The Wicked One

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Let your hair down,” he ordered, sitting upright again and shrugging out of his jacket.

  She started yanking out hairpins, setting them on the bed stand. Keeping her shoes on as he unfastened the buttons of his waistcoat, watching his face as his gaze swept across her and lowered to her breasts again—it felt so wicked and wanton. Her heart stammered frantically, reminding her forcibly of what Oliver had said earlier; she was not dead. In fact, she couldn’t ever remember feeling so…alive.

  “Slower,” he instructed, the tent of material at his crotch telling her that he was as aroused as she was.

  “I don’t want to go slower,” she stated, already breathless. “And I think you should remove the rest of your clothes. And your boots.”

  His grin did something warm and twisty to her insides. “That’s more like it,” he murmured, capturing her mouth again.

  When Diane knotted the hem of his white shirt in her hands, he lifted away from her just long enough for her to yank it off over his head. With a low chuckle Oliver reached between them to open the fastening of his breeches and shove them down past his knees. As his erection bumped between her thighs Diane fleetingly wished she hadn’t told him to remove his boots; it was just another delay to what she wanted.

  With another deep, tongue-tangling kiss he sat back on his bare backside. First he pulled his boots off and dropped them to the floor, the sound loud enough that more than likely both the bassoon player above and the merchant lodging below her rooms could hear the sound. Then he pulled the French condom up around his cock and tied the ribbon around the base.

  As he finished, he looked up at her again. “You can do that next time,” he said, still grinning.

  He crawled up over her, and she lay back. This part she knew. Oliver paused at her chest, taking a breast into his mouth and sucking. Diane gasped, arching her back in response.

  Nudging her knees farther apart with his own, Oliver settled against her hips. Then, with another kiss he angled his hips and pushed inside her. Diane groaned at the filling sensation, wrapping her booted feet around his thighs and digging her fingers into his back.

  Again and again he slid in and out of her, until the string drawing her muscles tighter and tighter inside her snapped. With a keening groan she grabbed onto him as she came. Oliver kissed her, the smile of his mouth obvious even if she couldn’t see the expression.

  Abruptly he put an arm beneath her and rolled them, so that she sat astride his hips, impaled. He sat up as well, facing her as he pinched her nipples, then took one in his mouth again. Holding onto his neck, she flung back her head. Her body wanted to move, so she began lifting up and down, the size and heat of him so intoxicating it left her feeling drunk.

  “Harder,” he grunted, grabbing her hips and pulling her down on him. He pushed up against her in the same rhythm, their breathing and groaning and the slap of skin against skin the only sounds in the room. In the world, it seemed like.

  Finally with a deep groan he spent himself inside her. The satisfied moan he uttered sent her climaxing for a second time. Oliver pulled her down across his chest and she lay there for a long moment, his arms around her, as she attempted to stop the spinning of the bed chamber and regain her breath again.

  “That…was very nice,” she said against his neck.

  “I don’t think you’ve been loved enough,” Oliver’s deep voice returned, the sound resonating through him and into her.

  Passion, enjoyment, laughter, of all things. “I…I’m not naive,” she commented, kissing his throat. “It’s just different with someone else.”

  Oliver took her shoulders, pushing her an inch or two away from him. “You are going to be very interesting,” he said, looking up at her, his gray eyes dancing.

  He found her interesting. That was likely the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. Before she could begin crying and get him all wet, Diane sat up, then twisted to extricate herself from him. Her rumpled gown lay on the floor, and considering that it was the only black dress she owned, it needed better care than that. Her armor against the creditors, it was, and a soldier cared for his—her—armor.

  She retrieved it, folding it neatly before replacing it in the wardrobe. Then she found a light green muslin and shrugged into it. Behind her she heard Oliver sit up, but he didn’t move from the bed. Would he stay? Did a lover simply leave after an…interlude, never to be seen again? She had no idea how this particular game was played. Just as she’d had no idea that sex could be more than a twice-monthly obligation of grunts and thrusts and mauling.

  Was this her reward? Was Oliver Warren someone she’d met to show her the way her life was supposed to be? A light to her shadows? Laughter to a very somber two years of marriage? She caught her reflection in her dressing mirror. He’d said several times that she was pretty. Frederick had said so, as well, on the day they’d married. She couldn’t recall that he’d said it since then. And now he never would. And she would never have to wait for…something to happen. For her husband to notice her presence, for him to see her as more than someone to have food waiting on the table and to fold his shirts.

  If this was her moment, she had no intention of standing by and watching it go by. For the first time, she meant to seize hold of the reins and drive the damned cart that was her life—even if she ran it into the hedgerow. At least it would be her own doing.

  “I’m hungry,” Oliver said abruptly. “Do you have a cook?”

  “I don’t have any servants,” she returned, facing him.

  With a nod he stood, fit and glorious and naked. “Well, we can’t have you wandering about Vienna out of that black gown and with a strange man by your side, or you’ll lose your advantage over the debt collectors. What say I fetch us a roast chicken and a bottle of wine?”

  Her breath caught. “You’re not leaving, then?”

  One eyebrow lifted. “Do you wish me to? Because I thought we might spend a bit more time naked.”

  She tried to catch her smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “I would like that.”

  He retrieved his trousers and shrugged into them. Diane Benchley had definitely not loved her husband. And Lord Cameron hadn’t done her any favors in the bedchamber. From what he knew of the fellow, he hadn’t been terribly intelligent or imaginative, and he supposed that would show itself in every aspect of the earl’s life. A damned shame, considering the goddess he’d had to hand.

  Oliver stomped into his boots, then crossed the room to where she stood attempting to put her hair back up into its tight bun again. “Don’t do that,” he said quietly, picking the trio of pins out of the black mass and letting it cascade over his hands. “You’re not going out, so leave it loose. It’s stunning that way.”

  “I don’t feel put together with my hair down.”

  Taking her arm, he turned her to face him and kissed her again. God, she was intoxicating. And with at least two years of pent-up passion she’d never had an excuse to release. “You’re free, Diane. Behave as you will.”

  Her brow furrowed. Then, to his surprise, a tear ran down her cheek. Damnation. He hated it when chits cried. She wiped at her eyes, then walked back to the wardrobe and pulled a neatly folded man’s shirt free. “I’m not free,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “Frederick left me with thousands of pounds of debt, alone in a foreign country, and all his houses and properties—those that are left—willed to his brother. This is what I have to my name. A few shirts, a great many papers, and an ugly porcelain dog on the hearth.”

  “I believe you could easily be rid of at least two of those things, then.”

  From the surprised look in her greener than green eyes, that idea had never occurred to her. She looked down at the shirt. “There are a half dozen ugly green and lavender jackets in the wardrobe. I hate them. Do you know of anywhere I could sell them?”

  As if he knew anyone who would dress like a half-witted dandy. “Perhaps. I’ll inquire.”

  “Discreetly, if you please.”
>
  He nodded. When he’d seen her earlier, Oliver had wanted her. He hadn’t thought much beyond that, and he certainly wasn’t looking for a wife or a long-term lover, or anything more than a pleasant afternoon. But something about her continued to draw him. They were both exiles, after all. He took a slow breath.

  “My uncle is the Marquis of Haybury,” he said, leaning a haunch on her tiny dressing table. “I called him a poor excuse for a horse’s ass, and he disowned me.”

  “Just for calling him a name?”

  A smile tugged at his mouth. “The name calling was actually the proverbial last straw, I think. I enjoy trouble, you see.”

  “You are trouble.”

  “Yes, but so are you. And as I seem to be returning here with luncheon, Diane, you can stop saying that you’re alone.”

  She didn’t look completely convinced, and he wasn’t, either. Him. Making proclamations. Once he’d finished dressing, he left her apartment and walked two streets to the nearest inn. Several familiar faces were there, and two games of faro were already in progress. But as tempting as making a few more quid might be, he had enough blunt to last him a few months, even with him purchasing meals for recent widows. And Diane Benchley’s naked charms far outweighed those of the cigar-smoking wagerers around him.

  He requested a basket of baked chicken and fresh bread, paid for them and a bottle of red wine, and returned to the three-story building housing Diane and five additional apartments. Because she was portraying a grieving widow, he refrained from whistling as he climbed the steep stairs, but only just.

  Whatever he’d expected when he’d fled London, it hadn’t been this. It hadn’t been her. He pushed open her door and stepped inside. She knelt by the hearth, large pieces of what must have been the porcelain dog in her hands. As she rose, Oliver stopped in his tracks. She’d brushed out her long, midnight hair, and the way the thick locks framed her pale cheeks and set off her emerald eyes was simply stunning.

  “You came back,” she said.

  “I told you that I would. Something happened to the dog, I assume?”

  “I accidently kicked it into the wall.”

  “Good.”

  She cleared her throat, and for a bare moment he thought she’d come to her senses and was going to ask him to leave. He didn’t want to. Not yet. Not while the mere sight of her had his trousers tightening. Not until he’d bedded her at least a dozen more times.

  “I’m attempting not to be grateful and weepy,” she finally commented, walking up to take the basket from him and set it on the worn writing desk. “I can’t conjure anything more pitiful.”

  Neither could he. “You still haven’t called me by my Christian name, you know.”

  A small smile curved her mouth again. “I see. Thank you for fetching luncheon, Oliver.”

  “That’s better. Do you have wineglasses?”

  “Yes, I do.” She paused halfway across the room, then turned and walked up to him. “I think we should have sex again before we eat, Oliver,” she murmured, sliding her arms around his shoulders and rising on her tiptoes for a soft, breath-stealing kiss.

  “If you keep this up, I’m never leaving.”

  Her muffled chuckle warmed his insides. Yes, she was definitely unexpected. He’d known he would enjoy sex with her, but he hadn’t thought to enjoy her company. Perhaps Vienna wouldn’t be as intolerable as he’d expected. Perhaps he’d earned a bit of luck, after all.

  “You can’t take me to the theater,” Diane said, stacking the last of Frederick’s pages and pages of owed funds and overdue bills onto the desk. If they’d owned a paper mill they might have been made wealthy just from documenting her late husband’s ill luck.

  “Just how long is deep mourning supposed to last?” Oliver sank down into the chair opposite her and promptly disorganized the papers as he flipped through them. “Good God.”

  “Six months, in London. And there are enough Englishmen in Vienna that I have to conform. And the longer I look…unstable, the longer I’ll have to figure out how to manage this mess.”

  He shrugged. “Send it on to your brother-in-law. If he’s inheriting the property, he should inherit the debts.”

  It sounded so simple. She knew, of course, that Frederick had borrowed money against several of his properties already, and that he’d sold all his horses and let go half his staff before they’d even left England. From what she’d been able to discover, at the moment the properties of the Earl of Cameron must be in complete disarray if not utter ruin simply from neglect. “I haven’t heard back from him yet. And unless he’s made independent investments, I doubt he’ll be able to settle anything.” She sighed, reaching across the table to brush her fingers against his.

  Touching Oliver Warren both excited her and gave her an unexpected…strength. As if for the first time in two years, she wasn’t entirely alone any longer. Her troubles remained, but she had someone with whom to chat, someone who could perhaps point out avenues she hadn’t seen on her own.

  “Here,” he said, lifting a small package from beneath the table and handing it to her. “I thought you might find these useful.”

  Diane stifled the abrupt urge to cry. She’d for the most part avoided being weepy and clinging too hard to her new acquaintance, and he clearly appreciated that. But the last time anyone had brought her a gift…she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d received a present.

  Attempting to keep her fingers from shaking, she untied the ribbon holding the paper closed and pulled the wrapping open. A pair of very fine black kid gloves with pearl button closures lay on the table before her. “They’re lovely,” she said, pulling them on and lifting her hands to admire the smooth, sleek fit of them.

  “Not at all proper for your lover to be gifting you with, I’m certain, but you look very nice in black. Exquisite, actually.”

  She smiled. “If you keep saying such nice things, I may stop resisting the outing to the theater.”

  To her surprise, he frowned. “I have a question.”

  Attempting to ignore the nervous fluttering of her heart by concentrating on removing the gloves, Diane nodded. “I seem to have no secrets from you.”

  “Every woman has secrets,” he returned. “I’ve merely not discovered the correct questions for you, yet. This one, however, is more mundane. Why is it that after you’ve been in Vienna for a year, you’ve had no one come calling on you in three days except for that bloody rude tailor and me?”

  “Ah. I thought you were going to ask me something difficult.” She sighed.

  “Frederick owed—owes—money to nearly every Englishmen in town. If someone comes to see me, it would mean that either they’re hounding a widow for money, or if they don’t mention it, they’re here to forgive me the debt.”

  Gray eyes glittered. “So they stay away in order to keep their options open. Fools.”

  “Well, that’s easier to say if Frederick didn’t owe you anything.” A disturbing thought occurred to her. “Did he?”

  “He did not.” Taking her hand again, Oliver drew her to her feet and pulled her around the table to sit across his thighs. “I believe I met your late husband on three occasions, all in London. I never wagered with him.”

  That sounded like a tale. “You wager with everyone. Why not Frederick?”

  “Hm. I believe we’re straying back into the ‘don’t speak ill of the dead’ area of conversation,” he muttered, bending his head to nibble at her throat.

  If she hadn’t been sitting, her knees would have given way. A thrill of delight twirled down her spine. “Tell me anyway.”

  “Very well. I like a challenge. Lord Cameron was not a challenge. He was something of a jest at some of the clubs, actually.” His mouth paused in its trail along the nape of her neck. “At the time, it never occurred to me to be anything but scornful. I’m afraid I didn’t spare a thought for what Lady Cameron might be feeling as her husband lost hundreds of pounds at the table.”

  She would have shrugge
d if she didn’t think that might have distracted him from slowly peeling one arm of her gown down her shoulder. “I doubt anyone gave it a thought,” she returned. “Including Frederick.”

  “I think you’re becoming more cynical.” He paused, his fingers occupied with undoing the ribbon at the back of her dress. “I like it.”

  “It helps to have someone with whom to commiserate.” Diane closed her eyes, delighting in the shivery, arousing sensation of being in the arms of someone who wanted her. She couldn’t precisely fault Frederick for not being that someone; their marriage had been contracted and signed for shortly before her eighteenth birthday. While she’d been thrilled to become a countess, the other elements of their marriage hadn’t precisely filled her with excitement. Clearly Frederick had been of the same opinion.

  “Do you want to return to England?”

  “Yes,” she replied, lowering one shoulder so he could slip her arm out of the short sleeve of her gown, “but I have no idea how I would manage to do that.” Diane twisted her head to eye him. “What about you? Would you go back to London if you could?”

  “A week ago I would have said so, without hesitation.” His gray gaze met hers. “At the moment, however, I’m rather enjoying Vienna.”

  And so was she—more than she had in the past year. More than she’d enjoyed England for the year before that. “Such flattery, Mr. Warren. You could turn a young lady’s head.”

  “I already have, I believe.” His warm chuckle sounded against the pulse of her throat. “Several times.”

  Oliver slid her other arm from the sleeve of her proper black gown and bared her to the waist. If one thing had become clear to him over the past few days, it was that Frederick Benchley had been worse than a poor gambler. The man was an utter fool. This had awaited him at home every evening, and he’d instead chosen to remain at his clubs. The earl had preferred to lose his reputation and his income and his future rather than begetting heirs and otherwise indulging in endless sex with an extremely passionate woman. But then again, perhaps her passions hadn’t included being in bed with her husband.