Wicked

by Amy Sandas

  Wicked

  Reformed Rakes Novella, Volume 1

  Amy Sandas

  Published by Amy Sandas, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  WICKED

  First edition. June 25, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Amy Sandas.

  Written by Amy Sandas.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Also By Amy Sandas

  About the Author

  This series is dedicated to every secret crush and unrequited infatuation I've ever had. All those angsty daydreams led me to this life as a romance author and I am forever grateful.

  Prologue

  London, 1822

  In the late afternoon on a day much like every other dreary London day, four handsome young gentlemen assembled in the most exclusive private drawing room available to guests in Pendragon’s Pleasure House.

  Each of the men came from a long and distinguished line of affluence and privilege. And, as many wild and reckless young men did when in possession of an obscene excess of wealth and not nearly enough responsibility, they’d become well acquainted with debauchery, hedonism, and all the earthy pleasures they could discover or invent.

  As such, spending a near fortune to reserve a luxurious private room in the elite bordello was not an uncommon occurrence. What was uncommon, however, was the fact that on that afternoon, the young rakes were not there to indulge in the infamous pleasures Pendragon had to offer. In fact, the men had specifically indicated that they did not wish to be disturbed.

  It was an unusual request for a house that boasted some of the most talented and tempting companions in all of London, but Pendragon knew well how to accommodate her guests no matter how unexpected their needs. So, the wealthy young lords were left with an unopened deck of cards, a box of fine cigars, and a couple bottles of the best French brandy available.

  It was likely they would seek additional comforts and distractions later, but at present, they preferred the type of melancholy commiseration that could only be had amongst close friends.

  For this was not a time for revelry.

  The gentlemen were in mourning.

  The de facto leader of their group and heir to a dukedom shook his tawny head. A scowl marred his elegant brows as he noted with no small amount of incredulity, “I can’t believe it. How could a tragedy like this befall such a man?”

  “Perhaps he was low on funds,” the man to his left suggested in a slight Italian accent as he lounged in his chair with feline grace. “The need for money can be a terrible burden.”

  A low murmur of consideration passed amongst them at the thought before another of them—this one the son of an earl—leaned forward to note in a grave tone, “There are rumors it was a love match.”

  More than one of them flinched.

  They’d all heard the talk about town. None of them truly believed it, but the words still struck a chord of subtle terror. Then the fourth man, a newly minted marquess, gave a harsh sound of derision and they all relaxed with a round of uneasy laughter that quickly faded.

  After a moment of heavy silence, the son of a duke straightened in his chair and lifted his glass. “A toast.” He paused while the others followed suit and hoisted their drinks. “To Viscount Neville, the most accomplished rogue and libertine to ever prowl the ballrooms and bordellos of London.”

  “May he find some...gratification in his new role as noble husband.”

  “And may we never, ever feel compelled to join his ranks.”

  “Hear, hear,” they affirmed in unison before upending their glasses.

  Chapter One

  Six Years Later

  Roman Thorne, the Marquess of Granville, held his snifter to the unsteady candlelight. “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed beneath his breath, not bothering to suppress his scowl of displeasure, “the least they could do is offer good brandy at a torturous event such as this.”

  “Don’t weddings customarily consist of a ceremony followed by breakfast, then off you go? Who the hell throws a celebration lasting an entire weekend?” asked the Duke of Melbourne, one of Roman’s closest friends.

  Count Vittori offered a smile that was equal parts disdain and delight. “An obscenely rich father of the groom who wants everyone to know just who holds the fortune in this marital equation.”

  Roman snorted. “As if this monstrosity of a castle isn’t enough.”

  Vittori shrugged and swirled his glass toward the vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows. “I find myself rather partial to the medieval-gothic design.”

  “You would be,” Roman replied.

  “How the hell did this happen?” the duke muttered. His typically amiable expression was nearly morose.

  Roman raised a sardonic brow at Melbourne. “Allerton has always been something of a romantic. It was only a matter of time before someone convinced him he was in love.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it?” asked Vittori, who had a strict aversion to even the slightest hint of sentimentality.

  Melbourne tossed back his liquor, then rose to his feet as he noticeably forced a return of his usual good humor. He had never been one to wallow in disappointments he couldn’t control. “Well, he’s good and lost to us now, lads, so we may as well go down and enjoy the evening’s festivities.” His light gaze flashed with roguish intent. “At least the ladies are plentiful.”

  “There’s nothing like a wedding to put romantic desperation into a woman’s heart,” Vittori noted with dark grin as he also stood.

  “Go on ahead,” Roman said, his focus still on his swirling brandy. “I’ll be along shortly.”

  Melbourne and Vittori exchanged quick glances but said nothing as they left Roman to his solitude. Once he was alone, the marquess extinguished all the candles but one, leaving the study in a close, quiet darkness.

  He’d been in a dark mood lately. Being in the middle of a grand wedding party did not quite suit his current state of mind, so he intended to take advantage of the rare moments he had to himself. If he’d had a choice, he wouldn’t have attended the farcical celebration at all.

  But when a friend since childhood tosses his freedom into the muck of matrimony, a gentleman—even one as jaded and dissolute as the marquess—offers what little support he can muster.

  Taking a seat in a chair tucked into the farthest corner of the study, Roman placed his hands on the curved armrests and closed his eyes. The distant music of the ballroom blessedly began to fade from his awareness. Just as he’d attained a sense of quiet solitude, an unexpected rustle of movement drew his attention.

  He opened his eyes with a forbidding frown just in time to see a young woman in a lemon-yellow evening gown slip into the study, then turn and swiftly press the door closed behind her. Except she didn’t close it all the way. Leaving the heavy door open just a crack, she kept herself as close to the slim opening as possible while remaining out of view from anyone in the hall beyond. With her back to the room, the lady had no idea she wasn’t alone.

  A proper gentleman would have immediately alerted the woman to his presence.

  Roman, unfortunately, was not a proper gentleman. He kept his silence, hoping her business in the study would be over before she even noticed his presence, thereby making a declaration of his occupancy in the
room obsolete.

  Though he couldn’t see her face with her back to him, he was fairly certain he wouldn’t recognize the woman. The yellow of her gown contrasted dramatically against the wealth of dark hair piled artfully atop her head with a few wispy curls left to brush gently against bare shoulders. A white satin sash accented the inward curve of her waist while the fall of her skirts draped over full hips and a luscious behind.

  He definitely didn’t know the lady. A delectable figure like hers was not one a man could easily forget. Any chance of him responding to the intrusion with noble intentions was swiftly being overcome by inclinations more carnal in nature.

  But then the lady drew a swift and quiet breath. She held herself stiffly silent as she leaned away from the open crack in the door.

  A moment later voices could be heard from the hall beyond.

  “Did you see how she was practically panting over Lord Westcott?” a female voice sneered.

  “Why does she even bother?” another lady inquired. “She could never entice a man such as he.”

  “Or any other man, for that matter,” the first concluded.

  Laughter followed as the unseen ladies continued down the hall. Only then did the young woman at the door release a shaky breath as she turned around. Closing her eyes, she dropped her head back and tucked her hands behind the generous swell of her hips as she pressed the door closed behind her.

  She was younger than he’d thought, with soft cheeks and dark hair parted in the center. Roman took a moment to admire the generous swells of the woman’s breasts above a modest neckline before noting that her breath came fitfully from between her full, parted lips. Her eyes were tightly closed, likely in a vain attempt to keep from crying.

  “They’re not worth your tears.”

  Her eyes popped open at his gruffly spoken words and her soft gasp filled the space that followed.

  He couldn’t be sure of the color of her eyes, but they were pale and bright as they found him across the room. The juxtaposition between the innocence in her wide gaze and the lush sensuality of her figure inspired an instant reaction in Roman’s body.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, hastily brushing a tear from her cheek. “I thought the room was unoccupied.”

  Her voice was clear and lilting. Another element of contrast when taken against the sadness in her expression.

  “It’s not,” Roman replied.

  Dark brows tilted over her gaze in a frown. “Yes, I see that now. Do you wish to leave or shall I?”

  Roman still hadn’t risen from his chair as he should have done—if not upon her entrance, then at least when she’d turned around. Now, the social dictum seemed superfluous. He lifted one foot to rest his ankle on the opposite knee. The physical reaction she’d unknowingly inspired had not yet dispersed. “I see no reason for either to occur.” He lifted a brow. “I assume the harpies in the hall were talking about you.”

  A heavy sigh lifted her breasts. “Of course.”

  The girl’s emotional distress should have been nothing to him, but something in her defeated tone resonated with his current mood. “And you believe hiding is the best way to respond?”

  A soft shoulder lifted and fell. “What else could I do?”

  “Confront them.”

  She laughed, but it wasn’t a sound of humor. “You must be joking. Anything I say or do would only become fodder for further torment. Trust me, I’ve learned that my only option is to avoid their notice as best I can.”

  “Bollocks.”

  Her eyes widened at his crude retort. She stood a bit straighter against the wall. “I beg your pardon?”

  Roman had seen a fair share of bullying in his school days. The perpetrators had always been cowards who only targeted boys they knew wouldn’t fight back. “The best way to stop their vicious tongues is to prove them wrong.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest in a gesture that was part protective and part defiant. “What an enlightening concept,” she replied with a noticeable trace of sarcasm. “How on earth would I do that?”

  Roman shrugged. “Win the affections of your Lord Westcott.”

  She made a strange choking sound. “Win him? Win Lord Westcott?” she asked incredulously before she could hold her laughter no longer. It burst from her lips in a delightful rush of genuine humor before she covered her mouth with her hand in an attempt to stifle the lilting sound. When she managed to catch her breath, she gave a shake of her head and muttered, “I’ve closed myself in the study with a madman.”

  “I fail to see the humor in the suggestion,” Roman noted sharply.

  She spread her arms wide and glanced down at herself. “Look at me.”

  Roman clenched his jaw as his gaze swept over her lovely form. “I am,” he replied thickly.

  She lowered her gaze.

  Had she detected the dark layer of desire in his voice? Hiding his sensual interest was not something he was accustomed to doing and he doubted he was very good at it.

  Her reply was hesitant as she explained, “I am not the sort to attract the attention of a man such as he.”

  Did Westcott not have eyes? He understood some gentlemen favored women with slimmer figures, but he could not fathom any man disregarding the lush sensuality present in the woman before him.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m me and he’s...perfect.”

  Roman gave a harsh snort. He didn’t know Lord Westcott, but he could guarantee the man wasn’t perfect. “He’s a man, pet, same as any other.”

  A frown formed between her brows at the condescending endearment. “I daresay he’s better than most,” she argued emphatically.

  He cocked a brow. “You want him that badly?” It was too dark in the room to see her blush, but Roman would have bet anything her cheeks had gone pink. He wasn’t sure why he’d continued in a conversation with the chit for so long, but now that he had, he may as well finish it. “May I offer a bit of advice?”

  Her expression was wary. “I suppose.”

  “The most effective way to get a man to want something is to convince him he can’t have it.”

  “That makes no sense at all,” she declared with a tilt of her dark head.

  “Make the man jealous,” Roman clarified. “Once he sees you on the arm of another, he’ll wonder what he’s missing.”

  Her brows crinkled at his suggestion and he could see she wanted to argue, but just as she opened her mouth, she paused. She narrowed her gaze thoughtfully and the tip of her tongue extended to touch to the center of her upper lip.

  Roman tensed at the sudden tightening of arousal inside him.

  As a devoted rake, Roman was fully committed to wickedness and excess, especially when it came to sexual pursuits. But he had never been attracted to young ladies of purity. In fact, innocence had always been something to avoid. His preferences ran toward experienced partners who enjoyed the full range of what could be explored in sexual play.

  This woman, however, tempted him more than anyone had since he was young and eager for experience. And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

  “Make him jealous?” she asked curiously. “Could that really work?”

  “It’s worked on many a poor fool in the past.”

  “You know that from experience?” she challenged.

  “Of course not.”

  Roman waited while she seemed to turn the idea over in her mind. He wished she would heed his advice and be on her way. The quicker she left, the sooner he could rejoin the party and find a suitable female with whom to satisfy his sudden hunger.

  Finally, she gave a short nod. “All right,” she said. “How do we begin?”

  Roman coughed. “We will do nothing. I am sure the ballroom has a variety of young bucks who would be willing to play the role of besotted beau.”

  She gave him a rueful look. “If that were the case, do you think I’d be hiding in this study with you?”

  He rose to his feet. He was not getting drawn any
further into this situation. It had been a terrible error to involve himself in the first place. “That’s a problem you will have to solve on your own.”

  She tensed, splaying her hands against the door as she pressed her back more firmly to its surface. The position lifted her lovely breasts and caused her chin to tip upward in defiance.

  “I don’t think you understand,” she stated, a glint of light sharpening her gaze. “I’ve spent the last two years being mocked or ignored, at best.” She paused and took a heavy breath. “I’m tired of it. I don’t want to hide. I want to be seen and admired. I want to have friends and feel like someone, somewhere actually wants to know me. The real me, not the person they’ve all decided I am.”

  By the time she finished speaking, her color had heightened and her voice had deepened with emotion until her breath came with difficulty from within the strict confines of her corset.

  The passion in her voice, her expression, the tension of her body was undeniably stirring. So stirring, Roman was tempted to direct her passions toward a more pleasurable pursuit.

  But she was not for him.

  She was also correct.

  She deserved better from London’s haute ton. Unfortunately, she wasn’t likely to get it. Society was a hierarchy and once your position in the ranks was established, however unfairly, there was little chance of changing it.

  “I cannot help you,” he replied finally, his tone low and firm as he crossed the room with every intention of leaving.

  Yet still she didn’t move from her position in front of the door. She brazenly braced herself more firmly against it, as though she could keep him from leaving if he chose to do so.

  He paused, still a couple steps away. With thorough attention, he moved his gaze over her from the tips of her slippered toes peeking from beneath the hem of her lemon-yellow gown to the crown of her head. His perusal slowed over the full curve of her hips and narrowed waist and again where her breasts pressed high against her bodice with the soft upper swells creating a lovely shadow in the cleft between them.