Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Epilogue
To Tame a Wicked Widow
Surrey SFS #2
Nicola Davidson
Nicola Davidson
TO TAME A WICKED WIDOW is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
TO TAME A WICKED WIDOW © Nicola Davidson
First Edition: February 2018
Edited by: AuthorsDesigns
Cover design by: Dusean Nelson at AuthorsDesigns
Stock art: Inara Prusakova at 123RF.com
Formatted by: Tamara Gill
Contents
To Tame a Wicked Widow
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Epilogue
Also by Nicola Davidson
Standalones
About the Author
To Tame a Wicked Widow
After a thoroughly unpleasant first marriage, Madeline, Lady Upcott, reveled in a widow’s freedoms—both in the bedchamber and out. Yet society cares not for an independent woman, and her family has decided she must wed again to replenish the coffers. It seems her dream of happiness with a dominant man who fulfills her wickedest fantasies, is destined never to be.
History scholar Lord Ethan Dare has returned from Egypt to find his new inheritance on the brink of ruin, and his relatives at war with England’s notorious Wicked Widow. They want her banished, but the woman he meets is a warm, witty, and lushly sensual bluestocking who is more than willing to offer a younger and inexperienced man some very special instruction. One night turns into a scorching hot affair for two kindred souls, but can fledgling love survive the crushing burdens of duty?
Dedication
Every author needs a CP who cheerleads, butt kicks, and listens: I’m lucky to have Sherilee Gray.
And to all the wicked ladies who make me smile on social media—this one is for you.
Prologue
Surrey, England, September 1814
“Maddy, you are gazing at that dildo display with far too much covetousness. Must we frisk your reticule on the way out of the parlor?”
Madeline, the widowed Lady Upcott, rolled her eyes at her friend and fellow member of the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society, Mr. Clayton Irving. “Of course I am coveting them, Clay. Look at the size and the luster of the Florentine leather. I must say, the Italians know what’s what when it comes to quality and creativity.”
“True. Michelangelo, da Vinci, both beyond compare. While I am happy for the sake of the world that they bestowed their gift of artistry on us all, I do wish they’d spent at least a few days turning their genius minds to pleasure toys. Imagine what we might have had.”
“I know,” she replied with a sigh, taking another sip of their hostess and Society chairwoman Lady Portia Butler’s excellent wine.
Clay frowned, but not even that could mar his golden good looks. “What on earth is wrong? That was the sound of an unhappy lady, and I don’t think it is entirely related to the swarm of obnoxious relatives descending on you tomorrow.”
Madeline sighed again and glanced over at tall, dark-haired Beatrice Irving, Clay’s second cousin, who was deep in conversation with her blonde and voluptuous lover, Amelia Tilton. The two Society members were so sweet and warm-hearted, one couldn’t help but adore that a lady’s maid-companion and her former countess had found true love together. Yet, on the other hand…it was difficult. Very, very difficult, seeing other people’s joy when her own life felt increasingly empty.
As soon as her official year of mourning had ended, she had reveled in a widow’s freedoms and indulged in delightful sexual romps with several handsome bachelors. But now she was eight and twenty and found herself wanting so much more. The hot, wild fucking and the sweet tenderness. A man of the right age who would enjoy her mind as much as her body. To have a few children, not for the cold duty of heir requirements, but because they simply wanted to. These ungovernable cravings were gaining strength by the day. And knowing her wretched family—and her ghastly late husband’s for that matter—were arriving tomorrow to try and coerce her into a second loveless, passionless marriage to some cretin with more wealth and a loftier title, only increased her misery. Especially because the money and title weren’t for her benefit. No, it had been decided years ago by her family, the Smyths, that gainful employment was for fools who didn’t have a daughter to sell to the highest bidder, and then wheedle funds from each quarter.
Madeline shot Clayton a rueful smile. “I’m envious of what Bea and Amelia have. Terrible, I know. But I want love and lust this time, not another empty marriage with a rancid old goat who believes I must endure because that is the way of the world.”
He snorted. “You aren’t terrible, unlike your leech relatives—”
“Don’t say that,” she protested halfheartedly, although these days the objection was definitely habit rather than genuine sentiment.
“I’ll stop when you cease to carry their weight on your shoulders. But in regards to finding true love, at least your quest is only to find a perfect man. Try searching for a perfect man and a perfect woman. One or the other, perhaps. But both? Who want to live in sin as a trio where I am in charge? Impossible.”
Wincing, she reached out and squeezed his hand. “I don’t know what to say other than it will be truly wonderful when you do find them.”
“I know, I know…oh, look. Afternoon tea! I swear I don’t need to eat for days after our meetings. Rather splendid when I want to immerse myself in oils and canvas. Or ignore messengers from my damned fool father imploring me to return to my divinity studies at Cambridge. He refuses to comprehend I am a third son who will never be a clergyman. If it weren’t for Lady Portia…”
“I know. She’s been a blessing for us all.”
They gazed with great affection at the elegant older woman. She was directing servants, and her chief bodyguard Captain Randall Denham, in laying out platters of sweets, sliced fruit, pastries, freshly baked bread, ham and rare beef, alongside the brandy, wine, and lemonade. Lady Portia was the spinster sister of a marquess, petite and slender with dark brown hair always worn in a severe chignon, but had such spirit and backbone she always seemed seven feet tall. It was fortunate nothing fazed the raven-haired, broad-shouldered Captain Denham. Well, nothing except discussions about sexual accessories, or anything related to his private life. Apparently, the retired soldier had fallen head over feet for some unknown woman but refused to talk about her.
“Have you ever wondered,” Madeline whispered hesitantly, “whether Denham’s affection settled closer to home than anyone imagined?”
Clayton laughed. “Darling, you’re addled from hunger. The only couple in the room is Bea and Amelia. Come and fortify yourself with wine and food, then we can interrogate Amelia further. I wager we might get in at least a few outrageously brazen questions to our newest member before Bea slaps us both and we are shooed from Lady Portia’s home.”
“Lead on, then,” Madeline
replied with forced cheer, repressing a shudder at the thought of being banished from this sanctuary of acceptance and free thought.
The longer she could stay in the beautiful gold parlor, the better. Returning to her home, knowing that it would soon be overrun by a passel of loathsome people who would attempt to guilt, shame, trick, browbeat, and manipulate her until she married a man they deemed appropriate, quite turned her stomach. It might be for different reasons—the Smyths for money, the Upcotts to preserve their hallowed name—but they all feverishly wanted the same result.
The only unknown was the new head of her late husband Sir Josiah’s family, Viscount Dare. His lordship’s note had claimed a simple desire to discuss matters regarding her jointure property, but she highly doubted it. Sir Josiah had been a sour-breathed, lecture-loving skunk. She could only imagine how much worse this Lord Dare would be, all wizened and beady-eyed, spitting bile and possessing a cock the size of a thimble. Well. He could glare and posture alongside the others all he wanted, but she would remarry when she found the right man.
This time would be for love, or not at all.
Chapter 1
“Are you listening, my lord? Madeline is a disgraceful harlot. A garish, red-haired whore of Babylon unfit to carry the surname Upcott. The sooner her cursed name is but a bad memory in the family bible, the better.”
Lord Ethan Dare absently rubbed his temple in an attempt to quell the headache threatening to explode. Purgatory was not hellfire and brimstone, it was being trapped in a carriage with two poisonous silver-haired bats who refused to take a breath, and the lemon-faced vicar they had brought along to help ensure Lady Upcott repented and remarried. Sir Josiah’s much younger widow had his full admiration. Anyone who had spent time with his two female travelling companions without hurling them both off a cliff must have a spine of pure steel.
“Of course I am listening, cousin Faith. Harlot. Babylon. Unfit,” he murmured. It was easy to parrot back the complaints. By the gods, she had repeated herself enough while the vicar nodded and said, ‘indeed yes.’
Cousin Winifred smiled smugly. “We knew you would understand, Dare. You might be just three and twenty, but it is obvious you are a clever man. The family is most fortunate that you shall carry the viscountcy forward.”
“Quite,” Ethan replied, firmly suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.
Actually, his inheritance was something he still hadn’t managed to fully wrap his mind around. After graduating from Cambridge with a first in ancient history, he had immediately gone to Egypt and immersed himself in a life of desert sands, travel by camel, and papyrus scrolls. No culture had ever held his fascination like that of the Ancient Egyptians, the sacred rituals, vicious battles and power struggles, not to mention the remarkable ingenuity in the field of healing and medicine. Heady indeed for a devoted scholar. But just as he’d been about to move on to the temples and monuments of Greece, he’d received word his estranged father had passed of a fever. The return to England had been a slap to the face—not the cold and damp, but learning the truth of his financial situation, which could be summed up in one word: dire.
Rather than investing in modern equipment, treating his tenants fairly, and listening to sound advice on crops, dear Papa had bled every estate dry to pay for his horses, lavish house parties, and expensive mistresses. And the family considered him some kind of saint that could only be spoken of in reverent and hushed terms. The only thing more ridiculous was these same numbskulls pressing Ethan to find a pious, well-bred virgin so he might sire sons and ensure the line.
Naturally ladies everywhere would leap at the chance to marry a near-bankrupt viscount who detested London and its trappings…oh yes, and hadn’t quite got around to losing his own virginity. Surely at least one in the marriage needed to know what they were doing, and his vast knowledge of sexual acts was entirely theoretical and based on the rather colorful practices of the ancient world. So he’d finally put his pride in his pocket and approached Sally Yardley, a kind, happily married baroness who together with her husband not only played matchmaker but arranged discreet initiations for young lords like himself. Of course, the day the momentous occasion arrived, he’d had to cancel to come to damned bloody Guildford instead.
“Do you think,” said the vicar suddenly, his beady eyes brightening, “that Lady Upcott should be beaten, and restricted to a diet of bread and water? From what Miss Faith and Miss Winifred told me, the lady requires purging of her sinful ways so she may again walk a virtuous path.”
Ethan held onto his temper by the barest of threads. He was tired, hungry, had a headache only getting worse, and was many miles from the warm, willing, experienced woman he’d planned to spend the night with. “As head of the family, I alone will assess such matters. Should anyone take it upon themselves to act independently, there will be grave consequences.”
The vicar shrank back in his seat. “Of course, my lord.”
Faith frowned. “I believe—”
“Ah look, Lady Upcott’s home,” said Ethan. “Once you’ve greeted our hostess, no doubt you’ll want to rest and refresh yourselves before supper.”
“And what will you be doing?” asked Winifred with a suspicious sniff.
“I will be starting my, er…interrogation.”
All three smiled, and Ethan’s jaw tightened. Spite did not sit well on prune-faces.
Fortunately the traveling carriage came to an abrupt halt outside the three-story building. The red brick exterior and small diamond-paned windows with dark wooden shutters suggested Tudor. This usually meant beautiful but poorly lit, and with door frames low enough to ensure he would leave with goose eggs decorating his forehead. Sometimes being over six feet in height was not a blessing.
Ethan climbed out of the carriage and offered a hand to the two ladies, while his footmen attended to the small mountain of rosewood trunks roped to the back and roof. Well used to minimal packing, he had two large satchels with all he needed. His companions clearly didn’t know the meaning of travelling lightly.
“Lord Dare?”
He froze. Only two words, and yet the sensual, husky voice behind him practically caressed the air. Politeness insisted he respond, but then the unknown woman would see exactly how form-fitting his buff trousers were. Swiftly, he removed his hat to cover his hardening erection and turned.
As if Atlas had abruptly failed, the world tilted wildly.
Faith had called Lady Upcott a garish, red-headed whore of Babylon. In reality she appeared Aphrodite reborn, with titian curls piled high on her head to expose an elegant neck made to be kissed, gray eyes like a stormy sea, and such ample breasts and hips that not even a plain blue gown could disguise them. The one thing missing was an enchanted girdle.
Hell.
He could only imagine that sultry mouth swallowing his cock as he tangled his fingers in her fiery curls and thrust deep. Or how she might look in bed, large nipples jutting proudly, thighs spread wide, like the women he’d seen in so many erotic drawings and etchings.
Damnation.
Sir Josiah’s sisters thought he’d come here to demand Lady Upcott remarry in order to preserve their so-called good name. In truth he had to confess that because of his father’s profligate wastage together with some indifferent stewardship, she must cut expenditure at once. But right now his only thoughts were of bedding his second cousin’s beautiful widow until they both couldn’t move.
Fuck.
“Good afternoon, Lady Upcott. I am indeed Dare.”
Somehow Madeline managed to curtsy, a truly amazing feat while her mind reeled.
Why had no one told her the truth about the viscount? She had assumed the head of the family would be a contemporary of Sir Josiah’s, perhaps a little younger. Not a gentleman barely past his majority. And certainly not an extraordinarily attractive gentleman: tall and broad-shouldered, with chocolate-brown hair, exotic, amber-colored eyes, and the bronzed skin of someone who had spent a great deal of time under a sun far h
arsher than England’s.
Oh God. He could be tanned all over. One of those exhibitionists who regularly discarded clothing and frolicked in streams, before draping himself over boulders to dry and taking his thick cock in hand, idly stroking himself to orgasm…
“Lady Upcott?”
Her cheeks flushed at the realization she hadn’t answered him, instead just staring like he was a six-course banquet and she a starving woman. What the hell was wrong with her? “Do forgive me, my lord. You are…not what I expected.”
Lord Dare smiled crookedly, the expression revealing faint lines around his eyes and a dimple in his chin. Damn him twice! “My inheritance is fairly recent; it has been just over two months since my father passed. Were you not informed?”
Madeline glanced at Faith and Winifred’s smirking faces. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Come now, Lady Upcott,” said an unknown elderly man wearing a vicar’s collar. “A woman like you would hardly be invited to such a solemn and proper occasion as the funeral of a great man of the ton.”
The barb stung. Surprisingly, while the witches tittered, Lord Dare didn’t appear amused. “Why don’t you three go on inside. I’m sure Lady Upcott’s servants will direct you to your rooms.”
Even more surprisingly, the three obeyed without argument, leaving her and the viscount standing alone on the steps.
The silence lengthened, until finally, she said lamely, “How was your journey?”
“Adequate,” he replied, rolling his massive shoulders in an obvious effort to ease muscle discomfort. “And by adequate, I mean purgatory. Those three do not comprehend the virtue of silence.”
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