A Wicked Reputation (Once Wicked)

by Liana Lefey

  Beside her, René chuckled. “Did I not tell you, chérie?”

  Harrow reached out and took the other man’s hand between his own and kissed its palm. “Such faith you have in me,” he whispered to his lover. “I hope you’re not disappointed I felt it best not to reveal your part in this?” When René indicated no displeasure, Harrow again looked to Diana. “I disliked misleading Blackthorn about my true nature, but it was the only way to preserve his view of you until he learns differently for himself. Once he realizes neither of us is a threat, that certainty should dispel any remaining jealousy. It might even turn him into an ally. If he can help us maintain appearances…”

  A lump rose in her throat as she looked at her two dear friends sitting with their hands entwined. Love, tender and ferocious, rose up inside her. She wouldn’t allow anyone to harm them—or Minerva and Henry. Certainly not because of my selfishness. “I assume he knows this won’t end well for him if he makes the wrong choices?”

  “Indeed, he does,” affirmed Harrow softly.

  “Good. We cannot afford any mistakes.” Any more mistakes, you mean…

  “Diana…” Harrow’s tone was hesitant. “There can be no coming back from this. The man is besotted, and once he knows the truth it’s especially unlikely he’ll be willing to let you go after just one night. There is still time for you to change your mind.”

  “No,” she answered at once. “This—he is what I want. At least once.” It frightened her to bits, but she’d regret it her whole life if she didn’t do this.

  “Even if it means giving up the future you had planned? The likelihood he’ll marry you is all but nonexistent. Any children born to you would be illegitimate. And you must face the possibility that he might one day marry someone else.”

  His worried expression went straight to her heart. “I know. But this is something I must do for myself. And if, in the end, I’m unhappy, well…I’ll still have my savings, won’t I? The world will still turn, and I can still sail with the tide.”

  At last, he nodded. “True enough.”

  The three talked until the evening meal, making plans for every contingency they could come up with. Part of this included her extracting a promise from Harrow to make advance arrangements for his and René’s escape should the worst happen and they were somehow exposed. He didn’t seem to feel there was any danger of this happening, but he finally agreed, if only to allay her fears.

  That night as she put out the bedside lamp and settled beneath the covers, Diana feared she’d be unable to sleep. It was silly, but she felt like a bride on the eve of her wedding.

  In a manner of speaking, I am. She was about to take an irreversible step off the edge of a proverbial cliff. By this time tomorrow, her virginity would be a thing of the past. There would be some pain, but she knew enough about her own body to ensure there would also be pleasure. Still, her stomach fluttered with nerves. She was wise enough to comprehend that all the foreknowledge in the world couldn’t prepare her for the reality of the act itself.

  Her feelings for Blackthorn were a tangled morass. She wanted him. She liked him, too. A lot. Harrow thought him in love with her, and she wanted to trust his judgment, but how could he possibly know for certain? He’d also suggested she was on the verge of falling in love.

  Which couldn’t be true.

  Could it? If anyone ought to be able to tell, it should be me. It unnerved her that she couldn’t verify it one way or another with any confidence. If I am, then shame on me for having reneged on my promise to never be so foolish. And on the other side of that same coin: if she wasn’t, and she intended to let Blackthorn make her his mistress, then she had to convince him she was.

  She grimaced in the dark. That should be all too easy. She’d thought the part of herself that wanted to be loved and cherished was dead and buried with her past, but living with Harrow and René had convinced her otherwise. The pains they suffered and the hurdles they leaped simply to be together had taught her love was real, precious, and infinitely desirable.

  The evidently incurable sentimentalist in her wasn’t content with things as they were anymore. Although she was loved and had a family again—a chosen family—she wanted more. She wanted a husband, a home, and children. She wasn’t naive enough to think Blackthorn capable of giving her those; reality was implacable. Even if he did love her, even if she was coming to him a virgin, he would never marry a woman with her sullied reputation. Love didn’t wash one’s name free of taint in the eyes of Society.

  But tomorrow night wasn’t about love. It was about passion. She just hoped Blackthorn wouldn’t be so disappointed that he’d lose all further desire for her. Despite her virginity, she was determined not to fall short of expectations and resolved to employ all her knowledge to make the experience a pleasurable one.

  When morning came, Diana was shocked to find she’d slept soundly. The house was already bustling with activity by the time she made her way down. In fact, it was quite busier than she expected. “What is all of this?” she asked a passing footman, gesturing toward two others bearing a chaise up the stair.

  “Lord Harrow’s orders, madam,” he answered. “The claret guest room is being reappointed.”

  Reappointed? “Thank you, carry on.” She would have gone upstairs to see for herself, but Harrow’s voice stopped her.

  “Ah! You’re awake. Excellent. Come and have breakfast with me.”

  Over tea and toast, she learned he’d selected the room in question for tonight’s tryst and was having it redecorated to suit the occasion.

  “As your apartments are rather specially designed for another purpose, I thought it best to designate another room,” he quietly confided. “I did not think you’d mind.”

  “Not at all,” she assured him. “Now I consider it, I would not have been comfortable in my own chamber for fear of him making an accidental discovery. But why redecorate?”

  Harrow smiled slyly. “I’ll show you when it’s ready.”

  As if she weren’t already suffering enough anticipation. The day sped by. At a quarter past five, the head footman came to inform them the room was prepared. Her stomach tightened as she followed Harrow upstairs to inspect it.

  The sight that greeted her eyes made them sting with unshed tears. Roses of a deep red hue had been brought in to grace every corner of the room, echoing the color on the walls. Clusters of candles had been placed on pedestals throughout the chamber, unlit as of yet, but Harrow informed her he’d give orders for them to be lit while they took their evening sherry.

  One item that had mystified her as she’d seen it being hauled up the stair earlier in the day now jumped out at her: an enormous, gilt-framed mirror from her ballroom. It now stood propped against a wall to one side of the bed. She regarded it with a frown. “That seems a bit too large for this room, don’t you think? And should it not be hung on the wall?”

  Harrow’s chuckle made her turn to see merriment dancing in his eyes. “It’s not really for decoration, per se. It’s more for…well, you’ll find out tonight.”

  She continued her perusal. The heavy, wine-colored velvet bed curtains had been tied back with gold sashes and the bed scattered with pillows and rose petals. A tray bearing libations in sparkling crystal decanters stood over by the window. On approaching the bedside table, she saw it bore an array of items she recognized from Harrow’s earliest tutorials on love play: several feathers of differing lengths and shapes, a few gilded pots of what she knew to be scented massage oil, and a pile of soft silk scarves.

  Her furious blush didn’t go unnoticed. Harrow laid a calming hand on her shoulder. “He will be expecting such items to be present. That does not mean they must be used. Before he comes up, I intend to have a word with him concerning consent.”

  All she needed to become aroused was the idea of Blackthorn’s hands on her bare skin. Adding these items to the mental picture she’d already built was like throwing whiskey on a fire, though she could hardly say so to Harrow. He had,
of course, schooled her in the use of all these items. Her massage skills had been learned from a woman he’d hired from a salon specializing in the art. Binding had been taught by watching Harrow truss a fully-clothed René followed by submitting himself as a test subject—also fully clothed—to see that she’d learned properly. It had been beyond her ability to secure his limbs without bursting into a fit of giggles for nearly a week. He’d even made her practice feather play under his watchful eye—first on his bared forearms to demonstrate technique and pressure, and then on a pillow.

  That had elicited even more laughter.

  There had been other things, too, but nearly all of those lessons had been restricted to verbal explanations accompanied by shockingly detailed illustrations from an ancient Hindu text Harrow had brought back from India. When she’d asked him why he’d wanted her to learn these things if she was never meant to actually touch him, his reasoning was logical: experience lent one’s voice a quality that couldn’t be faked among those who’d experienced such things. Should his less inhibited associates inquire of her concerning her repertoire, she must be able to with utter confidence speak of and even banter about such acts as if she’d truly committed them.

  His foresight had proven both accurate and valuable within only a few months of her debut as his mistress. Men so enjoyed discussing their sexual vices with one they thought to be an expert. She’d quickly tired of their probing questions and lewd commentary, and this, too, had worked to her benefit. When she spoke of such things now, it was with a truly jaded air of supreme boredom.

  However, thinking of them with Blackthorn in mind was anything but boring. Her face felt hot all over again at the thought. “If it’s what he’ll be expecting, then it’s perfect,” she said, beginning to back out of the room.

  Harrow blessedly allowed her to pass before he continued. “I wanted you to see it now so you won’t be shocked or overly nervous later.”

  “I thank you for the warning,” she said, embarrassed to hear the quaver in her voice.

  “One more thing,” he said before she could move. “When he and I were about Town together this last month, I tried to ascertain his…appetites, but I’m afraid he was quite tight-lipped. As such, I don’t know what his tastes are. Before you take him upstairs tonight, you must agree on a stop word, and you must be the one to broach the subject. Remember what I told you concerning people and power?”

  “Yes.” In order to perform her role believably, she’d had to learn how to subtly gain the upper hand in any conversation and become the dominant participant without it being obvious. It was a skill that enabled her to steer the subject either in a desired direction or away from dangerous territory.

  “Well, the same principles apply in the bedchamber. Until his predilections are known to be otherwise, he must feel he is in the position of greatest power and control even if it’s only an illusion. Requesting that you establish a stop word won’t shock him if he’s had previous intimate encounters involving that sort of thing, but it will cause him to respect any boundaries you decide to set. If he’s inexperienced, he’ll merely assume you’re apprehensive and it will make him feel protective. Either path gives you inherent control over the situation.”

  Again, her face heated, but she nodded. “Very well, but in all honesty, I’ll be astonished if we even make it to the point of requiring one,” she confessed, wishing her cheeks weren’t on fire. “The moment of truth will likely bring everything to an abrupt halt.”

  His eyes lit with gentle amusement. “It may, but I cannot imagine any recess lasting very long. I’ve seen the way the man looks at you, Diana.”

  She’d seen it, too. An involuntary shiver made her bite her lip. When she looked up, Harrow’s smile had become all too knowing. “Don’t say it,” she muttered. Face aflame, she turned and made for the stairs, followed by his soft laughter.

  …

  Stepping down from his carriage a few minutes before seven, Lucas ascended the front steps of Diana’s house determined not to show how nervous he was. It’s ridiculous that a man of my sophistication should be so on edge over this.

  In truth, he couldn’t remember ever anticipating something so much. The whole afternoon had been spent in preparation. He’d bathed assiduously, spent an inordinate amount of time grooming himself, and had made his valet wait until only an hour ago to give him a proper shave. Even his clothing had been selected with her pleasure in mind. She must find him irresistible.

  He was greeted with warmth by both Diana and her protector, which eased his apprehension somewhat. Yesterday, Harrow had made it perfectly clear he would brook no offense or injury against her. It should have irritated him, being constrained to such terms as had been outlined. After all, he’d won the wager; therefore, the debt ought to be fulfilled on his terms. But he couldn’t bring himself to feel resentful, when he knew bloody well she could’ve reneged or accepted Harrow’s proposal to offer him alternative compensation.

  She hadn’t. She was allowing this. Because she wanted him.

  Enthusiasm returned, chasing away his anxiety. In the eyes of most of his peers, he was about to become one of only a rare, privileged few.

  Pleasantries were exchanged, and the three went to the salon for aperitifs. There, they spoke comfortably, as friends, of matters unrelated to the evening’s ultimate purpose. Except for an undercurrent of excitement that ran deep beneath the surface of the conversation, it was like all his previous visits.

  That excitement was an electrical presence, a tension in the atmosphere like the sort one felt just before a storm broke. Every time his gaze met Diana’s it spiked, and in the wake of this came a distinct tightening in his midsection. It wasn’t arousal, though he hovered at its cusp. More and more, he wondered what it could mean.

  Later in the evening, her look became pensive as she considered him across the dinner table, and he grew curious to know if she was experiencing the same sort of reaction. The world seemed to move around them like water around an island amid a fast-flowing river.

  His mind acknowledged the table conversation as lively, but he couldn’t have related its precise content if asked. His mouth recognized the meal served as being delicious, but he couldn’t have told anyone what he ate. All his focus was trained on her. Everything else simply faded into insignificance.

  Harrow excused himself for a moment but then returned to escort them to the drawing room for sherry and some light entertainment.

  On approaching, Lucas stiffened at the sound of scales being practiced on a pianoforte. Mentally, he kicked himself for the reaction when Diana, who was walking beside him, shot him a quizzical glance. Anxious to account for his reaction, he patted her hand on his arm. “I was not anticipating the presence of additional guests tonight.”

  Her smile was easy as she guided him on into the room and over to its occupant, who stood to greet them. “This is not a guest, but rather my music instructor. Please allow me to introduce Monsieur Laurent, who has graciously agreed to play a little for us this evening. Monsieur Laurent, this is Lord Blackthorn, my neighbor.”

  It was Lucas’s first good look at his rival. Laurent was a slender man of middling height who appeared to be in his mid-to-late twenties, with dark brown hair, laughing blue eyes, and a bright smile. To Lucas’s shock, the fellow seemed genuinely delighted to meet him, his smile broadening as they shook hands. He seemed even more pleased as he then kissed the back of Diana’s hand and said something to her briefly in his native tongue.

  Lucas hid his jealousy and irritation behind a practiced smile. If he thinks he’s going to seduce me the way he did Harrow, he’s in for a disappointment. “I think I may have heard you play before while I was out in my garden, or was that you, Diana?”

  “She is quite accomplished,” Laurent answered for her with shining eyes. “There is so little I can teach her anymore. I hardly know why she keeps me,” he added, winking at her.

  There was a subtle, telltale shift in both Harrow’s and her exp
ressions as their eyes met, and Lucas knew they were both worried for their secret—for him. Again, he tamped down his jealousy.

  Then Diana answered smoothly, “These days I confess I’m more a patroness than an employer. Your gifts would be too keenly missed, were I to relinquish you.”

  Nausea twisted in Lucas’s stomach as the musician’s cheeks pinked and he looked down as though embarrassed. Eager to get this part of the evening over with, he cleared his throat and asked what piece the man would play.

  Thankfully, this seemed to prompt everyone to action. The pianist spoke about the music, a piece of his own composition, while Harrow poured drinks. When all was ready, Diana led Lucas to a couch so they could sit and listen.

  The piece he’d heard from his terrace was nothing compared to the one the man played now. Despite his raging envy, Lucas couldn’t help being impressed. Gifts, indeed. He couldn’t see the fellow’s hands from this vantage, but he could only imagine how they must dance across the ivory and ebony keys.

  Sweet music washed over and through him, soft and seductive, caressing his senses in a gentle ebb and flow that felt as easy as breathing. The woman beside him rested her head against the back of the couch, eyes closed in bliss as she listened, clearly transported.

  Now the melody began to subtly alter, growing more suspenseful. Lucas found his heart beating faster and realized with a start that his breath now matched the music’s tempo. On it went, climbing, then reaching a plateau, and then climbing again, the tension mounting. Gone was the soft seduction, replaced by passion’s immutable fire.

  Lucas had never been one to get too caught up in music, but this…this was music such as he’d never experienced before. It rolled over him in great waves, carrying him along with it. He felt powerless to resist its pull on his emotions as it rose to a crescendo, filling the room.

  Glancing over at Harrow, he saw the man’s eyes were also shut. But unlike Diana, who appeared enraptured, Harrow’s face looked almost pained. As he watched, tears began to seep from beneath the other man’s closed lids. When he opened them a second later, his gaze was fixed on the pianist at play, and the affection in his visage was so raw and thirst-laden it brought a flush to Lucas’s own face.