Wilde Child EPB

by James, Eloisa

  “Are you going to make sense of my life as well?” Joan asked, suddenly enjoying herself enormously.

  “I don’t see people clearly, as you do. I spent a great part of my childhood trying to excel in order to please a man who didn’t care. But if you point out a problem, I will take care of it. I will be there for you, Joan. I will never leave you. You and your family will be the family of my heart.”

  Joan managed a wobbly smile. “That’s lovely,” she whispered.

  He thrust a hand in his pocket and then sank to his knees.

  “You can’t do that,” Joan gasped. “We’re in Percy’s sty. A pigsty! Your breeches!”

  Thaddeus grinned at her, and Joan saw longing and joy in his eyes. Her heart thumped in response.

  “I love you,” Thaddeus said, taking her hand in his. “Last night my mother gave me a ring that belonged to my grandmother, one that was untainted by my father. My grandmother and grandfather lived long, cheerful lives, though saddened to witness their daughter’s unhappy marriage.”

  Joan sank down on her knees before him, her gown puddling over fresh straw. “Are you certain? I’m not legitimate, and all England knows it. I’m always causing scandals. If you had given me a chance, I would have kissed you before an entire ballroom.”

  He looked back at her, his eyes sure and calm. “I trust you. You will never have to kiss a man to get my attention again.”

  There was a moment of silence. Joan bit her lip. “How did you guess? Because I didn’t like you then; I truly didn’t.”

  “I didn’t like you either. But I always knew where you were in a room. I loathe gossip, and yet somehow I always knew who was courting you, and who you were flirting with.”

  “I didn’t like it when you courted my sisters,” Joan whispered.

  The straw rustled behind them, as Percy settled himself back against his bedmate with a contented grunt.

  “May I give you this ring?” Thaddeus asked. He looked at Joan the way her father looked at her stepmother, the way Devin looked at Viola, the way she never thought anyone . . .

  Joan felt a tear slide down her cheek. “Are you truly certain?” she asked in an aching whisper. “I won’t run away to the stage, or ever play Hamlet again. But—”

  “If you run away to the stage, I will run after you.” His voice was deep and certain. “If you want to perform Hamlet, I’ll be your Ophelia, albeit in breeches. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it.”

  In his large hand, an emerald winked in the lamplight, its glossy shine surrounded by diamonds. “How lovely,” Joan said. She looked up. “Yes, I will marry you.” The words hung in the air.

  He slid the smooth gold over her finger. The emerald looked as if it had always encircled her finger. As if she could wear it for the rest of her life.

  “It fits perfectly,” she said, hearing wonder in her own voice.

  “A sign,” Thaddeus said. His voice had dropped from a rasp to a rumble. “Joan.”

  “I love emeralds more than any other stone,” she said, turning the ring.

  “Joan.”

  She looked up, and heat shot through her again. “Oh.” And then: “Yes.”

  “We’re in a pigsty. A duchess, a future duchess, in a pigsty,” Thaddeus said, a dark thread of humor in his voice.

  “The moon is up. We could . . .” Her voice faltered. Now that she’d promised to become a duchess, perhaps she should be more circumspect. Hadn’t she promised not to cause scandals? Not that anyone in Lindow would know.

  Or care, some devil inside her prompted.

  But Thaddeus—her future husband—was prudent, gentlemanly. Not a Wilde.

  “We could take the rowboat,” Thaddeus growled, completing her suggestion. His eyes were burning hot. “We could go to the island, and you could lie back on my coat, Joan, naked under the moon except for this ring, and let me love you.”

  He brought her to her feet. They paused to say good night to Percy, who opened one sleepy eye, and set out into the night.

  Through the apple orchard, down the meadow slope.

  Thaddeus put the lantern down and with a wicked smile, stripped off his coat.

  Joan couldn’t find any words because her heart leapt for joy.

  Thaddeus threw his clothes on the grass. Joan waited, forcing her lungs to fill with air, marshaling all her resources to wait patiently. She needed help. A lady could not unclothe herself without assistance. She toed off her shoes; she could do that. She pulled the pins from her hair and shook it free, letting sweet-smelling powder float into the air. It fell below her shoulders, the thick, golden evidence of her parentage.

  Tonight, that felt like a joyful fact, rather than a complicated one.

  After that, she just watched Thaddeus, reminding herself that his body would be hers. Hers to touch, explore, delight.

  For life.

  He took off everything except his breeches and turned back to her, hands on his hips, moonlight emphasizing every dip and shadow carved by his muscles. Joan took another hard breath. “You’re beautiful.”

  He laughed, and suddenly Joan had the feeling that Thaddeus was meant to be a person for whom laughter wasn’t rare. He had compressed himself into the form of a perfect gentleman, the exquisite duke, the somber man.

  But the real Thaddeus stood on the bank, eyes lit by fierce lust—and laughter.

  “My lady,” he said, striding to her. “May I?”

  She nodded.

  “Turn around,” he commanded.

  Obediently, she turned, picking up the heavy fall of her hair and bringing it forward over her shoulder.

  He was nimble, twice as fast as her maid, twirling her when needed, plucking knots before she fumbled to untie them. Showing a remarkable knowledge of women’s clothing, she noticed. And then thought, with a happy wiggle, that Thaddeus would never again undress any woman other than herself.

  Her corset fell onto the grass, leaving only her light chemise. Thaddeus leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. His hands settled on her waist, making her feel encompassed, encircled. He kissed her again, on her nose, her cheekbones. His fingers spread into a caress, and she shivered, swaying closer.

  “The island,” he rasped.

  Joan opened her eyes. “There’s a very nice patch of grass underneath our feet.”

  Thaddeus shook his head. “You told me that you would bring your future husband to the island.” He kissed her. “Vixen,” he whispered. “I couldn’t sleep that night.”

  Her smile felt as if it lightened her soul with pure joy. Thaddeus handed Joan the lantern and operated the oars with such force that the boat shot across the lake, splitting a sea of sweet-smelling flowers and leaving a wake behind them.

  Joan was content to watch his arms bunch as Thaddeus rowed. Her body tingled all over, but more than that, she felt a soul-deep connection with a man who was her opposite in almost every way.

  Except the ways in which he wasn’t, because when he shook back his hair and leapt to the bank, turning to hold out a hand, she knew that in the only ways that truly matter, they were as close as two humans could be.

  Over the years, they would grow even closer.

  The little clearing looked different at night: The air was gently scented, and the white jasmine blossoms caught moonlight and reflected it. When Thaddeus put down the lantern, the light created a small room bathed in gold, and yet over their heads the vast moon sailed on.

  Eyes on her face, Thaddeus undid his breeches and shoved them down his legs. Then he stood before her, naked.

  “May I?” he asked, reaching to her chemise. At her nod, he drew the cloth slowly, torturously slowly, up her body and over her head. Joan could feel her heart pounding as if she were looking at herself along with him, purposefully uncovering her body bit by bit, making the pleasure last.

  Her chemise flew to the side, and she stood there, naked, the lamplight washing over her skin. The sight of his naked body made pleasure ripple through her.

  “May
I?” she echoed. Without waiting for an answer, she reached down and wrapped his cock in one hand.

  Thaddeus sucked in a rough breath, and his hands fell from his hips. He didn’t move. Her fingers closed tightly and then slid . . . He made a harsh sound in the back of his throat. He was hard and thick, and his hips arched toward her. “Hell,” he groaned.

  Joan grinned at him, tightened, and added a gentle twist, watching as a flicker of heat lit in his eyes. She tightened her hand even more, and his head fell back. She tried a slower stroke and his eyes opened . . . She brought her other hand there too, tentatively touching what she had seen but not caressed.

  “Wait,” he choked, and removed her hands. “Joan.”

  She smiled at him, impish, pleased with herself and the world. “Yes, Thaddeus? This is so Adam-and-Eve-ish.” She rearranged her hair so that her breasts were almost hidden, cocked a hip, and held out a hand. “Surely you have an apple for me, Your Lordship?”

  He caught her against him, all his heat and strength against her softness. “I’m no devil.”

  Joan tipped back her head. “You’re devilish. Taking me to an island to have your way with me.”

  “Only with you,” he said hoarsely, one hand running forcefully down her shoulder and curving over her bottom.

  “I certainly don’t mind if you leave the perfect duke behind on the shore.” She shivered, her tongue shaping his bottom lip. His hand dipped lower, between her legs, and she forgot what she was saying. “Thaddeus.”

  “Perfect dukes keep their wives happy,” he murmured. His fingers were everywhere, caressing, rubbing. “Are you happy, Joan?” One finger dipped inside.

  “Yes,” she gasped into his mouth, because he was kissing her openmouthed, hungry, insistent, while his fingers . . . She pulled back just enough to see what he was doing. One hand circled a breast, his thumb rubbing over her nipple.

  The other maddened her, two fingers plunging inside, filling her.

  “More,” she whimpered, absently registering that she sounded like a wanton. Not a duchess.

  Thaddeus didn’t seem to mind. “You’re more beautiful than Eve,” he said, his voice raw.

  She didn’t like compliments; she never had. They were always, in her mind at least, barbed. But with Thaddeus’s dark eyes staring into hers, the word had a different meaning.

  “Not just your hair,” he said, guessing what she was thinking. “All of you, Joan, including the fact you laugh in a moment when many women are self-conscious.” He caught her in his arms, picking her up as if she weighed nothing, turning to put her gently on the bed formed from his breeches and her chemise.

  Those clever fingers slid down Joan’s stomach, and she found she was shaking, waiting for his caress, desperate for that touch to sear her with pleasure.

  He stopped.

  She whimpered, despite herself. Words spilled from her mouth, “Please,” but other words too, unladylike ones, commands, pleas. Thaddeus was laughing against her breast, his teeth teasing her nipple, his hands stroking her between the legs so lightly that it felt like torment rather than pleasure.

  She twisted underneath him, desperate. “Thaddeus!” she cried, loving the fact that no one could hear them. “I need . . . I need more.”

  He laughed again, low and hoarse. His fingers breached her wet folds, finally filling her, sending a sweep of heat and relief through her.

  But he withdrew and before she could complain, he was over her, kissing her, poised at her entrance, eyes catching hers. “Joan?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” she cried. “Please, Thaddeus. Now, please!”

  He thrust inside, the blunt head of his shaft not at all like his fingers. She froze, but then her body quivered and somehow accommodated his girth, squeezing him tighter, drawing him in.

  It was Thaddeus’s turn to groan incoherent curses. Joan was concentrating on the greedy heat she felt, but she heard fragments. “Inside you,” he groaned, and thrust again, and again.

  She had the odd feeling that they were on an ocean, his motion as steady as waves coming inexorably to the shore.

  Every wave, every thrust, made her arch higher, grind against him, trying to get, trying to feel—

  He shifted, and she shrieked. Thaddeus braced himself on one arm, stopping.

  “No,” Joan begged, clutching his arms. “Don’t stop now, that was it, that was . . .”

  “Perfect?” he demanded, eyebrow raised.

  She moaned.

  “Joan?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  He rewarded her with a thrust from just the right angle, one that sent heat pulsing through her. “More?” He was in control, his voice strained but amused.

  Joan nodded, her eyes on his. “No jesting,” she whispered. “Not now.”

  He dipped his head and kissed her, his cock pulsing inside her but his hips still. “Thaddeus,” she sobbed.

  Amusement left his face. He was taut with desire, his jaw tight. “I love you, Joan,” he said, caught her left thigh and pulled her to just the right position.

  Joan meant to say I love you too, but she couldn’t speak a word. Pleasure burst through her and exploded in her veins. He flexed his hips, plunging deep, and every movement seemed to cause him to swell inside her until she lost all coherence and just babbled.

  Screamed.

  Sobbed, “I love you.”

  “Yes,” Thaddeus breathed.

  His forehead dipped to hers as his hips bucked uncontrollably, and he gave her everything he had, all the love he had pouring into her warm body.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Thaddeus rowed back to the shore an hour or so later, his body exhausted, his mind exhilarated.

  Joan sat in the other end of the boat, wearing her chemise again, likely not realizing that her nipples cast dark incantatory shadows, that the shadow between her legs was a delicious intoxication. Her voice was happy, no longer drenched in lust. She hadn’t noticed that his cock was tenting his breeches again.

  “Do you want to hear my idea for heading off your father’s nefarious plan for that letter?” she asked.

  He tried to make a sound that wasn’t an animalistic grunt and failed.

  Joan was trailing a hand in the water, watching the ripples that spread from it, creating a moon trail instantly covered by drifting lily pads. Rather than give the oars a hard pull that would land them on the shore, he stilled.

  “Or will you trust me to just give it a try?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “I don’t think that my father will succumb to the pleas of a guardian angel,” Thaddeus said apologetically. “I believe you’re correct; he considers himself the ultimate justice.”

  “You’re right about the angel,” Joan conceded. “I have a new idea.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “A secret,” she told him. “It may fail, but I’d love to try, if you’ll allow it.”

  Thaddeus nodded. “Of course. Do you need any help?”

  “No help needed. If I fail, I don’t believe it will hurt anything,” Joan said, her eyes shining with mischief. “But if I succeed, I will leave his bedchamber with his blasted letter.”

  To be completely honest, Thaddeus no longer gave a damn about the letter. The power of the Wildes would stifle publication: The duke’s solicitors would threaten the papers; Devin would threaten the printing presses. Moreover, he was convinced that his mother would become Lady Murgatroyd as soon as she threw off mourning garments.

  Neither of them would truly mourn his father, and the world would forget the cracked Duke of Eversley soon enough.

  He slipped the oars into the lake and slowly paddled back. Joan was leaning over the side, greeting small frogs who plopped into the water rather than reply.

  Most of England would consider him fortunate, and Thaddeus had always agreed. But in this moment, on this moonlit night, he felt as if he had only just discovered what it meant to be truly blessed.

  It was to be loved.

 
He was still thinking about that as they emerged from the woods. Joan clutched his arm, and his head jerked up. The castle had been peacefully asleep, windows mostly darkened when they left. Now the family wing shone with light.

  “The baby!” Joan cried, speeding up.

  He strode after her, across the lawn, up the stairs . . . but when she burst into a bedchamber that presumably held a laboring mother, he remained in the corridor with the Duke of Lindow, who was leaning against the wall, eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion.

  “I tell myself everything will be well,” His Grace said, glancing at him. “Yet I know that women die in childbirth across the country. One of my children is in danger.”

  “Your sister, Lady Knowe, is a better doctor than those who study for years,” Thaddeus offered, propping himself against the wall next to His Grace. The doors of the old castle were so thick that nothing could be heard from within the chamber. “Do you have any idea how long the . . . the event might take?”

  “It differs for each woman,” Lindow said. His eyes narrowed, and he looked Thaddeus up and down.

  Thaddeus couldn’t stop himself from grinning, even as he tucked in the trailing edge of his shirt. “She said yes,” he told Joan’s father. “She finally said yes.”

  The duke grunted and bumped him with his shoulder. “Excellent.” They both looked up when the door swung open. “Take this!” Joan commanded, holding up a glass of golden liquid.

  “What is it?” Thaddeus asked.

  “Is the baby here?” the duke demanded, at the same moment.

  “Almost,” Joan said. “Thaddeus, the soothing tonic is for your father. Aunt Knowe visited him earlier. She didn’t want to give him the drink until you had a chance to say goodbye.” She darted forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry.”

  Behind her, the sound of excited voices rose. Joan pushed the glass into his hand and ducked back in, the door swinging shut behind her.

  Thaddeus looked down at the glass, dumbfounded.

  “I’ll take you to Eversley’s bedchamber,” the duke said. “I won’t enter with you because I don’t want to strangle a man on his own deathbed.”