Not Wicked Enough

by Carolyn Jewel

  Mountjoy leaned in to kiss her once. Just once before he slid his mouth downward, along her jaw and then back to her mouth. He drew away, then kissed her ear and said, very low, in nearly a growl, “We can’t be lovers, but it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me if I did not repay the favor you recently did me.”

  “That’s so,” she managed to say. He knew what to do with his hands. He’d found that place that made her weak with need. Not weak, she thought, strong. Stronger because of her need and her determination to satisfy it, and stronger because he was so very close to fetching her. Stronger because she trusted her body and its reactions and welcomed the pleasure. Stronger because her feelings and reactions were true. She pulled him toward her, tightened her arms around his shoulders.

  “You are wild,” he whispered. “Wild and lovely beyond words. I worship you for that. I thank God for that.” He slid a finger inside her, and this, this was the moment to allow her control to slip away. “You’re hot around me, Lily,” he whispered. He beguiled. Seduced, except she’d been seduced from the very moment she’d set eyes on him. A second finger joined the first, and while he stroked his fingers in her, he managed to keep contact with that spot that made her grateful for her wildness. “Every time I looked at you today I thought of your mouth fetching me.”

  She could barely speak, but she managed to say, “I, too.”

  He lay her back and, though she wanted to touch him and could not, except to touch his head and thread her fingers through his hair, he used his mouth instead of his fingers. He kissed her sex, and that was not something Greer had ever done for her.

  She would go mad. No woman would survive what his mouth demanded of her. One of his hands stroked her thigh, and she felt the coolness of the air on her skin, the warmth of his hands, the pounding of her heart when his fingers and palm followed the curve of her leg. She did not last long. His tongue flicked over her, and she was done. Climax washed over her, swept her away.

  His name fell from her lips, but only his title, Mountjoy. Because that’s all she knew as she clutched his head and gave herself over to sensation. Pleasure rolled through her, wrung her out, and then, when she thought there was nothing more, when he’d slowed and then stopped, and she was breathing again, he blew on her, and it electrified her. He licked and waited, then kissed her there again, and she wasn’t finished after all. She came again, and she was his in that moment, his utterly, for as long as her heart continued to beat.

  When she could think again, she opened her eyes and saw Mountjoy standing over her, one hand on her belly and the other resting on the outside of her thigh, and his green, so green eyes watching her. “What a shame,” she said, and she actually did mean every word, “that we cannot be lovers.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  MOUNTJOY USUALLY TOOK THE SAME ROUTE WHEN he returned to the house after riding out, but today he changed his mind. His horse, Fervent, fancied a gallop, so rather than take the road from High Tearing to Bitterward upon reaching the edges of the estate lands, he took Fervent over the stone fence into the field and let him have his head.

  He was delaying the inevitable return home, he understood that, but it was also true that Fervent wanted a run. Since it was their mutual decision that they should not pursue an affair, he preferred to avoid Lily when possible. Fervent therefore got his way.

  For a quarter mile, he and Fervent flew, taking a line that followed the river Tear and curved past the woods, and he hardly thought at all about her skin, the taste of her, the way she kissed, or the sound of her calling his name when she came. He and Fervent were both breathing hard when he slowed down. He put his horse into a trot and headed more or less in the direction of Bitterward.

  Lately, whenever he stayed at Bitterward he missed London less and less, and he’d never missed Town all that much. He wasn’t a proper duke; he never had been and probably never would be. He’d much rather be in the country than sitting in the Lords or whatever Mayfair gentlemen’s club would have him for a member. If there weren’t duties in Town that required his presence there, he’d be content to stay here the rest of his days. Every time his presence in London was required, he missed Bitterward more and more. He belonged in the country with his sleeves rolled up and his hands full of dirt.

  He took the climb to the last substantial field before the more manicured lawns at a walk. At the crest of the slope he had a view of Bitterward to his right, and to his left, the Saxon church that was still in near pristine condition. The view, as always, took his breath. Everything within his sight belonged to him. Unless he married and begot himself a son or two, one day Bitterward and all the rest of his inheritance would belong to Nigel or Nigel’s sons. The dukedom was his by right of birth. He worked and managed the estates with his own sweat and blood, and he wanted to raise a son of his own to step into the role of Mountjoy.

  He had no business chasing after a woman who did not want what he did from life. Tomorrow, he thought. He would offer for Jane tomorrow, and he would then be obligated to put Lily out of his thoughts. He would settle down to the business of ensuring his line endured.

  As he neared the church, he saw there was a veritable crowd outside the doors. This was so even though, according to Doyle, the last services held there had occurred when the centuries were still in three digits. He rode closer and saw a woman marching away from the stone building in a deliberate, measured stride. Was she counting off steps? And why?

  Nigel stood near Eugenia, whom he did not immediately recognize because she was wearing colors again. Jane was a few feet away, watching Lily pacing away from the church. Lily stopped her marching and faced Nigel and the others.

  He continued riding toward them, and his heart sped up even though there could be nothing more between him and Lily. This was, however, an opportunity for him to begin a formal courtship of Jane. He came close enough to see that Lily wore a blue riding habit that flattered her figure extremely. A round hat perched jauntily on her head. For her, it seemed, every day was an adventure for which she must be exquisitely attired. She had a leather case under one arm, and as he approached, she opened the case, took out a sheet of paper that rattled in the breeze, and made a notation with a pencil.

  By now, all three of them had heard his approach and turned. Lily, farther away from him than the others, stayed where she was, a hand lifted to shade her eyes. He remained on his horse, aware, as he had rather not be, that Nigel was as beautifully clothed as Lily and his sister.

  “Eugenia.” He nodded to her, and it was as if he hadn’t seen his sister in months. His heart turned over. She was too thin. Far too thin, and he ought to be hanged for not having noticed before. “You look lovely again.”

  “Thank you, Mountjoy.”

  “It’s good to see you in colors, Eugenia.” He was very much aware of Lily several feet distant from them. And of Jane, of course. His future duchess. He dismounted and handed the reins to the footman who held the other horses. The ground was soft from the recent rains. Lily remained standing several yards from the church, still engaged in writing something down on her paper, using her leather case as a makeshift table. “Miss Kirk,” he said. “Good afternoon.”

  Her cheeks turned pink, a reaction she attempted to hide by ducking her head while she curtseyed to him. “Your grace.”

  “I hope you’re well today.”

  Jane’s eyes went wide. “Yes, sir.”

  Good Lord, he terrified the girl. That must be remedied as soon as possible. He smiled at her, but it didn’t seem to help.

  Lily, meanwhile, had finished with her writing. She tucked her pencil away and strode toward them without the deliberation that had so marked her walk away from the church.

  “Your grace,” Lily said when she reached them. She extended a gloved hand as if she were a queen and he a mere flunky. Her gaze traveled him from head to toe, and he did not think, alas, that she had in mind her remarks about him being a splendid animal. In fact, that was a shudder when her attention reached his neck
cloth, which he had yanked loose during his gallop. His clothes, so comfortable, felt even more inadequate. His damned grooms looked better than he did. He wondered what Jane thought of his appearance and realized he had no idea what she thought about anything.

  “Lovely to see you, sir,” Lily said.

  “A pleasure to see you, too, Miss Wellstone.” Mountjoy bowed over her hand and stepped back. He hadn’t ridden out expecting to escort their guest on a tour of the property. And yet, ridiculously, he wished he’d not worn his oldest riding clothes or his battered greatcoat that, this morning, had seemed just the thing.

  “We’ve been examining your church.” Her eyes sparkled. “Did you know the baptismal font is still in place?”

  “Is it?”

  “I’ve made a detailed sketch, but really, there’s simply no way to capture the sense of all those ancient hands that must have touched that stone.” She put a hand on her head to keep the breeze from whipping off her hat. “How lucky you are to have such a splendidly preserved example of Anglo-Saxon architecture on your property. Lord Nigel didn’t know when the church was last used, but I’d say it must be centuries, and yet so wonderfully intact. Down to the sundial!”

  “Your enthusiasm inspires, Miss Wellstone.” He knew what she tasted like. He knew what she looked like when she came. He knew her skin was soft and her limbs sleek. He wanted to know the rest.

  “I’ve made a note of all the likely spots hereabouts.” She held up her leather case as if that explained all.

  “Likely spots?”

  She walked the rest of the way to where he stood with Eugenia, Jane, and Nigel, her leather case under one arm. He watched the sway of her hips as she walked. Mud dotted the hem of her riding habit and clung to her boots, but this was England in spring, and they had been subjected to frequent storms, some of them with the chill of the past winter at the edges. Her cheeks were rosy from her brisk walk. “For finding treasure, of course.”

  “Treasure.”

  “You did agree to our searching.” She gave him another of those head to toe looks, and this time he knew she wasn’t thinking about the fit of his coat. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

  “Not at all.” Last night—this morning, rather, he’d held her bottom in his hands, and he was, say what you would about him not being a proper duke, thinking it would be better than pleasant to do so again. Never mind what was proper. If she was willing, if she had no more expectations of him than he had of her, why not?

  “Who knows what we might find? At home, my neighbor, Mr. Bardiwill, was hunting in a corner of his property when he came across an entire cache of Roman coins partially dug up by one of his spaniels. They’d been stored in an amphora, but alas, his servants broke the vessel whilst they were digging it out. It would have been wonderful to see the amphora intact.”

  “You expect to find Roman coins?” In London, on those occasions when he was looking to spend a few hours in a woman’s arms, he appeared in those places frequented by women looking for lovers and the thing was done. He never pursued married women. He’d only once become involved with a widow, and she had not been a woman of the Ton. His past lovers were never women like Lily. She was unique among females. He took a step nearer Jane but found his brother had already offered Jane his arm. “What else, dare I ask?”

  “Who knows?” She grinned, losing herself in her enthusiasm. “The foundation of an ancient Roman garrison. A Viking ship.”

  “This far from the shore?” Eugenia said.

  “A hoard of gold, then.” She gestured with her free hand, then put it back on her head to prevent her hat from blowing away. “Goodness, the wind. At any rate, your grace, one never knows. We might find anything at all.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “In the meantime, I, for one, am famished. Aren’t you, Ginny? Miss Kirk? Shall we return to Bitterward for tea?” She headed for her horse, a very fine mare, Mountjoy noted, that she must have brought with her as it was not an animal from his stables. “Were you on your way home, your grace?” Her eyes pierced him and killed the denial on his lips. “Or had you business elsewhere when you saw us?”

  He could tell her yes, that he had business away from Bitterward. But he didn’t. He frowned to see Nigel whispering something to Jane. “On my way home. Miss Kirk,” he said. “May I assist you to your horse?”

  Jane turned pink as a sunrise. “Yes, your grace.”

  While he did so, with Nigel stepping aside, one of the grooms bent to offer Lily a hand up. She looked over her shoulder at him. “If you’re on your way home, your grace, we should adore your company.”

  “Thank you.”

  He looked into Lily’s eyes, and he could have sworn he lost a little part of himself to the joy he saw there.

  “Will you hold this for me, please?” She handed her leather case to Mountjoy, and he, being closer to her than anyone else, accepted it with a nod. She set her booted foot on the footman’s cupped hands and mounted gracefully. She sat her mare with complete confidence. He wondered if her father had given her lessons when she was young or if her skill was more recently acquired.

  “Thank you, your grace.” She leaned down to collect her case, and he handed it to her.

  “You’re welcome, Miss Wellstone.” There. What could be more proper than that?

  With a glance at Eugenia and Jane, both of whom were now mounted, Lily gave him a smile that bedazzled. She gave absolutely no sign that he’d brought her to climax only a few hours ago. “Talk with Miss Kirk, won’t you, your grace? She’ll be pleased if you do.”

  He nodded again, afraid that if he spoke or stayed where he was even a moment longer he would give himself, and Lily, away.

  “Lord Nigel,” she called. “Come tell me everything you know about the church. And is it true there are caves on the property?”

  She’d managed them all. Nigel. Eugenia. Jane. Him, too, and not even for the first time. In the normal course of things he did not care for women who wanted to manage him. With Lily, he wasn’t at all sure he minded. He remounted and, as instructed, dropped back to accompany Jane. Nigel, Eugenia, and Miss Wellstone rode ahead.

  Mountjoy discovered his impression that Jane was terrified of him was an accurate one. He kept to safe topics such as the weather, her family, and, in a moment of daring, phosphorus pencils, and she said hardly a word. They spent the entire return to Bitterward in this utterly boring and safe manner. Once there, Jane declined tea, claiming a prior engagement. He suspected she was afraid of being trapped in conversation with him again.

  He would have insisted on escorting her home, but Doyle came down the front stairs, a letter in his hand. “Your grace, the messenger has been instructed to wait for your immediate reply.”

  The letter was from Mr. Thomas Plummer, the vice-chancellor. Indeed, his immediate attention was warranted. “Nigel,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to see Miss Kirk home?”

  “Of course.”

  When Mountjoy came downstairs sometime later, he was late for tea but his response to the vice-chancellor was on its way back to London. He’d refused to give in to his desire to dress with more than his usual attention to his appearance. For whose benefit would he do such a thing? This was his home, and if there was anywhere a man ought to be comfortable, it was in his own home.

  The moment he walked into the Oldenburg salon, he regretted his stubborn refusal to give in to his valet’s hints that perhaps this time he might attempt something new in his dress.

  Eugenia presided over the tea while Lily sat at a table, a pencil in one hand and a rectangle of paper before her. Nigel had one hand on the table and was bending over Lily’s shoulder. A familiar scene. But there was no phosphorus, thank the Lord, and the pencil was a normal pencil of the sort anyone could use to write with no danger of flames engulfing the house.

  “Your grace,” Lily said with a smile when he came in. She rose to curtsey, but he lifted a hand.

  “No formality between us.
”

  “That’s very kind of you.” She sat again. She’d changed from her riding habit—of course—and now wore white muslin trimmed with pale blue. Some sort of cap perched atop her hair, plain enough not to interfere with anything. The colors suited her. She wore a chain of silver beads that reached to the middle of her stomach, and her medallion on a velvet ribbon of the palest blue.

  She looked, as she always did, very well. Devilishly pretty with her golden hair and chocolate eyes. He’d known a few women who were more beautiful, but he’d begun to believe he’d never known any woman more alluring than her.

  “Eugenia,” he said. “You’re well, I trust.”

  “Yes, Mountjoy.” She looked at him with a smile. “I’m so glad you could join us.” Once again, he was taken aback at seeing her in colors. How had he forgotten what she’d been like before her husband’s death? Happy, he recalled. Smiling. Intelligent, that was a Hampton trait. “We thought you might not.”