She jumped into the coach, beaming. “I saw you laughing!” she cried breathlessly.
Thaddeus’s hands actually twitched; he was about to pull her into his lap, but Otis fell across his knees, having been given a vigorous shove by the groom; his heavy hat and wig fell off and hit the floor with a thump.
“I am never putting on these garments again,” Otis said, pushing himself upright with a grunt as the carriage door closed behind them.
“I can’t imagine why you would want to,” Joan agreed.
“You were both marvelous,” Thaddeus said. “Are you worried about being seen by your father, Otis, or my mother, as we enter the inn?”
Otis shook his head. “I told my father and swore him to secrecy. He said if it was another play, he would come along but he can’t bear Hamlet.”
“I’ll just wrap up in my cloak and sneak down the corridor,” Joan said, pulling the garment from the other seat. “Did you really think we were marvelous?”
Thaddeus reached out to steady a lamp, swaying as the carriage rounded a corner. “Yes.” Ridiculous twaddle flooded his mind. Your eyes looked like forget-me-nots. I want to kiss you. I want to tear off your clothing.
I want to marry you.
You are my duchess.
Joan was fidgeting with the fold of her cloak and finally looked up at the two of them. “I find myself grateful for my birth.”
“So you’re no longer pining to tread the boards of London’s finest theaters,” Otis exclaimed, while Thaddeus was still trying to figure out whether she was talking about the Prussian or the duke. Illegitimacy or privilege?
Privilege, it seemed.
“This evening and the last were exhausting,” Joan said. “My hip hurts from falling onto the hilt of my rapier. I felt like a drunken swallow swooping back and forth across the stage. My arm aches from all the twirling I did with my foil at the end.”
“That was the funniest part,” Otis said. “We were all howling with laughter behind the stage.”
“I’m so grateful that I had the chance to act before an audience,” Joan said, looking at Thaddeus. “Thank you. I shall . . . I won’t be longing for a life that I wouldn’t have enjoyed. You’ve taught me so much.”
In her eyes he saw a future in which she would serenely circle ballroom floors, laughing up at the husband she chose while he—
Until this moment, the whole of it had been hanging in the balance. He hadn’t let himself plan ahead.
But in the shadowy carriage, the swaying lamp striking sparks on Joan’s hair—for she’d thrown her wig to the side—Thaddeus realized something.
He was far more like his blasted father than he would have thought.
There was only one woman for him, and she wasn’t appropriate for the dukedom. His father had surmised that about his love, and succumbed to his parents’ urgings to marry another.
His beloved—the mistress with whom the duke had spent his life—had been a baron’s daughter before her family cast her off for the crime of living in sin with a married duke.
Lady Joan Wilde was far less eligible than his father’s inamorata had been.
Yet Thaddeus refused to make his father’s mistake.
Lady Joan, illegitimate or not, fathered by a Prussian or a baker, was the only woman he would love in this life.
She was leaning forward, teasing Otis about his come-hither look. “No one was surprised to learn that your Ophelia climbed in Hamlet’s window!” she chortled.
Thaddeus’s eyes rested on her shining head and bright, laughing eyes. She hadn’t taken any other man to the island.
She would marry him.
Chapter Sixteen
Joan crept into the Gherkin & Cheese and made it to her bedchamber without misadventure. After a bath, she bade good night to her maid and sat down by the window to eat a thick, rich piece of plum cake. It had been a magical evening.
A life-changing one.
She had spent her girlhood railing against the fate that had put her in Lindow Castle rather than in a theater troupe. After the last two nights, she felt as if a burden had fallen from her shoulders.
She was in the right place.
She was a lady, albeit one with a penchant for private theater.
The inn had fallen silent. Her room looked onto a Wilmslow street, rather than the inn yard. The air was clear and crisp, with the August heat blown away. Somewhere a chaffinch was singing to his mate.
The babies would have been born by May, and had flown away. But still he tinkled on like a silver bell in the darkness. Joan sipped a rapidly cooling cup of tea, thinking about chaffinches mating for life, when she heard something else: a scrabbling noise, like a dog turning around before he sleeps, or . . .
She stood up, went to her window, and looked out.
Nothing.
Wilmslow lay before her, a cluster of rustic cottages and shuttered shops tiger-striped by moonlight, St. Bartholomew’s church tower triumphantly rising above them all.
Then she glanced down.
A dark head was making its way up the vine-covered wall of the Gherkin & Cheese. A man was climbing silently, his hands moving unerringly from brick to brick.
“I always wondered how people could climb ivy,” she said, leaning against the window frame and taking another sip of tea. “Now I see that bricks are the true ladder.”
Thaddeus grunted. He had cleared the first story but her room was on the third.
“Do you propose to sing a ballad about this tomorrow?” She put her tea aside and shifted so her elbows were on the windowsill. With anyone else, she would have been frightened that they might tumble to the ground—but not Thaddeus.
He was climbing as easily as if the wall were horizontal, strong fingers reaching up, disappearing in the vines, and pulling his body up. It was enthralling, even more so because he wasn’t wearing a coat. His white shirt caught the moonlight as it molded against the muscles of his shoulders and arms.
When he almost reached her windowsill, she drew back in case he tumbled through the frame. But that would be far too ungentlemanly. He reached high enough to swing his legs through and landed with a gentle thump on her bedchamber floor.
“Hello,” she said, smiling at him. “Would you like a cup of tea? I don’t have another teacup, since my maid didn’t anticipate midnight visitors, but I could give it to you in a glass.”
Thaddeus shook his head and pulled a bunch of purple thistles from his pocket. “For you.”
“Globe thistles,” Joan said, enjoying herself hugely. It seemed that midnight callers brought flowers, just as did morning callers: Who would have thought?
“They are the color of your eyes,” Thaddeus said. He was standing beside the window still, his large form outlined against the moonlight.
He followed her gaze down his body to his bare feet. “Shoes might have impeded my way up the wall. I haven’t been outside my bedchamber or bath barefooted in years, except on your island.”
Joan swallowed because for some reason, strong male feet—his feet—made a pulse run through her body that started at her loins and spread slowly through her like warm honey. She turned away, feeling herself blushing. He hadn’t asked for tea so she poured water from the pitcher into a glass and stuffed the purple thistles inside. They had long stems and prickly, beautiful globes on top.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to think of something to make his visit less awkward. “Would you like to sit down? That must have been a strenuous climb.”
Thaddeus moved forward but didn’t seat himself. Instead, he stopped just in front of her. Joan’s smile trembled because his eyes were dark and intense, with an expression she’d never seen before.
Her heart sped up, and she rushed into speech. “If you’re climbing into my window like Ophelia, I suppose that your flowers have meaning?”
His eyes searched her face. “They mean that I want to marry you.” He shoved his hand through his hair. “Probably some other things too, but that’s the mo
st important one.”
Joan was rarely silenced, but she was now. In fact, she only realized she was gaping at him when she snapped her mouth closed. “You do?”
Thaddeus nodded.
“But you can’t—”
He made an abrupt movement. “Don’t. My father made that mistake, and wretched though he was as a parent, I can still learn from him.”
Joan felt dazed, as if she were in a play but had lost the script. Never read it, in fact. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t.” He stared down at her, tall and intimidating, though she felt entirely at ease in his presence. “Our bargain is fulfilled. You performed in public. I refuse to marry Lucy Lockett.”
“I see,” she said, feeling very happy.
“I refuse to give you the name of a gentleman to marry.” His jaw set.
Joan smiled at him. “I can find my own candidates.”
“I’m one of them,” Thaddeus said. He ran his hand through his hair again. Part of it was standing straight up. His gaze was unflinching. “I shall fight for you, Joan. That’s what the silly girl Ophelia was doing. She gave back the love letters when instructed, but then she climbed in Hamlet’s bloody window to make a point. To fight for what she wanted.”
Her thoughts jumbled and her heart raced to a gallop. “I don’t know what I want.”
“It will come to you,” Thaddeus said. He took a step forward and clasped her hands in his. “It’s the middle of the night and thoroughly inappropriate, but will you kiss me? Please?”
“More inappropriate than kissing on an island?”
“Yes,” he said uncompromisingly. “There’s a bed behind us.”
The moment he said the word, the bed loomed in Joan’s view, a soft haven piled with pillows. It would be more comfortable than the picnic blanket. Heat simmered through her. Not that she meant to . . .
She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. His lips were cool when her lips first touched them, but then they tumbled into a kiss that felt like the beginning of a sentence. A beginning to the play, to the carriage ride, to the . . .
To everything.
She pushed the thought away and concentrated on running her hands over his head, feeling strong, silky hair curl around her fingers. He would hate a true curl, she thought dimly, but his hair had life.
A long time later, perhaps five minutes, more likely an hour, she stumbled backward, bringing Thaddeus with her, and managed to get him onto the bed. “I’m tired,” she said, when he looked as if he might disagree.
Instantly, his brows drew together.
She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Not that I want to sleep at the moment.” She wound her arms around his neck and ran her tongue along the seam of his lips.
He succumbed with a grunt, digging his elbows into the bed, kissing her again, deeply. His chest touched hers but the rest of his body angled to the side, and for the life of her, Joan couldn’t figure out how to pull him on top of her.
Not for . . . that.
But it had felt so good on the island. It would feel even better now, with a mattress beneath them. Finally, she resorted to her favorite tool: speech. “Up here,” she gasped, breathless, tugging at him.
“Bossy,” Thaddeus muttered, but he shifted. It felt so good that the air swooshed from her lungs, and a nakedly desirous noise came from her throat.
Thaddeus stared down at her, his eyes intent and grave.
“Don’t tell me that doesn’t feel good,” Joan said, playing with his hair again and dusting his chin with kisses. “I can feel you.”
He rocked his hips forward. “Improper.”
“We’ve been more improper. Besides, you’re Ophelia, trying to change my mind about you.”
“I never simply try,” the future duke stated.
“No?” Laughter was burbling up in her chest, joy making itself known in liquid syllables.
“I succeed.” Flatly said, with total confidence.
She nipped Thaddeus’s lip. “How would you define success at the moment?”
“I want all the love letters you write in the future.” He said it even as his eyes asked a question about the past.
She snorted. “You must be joking. To whom could I possibly have written love letters? Although I was deeply taken by a dancing master when we were girls. My father had to send him away because I would lurk in the corridors to give him roses. I found out later that the poor fellow begged to leave the castle.”
Thaddeus paused in the act of kissing her chin, one hand making delicious circles on her hip. “Fled, did he?”
“I gather my courtship was overly fervent,” Joan said, her eyes glinting with laughter.
“I won’t mind,” Thaddeus said, “if you wish to court me.”
“I shan’t,” Joan stated. “I—”
But he was kissing her again, and she lost track of the sentence. By the time he drew back, her body was alive, and her mind was silent. Need was coursing through her, making it impossible to think. His hand was still on her hip, so she slowly bent her knee, causing her nightgown to fall over his fingers.
“That’s an invitation,” she whispered. Everything in her was clenched, tight with longing.
“To touch you?”
She could feel herself turning pink. “Or . . .”
“Or?”
“You could kiss me,” she said in a rush. “The way you did before. Not that it means I agree to marry you, because I haven’t.”
“No?” The word was a drowsy murmur on the silent air.
She eased her legs apart. “No. Not—not yet.”
His hand moved in just the right way, caressing her thigh, his powerful fingers stroking her skin. Her breath caught, and she let her knee fall to the side. “Please,” she whispered. “Thaddeus.”
He groaned. “I love it when you say my name.” His voice was rough and low.
“I love it when you touch me,” she breathed, arching into his touch. “Oh, yes, like that.”
His other hand did no more than encircle her breast, rub his thumb once across her taut nipple, and she began to tremble. He moved his fingers and an embarrassing squeak came from her throat. Her eyes flew open, and he laughed silently, his mouth drifting over hers. “Like this?”
“Yes,” she choked.
“Joan,” he whispered, and then he plundered her mouth at the same moment that his hand played her like a stringed instrument. She convulsed under his touch, squeezing her eyes closed and crying out.
Feeling rippled through her again and again: It would begin to subside, and Thaddeus would languidly move his fingers again, and new sensation would roll away from his touch, making her gasp for air.
When she finally lay back, shuddering and catching her breath, he smiled down at her. “Success,” he said cheerfully. He kissed her, his mouth warm and strong, but she could feel a farewell. He intended to return to his bed.
“Ophelia didn’t leave so soon,” Joan said.
“Hamlet was a fickle prince,” Thaddeus said. He drew his hand away from her and lazily licked his fingers, grinning at her. “You taste like summer, like clover and lemon.”
“I want you,” Joan breathed. “I want more.” She reached for his shoulders. “Please.”
He was silent, his eyes on hers. Whatever he saw there pleased him; Joan registered the smile in his eyes with relief.
“I suppose Ophelia removed her nightgown,” he said. He moved backward, hauled his shirt over his head, and draped it over the bed knob.
“And her breeches,” Joan prompted.
“Ophelia definitely removed her breeches,” Thaddeus agreed. He swung his legs off the bed and pulled them down.
Her eyes followed his every movement. “You wear smalls under your breeches?”
“It’s more comfortable, especially with buckram.”
“Ophelia removed her smalls.”
“Naturally.” Thaddeus drew them down his legs. His hips were narrow, given how strong his legs were.
But.
Shocking, but very desirable.
“This gives a whole new meaning to Ophelia’s By cock, they are to blame,” she murmured, tapping one finger against her lips.
Thaddeus burst out laughing. “I thought maidens didn’t know what ‘cocks’ were.”
“I’m a Wilde,” she said, grinning. “We are the more knowledgeable kind of maiden. You didn’t think that Aunt Knowe would let us go to a ball without a thorough knowledge of male anatomy, did you? Albeit through book learning.”
Thaddeus stood before her, hands at his sides, a lopsided smile on his mouth, letting her look her fill. Joan cleared her throat. “May I?”
Thaddeus looked down at her. “May you?”
She scowled at him.
He stepped closer, laughter glinting in his eyes. Teasing her. She sat up and pulled off her nightgown too, and as she knelt on the edge of the bed, the laughter fell from his eyes, which made her feel unreasonably triumphant.
Joan crooked a finger and he moved forward, his thighs bumping the side of the bed. She wrapped her fingers around his private part—his cock—and it moved in her hand, with a restless power that made her melt in her legs and her arms and everything in between.
“I want you,” Joan said, her voice coming out as low as his. “Now, tonight. Now,” she repeated. Then she lay back, because she trusted her instincts.
His mouth opened and closed, brows drawing together.
“You didn’t truly think that you’d leave my bedroom without ‘doing,’ as Ophelia describes it?”
Thaddeus looked down at his future wife smiling at him impishly, his heart filled with the joy of his good fortune, and his body filled with quite another pleasure.
He knew his Joan. She wouldn’t promise herself to him in marriage yet. She would lead him on a merry chase, because she deserved it, and she was worth it—
But she had made up her mind.
In fact, he’d bet that the moment he set foot on that island for the very first time, she had already made up her mind.
Wilde Child EPB Page 21
