The Wicked One

by Suzanne Enoch

  The butler showed him into the crowded drawing room. As a keen observer of human behavior it took only a moment for him to realize that the large room seemed…unbalanced. The northeast corner stood empty. Or nearly empty. He turned to look.

  For a moment his brain simply stopped working. A black gown sat in the corner. Black meant mourning. The long, raven-colored hair and impossibly green eyes meant something else entirely. Something that settled into his gut and made him cast his gaze about to see if any other male present might be looking at her.

  “Ah, Mr. Warren,” a warm female voice said, and he reluctantly turned away from the corner.

  “Lady Darham.” The marchioness offered her hand, and he bowed over it.

  “You do know every Englishman in Vienna, don’t you?”

  She smiled. “Very nearly. A benefit of having lived here for the past twenty years. A bastion of England in the middle of Austria, I suppose.”

  “Who is the woman in the corner?” he asked, returning his gaze to the slender figure draped in black. Generally he proceeded with a bit more subtlety, but she practically set him humming even from halfway across the room.

  She followed his glance. “That is Lady Cameron. Her idiot of a husband died nearly a fortnight ago.”

  His attention snagged by the comment, Oliver looked back at his hostess. “‘Idiot’?” he repeated.

  “Well, perhaps it’s unkind to speak ill of the so-recently dead, but I don’t know a better epithet for a man who wagers poorly and constantly and leaves his wife nearly destitute in a foreign country.”

  “Ah, that Cameron. Frederick Benchley,” Oliver recalled. He hadn’t heard that the earl was dead, but he’d only been in Vienna for three days. The gossip in Belgium had been still about Wellington’s victory at Waterloo. Evidently the English in Belgium didn’t fraternize with those in Austria. And that was likely a good thing.

  “Yes. Him.”

  “So introduce me, my lady.”

  His hostess frowned. “No.”

  Lifting an eyebrow, Oliver regarded Lady Darham. “Is something amiss?”

  “I don’t know you well, Mr. Oliver,” she returned, “but I do have ears, and eyes with which I read old editions of the London Times. You are a mischief maker. It is my belief that Diane Benchley has had enough mischief in her life. Leave her be.”

  If the old hen thought to keep him from the young chick, she was sadly mistaken. “Are you her mother?” he asked.

  “I—no, of course n—”

  “Well, knowing what I do of her husband, it seems entirely possible that mischief is precisely what Lady Cameron needs.”

  “You wouldn’t be saying that if she were old and plump.”

  Oliver eyed his hostess, who fairly well fit her own description. “I prefer to see things as they are. And I suggest you let Lady Cameron decide for herself if she wishes to converse with me.” Inclining his head, he strolled into the crowd.

  From there he spent another handful of minutes watching the Countess of Cameron. New arrivals detoured to her corner to pay their respects, and she smiled and nodded and didn’t say much in return. No dear friends—no one—sat with her or said more than the official words of condolence. In fact, she seemed very much alone.

  Considering how attractive she was, Cameron must have left her in dire straits, indeed. And others here knew about it. He knew about it. The difference was, he didn’t care how poor she might be or whether her husband’s nonsense had caused damage to her reputation. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the sleek, black-clothed, black-haired female was the only chit in the room.

  Oliver strolled forward and seated himself in the chair directly beside her. “You’re Diane Benchley,” he said.

  She turned her head to look at him, her emerald eyes assessing. “I am,” she said in a low, not-quite-steady voice. “And who are you, sir?”

  “Oliver Warren.”

  From the slight narrowing of her eyes, she recognized the name. He wasn’t surprised; his reputation had never been for bookishness or prudery. “Mr. Warren. I had no idea you were in Vienna.”

  “Just arrived. You’ve been here for over a year, haven’t you?”

  The countess nodded. “I have.”

  “Splendid. Perhaps you might show me the sights.”

  She blinked. “Beg pardon? My…my husband just died a fortnight ago. I am in mourning.”

  And he found it interesting that the quaver in her voice had vanished once he’d surprised her. “So you want nothing but to be left in solitude? I’m quite amiable and interesting, you know. I might even be capable of taking your mind from your troubles.”

  The countess visibly drew in a breath. “You don’t lack confidence, do you?” she commented.

  Oliver shrugged. “I know what I want.”

  Her soft-looking lips parted just a little in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “And what is it you want, Mr. Warren?”

  You. He offered her a slow smile. “Perhaps I might escort you into luncheon, and we could chat.”

  As if remembering that she was in mourning, the countess fashioned herself a wan expression then sniffed, dabbing at her face with her handkerchief. “I would be amenable to that, I think.”

  Oliver shifted a little closer to her. The desire to touch her flowed through him like a fine brandy. He’d been touched by lust before, certainly, but never in response to such an…unlikely female, and never so overwhelmingly. Yes, she was lovely—stunning, even—but she was in deep mourning. And he wasn’t precisely Richard the Third, who would seduce a woman over the very body of her husband. “You loved your husband?” he asked in a low voice. Perhaps he was attempting a seduction, but he would desist if she showed any genuine grief.

  “What kind of question is that?” she returned, her voice going from unsteady to an affronted squeak.

  “Just a question.” Slowly he reached out and touched the sleeve of her gown, making a show of straightening it. “He left you penniless, did he not?”

  “That’s a rumor.” With a shiver he could feel through his fingers, she shifted away from him.

  “And all alone, certainly.”

  “And yet here I am, surrounded by friends.”

  Oliver sent a glance at the open space around them. “‘Friends’?” he repeated. “In a very liberal interpretation of the word, I suppose that’s true.”

  Her gaze met his. “Do you often converse with widows in this manner?”

  “Not a one, until you,” he answered truthfully. “Why is it we never met in England?”

  “I was married at eighteen, a month after my debut.”

  He wanted to kiss her, to taste that soft, sweet-looking mouth. “That is a damned shame. You were promised to Cameron then, I suppose?”

  Brief surprise touched her green eyes. “Yes, but what led you to that conclusion?”

  “Because if the rest of the males in London had gotten a look at you, Frederick Benchley wouldn’t have been able to manage so much as a quadrille.”

  Long lashes shuttered her eyes for a moment. “You compliment nicely, though I have to wonder at your timing. And the setting,” she finally said, sending another glance around the room.

  Several of the occupants had noticed the two of them sitting together. Olivier Warren with a female was anything but unusual, so the interest had to be due to his choice of female. As if he gave a damn what they thought. He could play with them later. Today he had a different game in mind. “Now is when I met you. Should I refrain from stating that I find you beautiful simply because your husband has died? You aren’t dead, after all.”

  Her bosom lifted as she took a sudden breath. “Are you flirting with me?” she murmured, taking a sip of her tea.

  She didn’t sound offended. In fact, she sounded intrigued. He certainly was. “Yes.”

  “If you aren’t after a wealthy widow, Mr. Warren, then what do you want? Truly?”

  “Truly? I want you, Lady Cameron. I want you naked in a bed
with me inside you.”

  Emerald eyes blinked. “You don’t…you don’t even know me.”

  “I’ll wager I know you better than they do,” he said, gesturing at the room in general. Then he decided to press his luck. “So do you want to spend the afternoon pretending you haven’t noticed them all avoiding you, or in a more intimate setting with me?”

  For the first time she appeared to hesitate. He supposed he might be assessing her through a too-cynical prism, but she interested him enough that he was willing to spend a bit more time deciphering precisely just how much of her mourning was genuine. She could merely be an extremely composed, artful young lady who’d dearly loved her late idiot of a husband, or he could be deliberately misinterpreting the careful application of quavering tones and handkerchief and lowered lashes. He’d seen weeping chits before, and couldn’t find a trace of it on her face. A certain…vulnerability, yes, but in a way that appealed to him rather than being off-putting.

  “I think I would like that,” she finally said.

  Thank Lucifer. If he didn’t have her soon, he felt like he would combust. “Allow me to inform Lady Darham that you are overset by all the attention, and I’ve agreed to see you to a carriage, then,” he returned, standing when she nodded.

  Once he’d made their excuses to the rather suspicious dowager marchioness, he offered Lady Cameron an arm, and she wrapped her black-gloved fingers around his sleeve. The countess was tall, the top of her head coming nearly to his mouth, and she seemed to have abstained from the heavy, flowery perfumes that ladies of her station favored.

  The moment they were out of sight of Hoffler House and the horde of Englishmen inside, she stopped, pulling her hand free to face him. “You are trouble, aren’t you?”

  Oliver nodded. “A great deal of it.”

  “I don’t need more trouble.”

  He brushed his fingers against her soft cheek. “Give me a night, and then I’ll leave if you like.”

  Diane found herself nodding. She’d never been impetuous, never done anything scandalous—except to flee England with the dunners on her heels. Or on Frederick’s heels, rather. She’d never been tempted to misbehave. But this Oliver Warren…just being in his company felt like a very delicious kind of sin.

  It wasn’t only sin, however. For two years she’d had chances to sin, every night that Frederick didn’t return home because he was in pursuit of a winning run of cards, every time he blamed her for the lack of funds at the end of the month when the servants and the rent were due to be paid. Every time she wished she had someone in whom to confide her troubles—and she’d refrained. And being proper had gotten her precisely nothing. No money, no friends, no one to keep her company.

  Mr. Warren made her skin tingle all the way to her bones. He felt wrong, and dangerous, and alive – and interesting. Very interesting. Not until he’d seated himself beside her had she realized how very seldom she’d felt so…so anything.

  “Shall I escort you to luncheon after all?” he asked. “I know a lovely bistro right beside the river.”

  “You don’t need to cajole or charm me, Mr. Warren. You told me what you wanted, and I am in agreement.”

  Light gray eyes swept down the length of her and back up again to her face. The warmth seeping through her deepened. “Then give me the direction to your house,” he murmured, signaling for a hack.

  He didn’t bat an eye when the coach traveled well past the best-appointed part of Vienna and into the more ramshackle neighborhood where her rented rooms lay. But then he’d said he knew her to be nearly penniless. Evidently the state of her finances didn’t concern him. Neither did the quality of her conversation or the sharpness of her mind, but after nearly a fortnight of solitude, with nothing but her thoughts and a great many debts to keep her company, she didn’t want to think.

  “This is…cozy,” he commented, when the hack stopped and she stepped out to the street.

  “The man upstairs plays a very poor bassoon,” Diane returned, waiting as he handed up a few coins to the driver, “and the fireplace smokes.”

  He followed her up the narrow stairs, the…heat of him at her back making her pulse speed. Before she’d married, before she’d met Frederick, Oliver Warren had been the very sort of man about whom she’d dreamed. The wicked, rakish Adonis who could steal a young lady’s virtue with a look and her breath with a mere kiss. And now he was standing inside her small, dingy apartment and looking at her.

  “How long have you lived here?” he queried, walking over to push open the curtains in the main room.

  “Thirteen months.”

  “That’s very precise.”

  “I’m very precise.” He had an air about him, an utter confidence in himself, that made him the centerpiece of the room, made the apartment seem small. She didn’t wish to take her eyes off him. Reaching behind her, Diane shut and locked the door. “Those curtains are to remain closed,” she said, setting aside her reticule and hat and attempting to keep her hands from trembling.

  Over the past fortnight she’d felt abandoned, uncertain, and hopeless. This afternoon she felt eighteen and about to be seduced for the first time. She wished he would stop standing across the room and kiss her instead.

  Mr. Warren pulled the curtains shut again. “Is darkness a mourning tradition? I’m not familiar with it.”

  “It’s an attempt to keep the bill collectors worried that they’ll face a hysterical female,” she returned. He already knew her to be penniless; even if it wasn’t for the general rumors, the shabby apartment would have spoken the story just as eloquently. “If I can’t be reasoned with, asking me for money would be pointless. And it will definitely cause a scene.”

  “Then we should likely keep my presence here a secret.” He tilted his head, dark mahogany hair falling across one eye as he gazed at her. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he announced, strolling up to her. “But because I’m not entirely without conscience, I will give you a last chance to send me away.”

  She lowered her gaze to his half smiling, sensuous mouth. “I am a lonely woman, Mr. Warren,” she said, unable to keep her voice entirely steady. “I don’t wish to send you away.” Willing herself to have a little courage, she placed her hands on his dark gray lapels. Beneath her fingers his chest felt hard and unyielding, the jump of a muscle against her palm starting heat between her legs. “As you said before, this is about desire.”

  “Then I think you should call me Oliver,” he murmured. Slowly he leaned down and touched his mouth to hers.

  Diane curled her fingers into his jacket, leaning up along him and kissing him back. Wicked, sinful, immoral—she didn’t care. The moment skin touched skin, she felt alive. And excited. And aroused. And not alone.

  He shifted to nibble at her jaw, then lifted his head a fraction. “Is the bed in there?” he asked, angling his chin toward the bedchamber door.

  “Yes,” she returned, her voice muffled against his mouth as he moved in on her again. Hands splayed across her hips, pulling her up against him. Well. He hadn’t been lying about wanting her.

  Oliver swung her up into his arms. With a surprised gasp Diane gripped him around the neck, unwilling to stop kissing him simply because he was carrying her bodily into the bed chamber. She was fairly certain that if he moved away, if they stopped touching, he would evaporate and she would be left alone again.

  Sliding one knee up onto the bed, Oliver leaned down and placed her across the coverlet. “I’m not going to keep calling you Lady Cameron,” he said in a low voice as he gripped one of her ankles.

  “Diane,” she rasped, as he shoved her gown up around her waist. “Diane will do.”

  With a wicked grin he sank down between her knees. “Diane it is, then.”

  Fingers, then lips and tongue nibbled at her down…there. Good heavens. A man she’d met less than an hour ago was touching her more intimately than her own husband had ever done. Gasping, she dug her fingers into his dark hair.

  “I’m still wear
ing my shoes,” she exclaimed, then realized how absolutely stupid that must sound. “I mean, I don’t want them on the bed.”

  He lifted his head. “Have you never had sex with your shoes on?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Sending a glance at the calf-length walking boots on either side of his head, he turned and grasped one of her ankles again. “They’re very fashionable.”

  “I…I don’t know why not,” she returned, lifting up on her elbows. “They…they’re shoes.”

  “And they’re staying on. I will risk being kicked in the head when I come inside you.”

  Her face heated. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

  Oliver straightened further, taking both her hands and pulling her into a sitting position. “You were married, weren’t you?”

  “Of course I was. Don’t—”

  ”Did your husband not come inside you?”

  “He was my husband.”

  “Ah.” He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and produced a French condom. She’d never actually seen one up close, but one evening when Frederick and some of his cronies had spent the night wagering and drinking in the front room she’d risen to find them jesting about the uses of one. Frederick hadn’t appreciated her disturbing his evening, and she’d quickly retreated again. “Better?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. So your shoes stay on. The gown, however, needs to come off.”

  Somehow he’d taken command, but considering how very naughty she felt already, Diane had no complaints. None at all. She twisted so he could reach the trio of buttons at the back of her neck, then faced him again as he gathered her skirt in his hands and lifted. The black gown came off over her head, and he dropped it carelessly beside the bed.

  Until this moment, only one man had ever seen her naked. As his warm hands cupped her breasts, thumbnails flicking deliciously across her nipples, Diane shivered again. One thing was becoming rather clear. Oliver Warren was nothing like Frederick Benchley.