella.” The press of his thumb became more insistent.

  Arabella moved her hips, panting and begging as Rowan stoked the tension only to retreat. Frustrated she tugged at his hair to urge him forward. His mouth fell to her breast, sucking the nipple fully into his mouth as he pressed down with his thumb.

  Arabella cried out, before Rowan pressed her face to his coat to muffle the sound. She bucked violently as waves of the most magnificent bliss she’d ever experienced coursed through her. His fingers continued to milk her, stroking and teasing until the last of her tremors ceased.

  He held her close as she lay limp and gasping against him, whispering dark, beautiful things that had she been more aware, would have brought a blush to her cheeks. As her breathing returned to normal, he nuzzled her cheek and kissed her gently.

  “The carriage is slowing.”

  Carefully he straightened her skirts and pulled up her bodice neatly tucking in her breast before placing Arabella on the seat beside him. He moved to pick up the pins from the coach floor and handed them to her, watching her intently.

  Hands shaking with the intimacy of what had just occurred, Arabella took the pins and tried to give her hair some semblance of order.

  A soft chuckle came from him as his lips brushed her temple. Then he pulled her close to him.

  Arabella clutched at the buttons of his coat, the sense of loss at parting from him nearly as profound as the pleasure she’d just experienced. Her thoughts ran wild at her behavior. At the first opportunity she’d allowed almost complete ruination. In a carriage, of all places.

  “Don’t, Bella.” Rowan murmured, likely sensing the tension in her body. “You are not your mother.” He kissed her cheek, then took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “You are magnificent.”

  Arabella sucked in a deep breath and nodded, not trusting herself to answer. When the coach came to a stop, she reluctantly pulled away from him.

  The warmth of his hands brushed the top of her breasts as he straightened her bodice and Arabella’s body flared to attention again. God, what was happening to her?

  Rowan stepped out of the coach and stood with his hand outstretched to clasp hers. He moved to walk her to the door but Arabella abruptly released his fingers. “Good night, my lord.”

  Telling her legs to move forward, Arabella made it up the steps just as a footman swung open the door. She did not look back.

  25

  The stunning brunette smiled back at Arabella and turned sideways, smoothing her skirts. It was amazing what a new hairstyle and fashionable clothing could do for a person. At Aunt Maisy’s insistence, Arabella had accompanied her to Madame Moliere’s, one of the most well-known modistes in London. Arabella had tried to beg off, insisting she already engaged the services of a lesser known dressmaker.

  Aunt Maisy was remarkably persistent.

  “My lady, you are a vision, if I may say so.” Edith, her new lady’s maid, clapped her small hands in delight. Edith was another new addition at the behest of Aunt Maisy. She was to be married, Aunt Maisy explained, and needed a new wardrobe as well as a proper lady’s maid. And Edith did wonderful hair.

  Arabella allowed a tentative smile. She’d felt beautiful the night of the opera, but that had been a special occasion. “You may, Edith.”

  Dressed in a walking dress of deep green, with her hair in a lose cluster of waves at her back, Arabella nearly didn’t recognize herself. After so many years dressed in brown and gray, she had yet to get over the shock of seeing herself in colors. Aunt Maisy went a bit wild, choosing fabrics in a variety of hues Arabella might not have considered otherwise. Nothing high-necked, though aside from a ballgown, most of her dresses would still be considered demure. No browns or grays. No questions about Rowan, either. Whatever thoughts Aunt Maisy may have had in that regard, she wisely kept to herself.

  Arabella had resigned herself to marrying Rowan and stopped protesting or making plans to leave the country. Which was a good thing. The banns had been read. She and Rowan were to be wed at his parent’s home under the same wooden arch used only a short time ago for Jemma and Nick. At her request, the wedding would be small. Only family as well as Miranda and her husband, the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne and Lord and Lady Cambourne in attendance.

  “Here my lady,” Edith handed her a small reticule made to match the dress. The maid cocked her head, examining Arabella for any small flaw in her attire. Satisfied, the maid nodded in approval.

  Arabella gave Edith a stern look. “I suppose I should go down.”

  The maid bobbed and her eyes twinkled as she looked up at Arabella. “I did hear a carriage arrive.”

  Heart racing with anticipation, Arabella carefully made her way downstairs, telling herself she’d been to Gunter’s, purveyor of flavored ices and all things epicurean, dozens of times. There was absolutely no reason for her to feel such excitement. Except today she was going to Gunter’s with Rowan.

  Arabella hadn’t spoken to Rowan since the night of the opera. Not intentionally, though she had made plans to put him off should he call the following day. When he did call, she was still abed. She assumed he planned his visit on purpose, knowing she wouldn’t be awake. Instead he left word he had to leave London for a few days on business. That had been a fortnight ago. Rowan had an unfailing ability to guess at her moods, assuming correctly Arabella needed time to think after what had happened between them.

  He’d only sent her one note, accompanied by a lovely box of the most exquisite cherry tarts from Gunter’s.

  ‘I’m taking you for a ride in the park and
then to Gunter’s tomorrow for a lemon ice. I beg you to wear something that is not appropriate for a nun to take her vows in.’

  It occurred to Arabella that she could refuse. Or accept his invitation and wear something horrid and brown. But she took one look at her old wardrobe and decided against dressing like a drab matron. Nor did she have any desire to refuse him by pointing out his invitation was actually more of a command. It was exhausting to constantly be at odds with everyone around you, and that included Rowan. Much more surprising was how much Arabella missed him.

  “Good God, are you ill?” Her brother thundered from the foot of the stairs, a look of astonishment in his eyes.

  Jemma trailed behind Nick, rubbing the small mound of her stomach, a chocolate pastry of some sort clutched in her hand.

  Arabella’s mood was so light she didn’t even feel the need to point out to her sister-in-law that if she continued to stuff herself in such a way she’d be as big as a barn.

  But I can think it. A smile crossed her lips.

  Jemma was staring at her so hard she bumped into Nick’s side before coming to a full stop alongside her husband, horror on her face.

  “No, I’m not ill,” she replied with her usual waspishness. “Why would you ask me such a thing? Do I look ill?” She waved a hand down the lovely new walking dress. “I’m going for a ride in Hyde Park, then a lemon ice at Gunter’s.”

  “Gunter’s? The park? Where is my snarling sister?” Nick questioned as she sailed past him. “Unchaperoned?”

  Arabella suspected Nick knew where she was going and with who. After all, someone had told Rowan about her love of cherry tarts. “True. Would you and Jemma care to play chaperone?”

  Jemma took a defiant bite of the pastry she held. “I can’t think of anything more frightening.”

  Nick looked rather discomforted. “You should take your maid.”

  “Why? To guard my virtue? Edith is wonderful with hair but it’s doubtful her talents extend in that direction. Besides, Aunt Maisy deems my outing to be perfectly acceptable. You forget, I have been to Gunter’s numerous times with Miranda.”

  Nick looked at if he would say more but wisely did not.

  Peabody came before her and made a slight bow. “Lord Malden awaits you in the drawing room, Lady Arabella.”

  * * *

  The day was beautiful and sunny, warm enough so that the top of Rowan’s curricle remained down. Besides the sun, keeping the top down was prudent and would help to remove any impropriety. The sun felt glorious on her face and she tilted her chin up, not caring if she ended up with freckles.

  “I approve of the dress.” Rowan glanced at her, the green glints in his eyes dancing with a beautiful light.

  Arabella basked in his admiration. “I wasn’t aware your approval of my clothing was necessary.”

  “It is if you want a lemon ice.” A smile curled the full lips as the wind ruffled through his hair. Dressed in a coat of deep blue superfine, paired with dark brown breeches with his boots shined until they glowed, Rowan was almost too handsome to be real.

  He’s breathtaking. Her eyes glanced down to his hands, wishing he wasn’t wearing gloves. Remembering the touch of his fingers, her face grew warm. “Thank you for the cherry tarts. They are my favorite.”

  “I was informed of your appreciation for Gunter’s tarts. I’m told the cherries used are especially ripe and sweet.” His eyes fell to her lips.

  Arabella’s skin tingled. “Malden...”

  He leaned close to her and whispered. “We agreed, Bella, that I should not hear Malden again from your lips. Were we not so…exposed I would find it necessary to remind you again of your promise to me.”

  The warmth flowing down Arabella’s body was not from the sun. Nor was it the least unpleasant.

  “Rowan.” She murmured as his foot slid beneath her skirts to touch hers.

  * * *

  The park was horribly congested, every person in London seeming to want to enjoy the bright sunny day. Ladies strolled in pairs or with gentlemen, sometimes with a maid following discreetly behind. A young boy chased his brother across the length of the green grass, laughing as he dodged a group of older women who twirled their parasols.

  As a rule, Arabella didn’t venture into the park on a regular basis, only doing so when Miranda wished, which was rare. Hyde Park was nothing but a parade of gentlemen and ladies who all wished to see and be seen. Each new Season brought a fresh crop of debutantes all seeking suitable matches while the eligible bachelors all did their best to avoid them. It was rather tiresome. In the past, Arabella found the park to be irritating and beneath her.

  Before Malden.

  She had relived their encounter after the opera at least a thousand times. Often, she fell asleep with a pillow clutched between her legs, ashamed and feeling like some innocent milksop who had no inkling where all that touching would lead. Arabella did know. She’d just not had any idea she would ever want such a thing. Nor had she anticipated wanting Rowan.

  A wave of hair fell over his forehead, the golden highlights glowing amid the lush brown. A gentle breeze fluttered the strands and Arabella remembered the feel of his hair between her fingers. Like silk.

  “What are you thinking Bella?” He gave her a half-smile.

  Good God, she’d been staring at him. Rapidly she composed herself. “I was thinking of how much I will miss Miranda when she goes on her great adventure to Egypt. She’s always adored mummies and such. Something she has in common with her brother, Lord Cambourne. If there is a dry, dusty lecture about, Miranda and Sutton will be there.”

  “I’ve never been particularly enamored of the ancients. I’m much more interested in the future. The way we have done things for centuries are changing. Our way of life will change.”

  She nodded in agreement. “People are leaving the safety of their hamlets and small villages to seek work at the factories. Eventually landowners, like your father and my brother, will face a shortage of labor to work their land. Girls who no longer wish to become wives or domestics are leaving the countryside to seek their fortunes in London’s factories. Unfortunately, many of those young ladies find themselves living in St. Giles. A far cry from the glamorous urban life they envisioned.”

  Rowan shot her a look of surprise. “You are well-informed.”

  “I read the papers, my lord. And I am the patroness for an endless list of charities all of which attempt to provide for those who have fallen on hard times.”

  “The rapid growth of factories has indeed created a crisis. But factories are irrelevant unless they can bring their goods to market. There must be ample and efficient transportation.” He slowed the horses to a sedate walk.

  “I read a piece in one of Nick’s journal’s just the other day concerning the need to modernize ships for transatlantic voyages.” Arabella found such topics fascinating. “Steam engines dramatically reduce the length of the crossing. My brother will have to modernize our fleet. If our ships make crossings faster, we can double in some cases, our import load.” Arabella shot Rowan a look. “But you aren’t necessarily speaking of my brother’s ships, are you?”

  Before he could answer Rowan was hailed by a passing carriage. As the vehicle pulled alongside them, a corpulent woman in mauve silk waved a gloved hand in greeting.

  The lovely ash-blonde from the opera sat next to the woman. Lady Gwendolyn. Even the dislike twisting her lips as she saw Arabella didn’t mar her golden beauty. The girl was really quite stunning, Arabella thought, with a sinking stomach. Jealously flared and simmered inside her.

  “Lord Malden. How lovely to see you.” The woman twittered and clasped a hand to her chest. “The park is lovely this time of day, is it not?”

  Rowan tensed but he smiled pleasantly. “Lady White, Lady Gwendolyn. May I present Lady Arabella.”

  Lady White studiously ignored Arabella, barely sparing a glance in her direction.

  Arabella’s eyes narrowed. The cut was rather direct. And foolish of
Lady White, considering who Arabella was.

  “How is Lady Marsh, your dear mother, faring?” The feathers atop Lady’s White’s hat flapped about as she spoke. “I’ve called but she’s not been receiving. Lady Marsh has not been herself lately, almost as if an ill humor or some other unwelcome malaise has descended upon her.”

  Lady Gwendolyn’s face remained bland, but her eyes flicked over Arabella.

  Arabella took a deep breath. Well that was something new, to be compared to a malaise. What was next? She was akin to the plague? Or perhaps someone would be brave enough to insist she reminded them of the pox.

  Rowan’s booted foot pressed atop the toe of her shoe, a silent request for her to hold her tongue.

  “How odd, Lady White.” He said in a perplexed tone. “My mother hosted Her Grace, the Duchess of Dunbar for tea just yesterday. Perhaps our butler misunderstood the nature of your visit when you called.”

  A flush stole up Lady White’s overly powdered face.

  “I’m sorry to have missed you at the opera, Lady White,” Rowan continued. “However, I had the pleasure of seeing Lord White and Lady Gwendolyn in our box.”

  Lady Gwendolyn preened and batted her eyes at Rowan in a blatant attempt to gain his attention.

  Rowan didn’t so much as look in her direction.

  Lady White gave a toothy smile recovering from his previous comment. “I was visiting my sister in Dorchester. I was devastated to miss such a lovely evening. Gwendolyn enjoyed herself immensely.” She bestowed an indulgent smile on her daughter.

  “A pity to be sure.” Rowan was all smooth charm, but his eyes were hard as flint. “I was hoping to see you wear that beautiful brooch. The diamonds are exquisite. I happened upon Lord White as he purchased it. Such a masterpiece. A gift which declares completely the affections of the man purchasing it. I decided I must have one made exactly like it for Lady Arabella.” He raised Arabella’s hand and pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles. “I hope you don’t mind.”