Tall, Dark, and Wicked (Wicked Trilogy)

by Madeline Hunter

  “Do it yourself now.” A caress slid up one of her legs. “I will be busy.”

  She frowned at his odd suggestion.

  “Have you never touched yourself, Padua? Given yourself pleasure?”

  Of course not. What a peculiar question.

  His caress rose higher on her leg. Her hem rose too. “It is much the same. Try it. You will see.”

  Now? With him there? Watching?

  He appeared wonderful, looking down, his gaze warm and dangerous at the same time. She saw no amusement at her expense at least.

  She tentatively put her hands under her breasts, to see what it felt like. Nothing special. “You will be busy doing what?”

  He raised one of her legs. The hem dropped, revealing her hose to its top, and her knee. “Just kissing you. Touching you.” He turned his head to show her. She wasn’t impressed. The kiss tickled a little, and was not nearly as shattering as those on her breasts.

  Then he caressed down on the inside of her leg. That gossamer touch, so light it could be a feather’s brush, sent a deep thrill right down to her— Oh.

  For the first time since he first touched her, misgivings wormed through her bliss.

  “I think that you are being wicked now.”

  His fingers continued giving her vague licks. His mouth more obvious ones. “Not too wicked. Not yet.”

  Not yet? “About those negotiations—”

  “Too late.” Her skirt fell more, exposing more of her leg. Almost to her—to where the pleasures he created also fell. The sensation intensified until it was far stronger than when she sat on his lap. She barely resisted the urge to raise her hips in scandalous ways. She bit her lower lip so the begging cries haunting her mind did not leak out.

  He glanced at how she still cupped her breasts. “Not like that. Do it the way I did. I promise it will be extraordinary.”

  Too far gone to worry about how it would look, she gently rubbed her nipples. Spirals of ecstasy aimed down her body, toward those he created. They met at her— Oh!

  “This is outrageous,” she murmured. “Disgraceful.” She did squirm then, but it did nothing to relieve the sensual torment that built with each moment. Her essence begged for relief, but it also demanded she flick at her nipples with the palms of her hands, to deliberately make it worse, not better.

  Kisses on her knee now. Hot. Searing. First this spot then that, then lower on her thighs. Utter abandon made her lose hold of herself. The most wicked notions lodged in her foggy thoughts—to spread her legs wide, to make him kiss higher yet, to touch herself not on her breasts, but on her—and still his light caresses, those faint, fluttering touches, lured her deeper, and made a hollow need open that even the pleasure could not fill.

  He kissed up her thigh, holding her leg so he could reach the softest flesh. A moan escaped her, then another. She looked down to where her skirt now bunched high on her legs. It formed a hedgerow of cloth. She realized that if he turned his head, he would see that which no one had seen before.

  He did turn his head. He did see. Then the light masterful caresses moved down until he placed his fingers on the very source and center of her sexual agony.

  It unhinged her. She heard her own cries sing through the air. Grateful, hungry cries that gave voice to the need consuming her. You are wicked, wicked, wicked.

  “Yes.”

  I should not allow— You should not—

  “Yes.”

  He pulled her hips toward him. She forced herself to look at him. His body lowered bit by bit as he knelt. She could only see his head, then only his crown when he kissed her inner thigh again. Ah, ah, wicked. Too wicked. He knelt higher, and arranged her legs over his shoulders. An extreme notion entered her thoughts. A hope but also an alarm. He was not going to— Surely he would not—

  She quickly pressed her skirt’s fabric between her legs and held it, scandalized at the notion. He caressed her thigh, soothing her. Only it did not really soothe. It kept the heat and sexual agitation alive and vivid.

  “I have shocked you.”

  “Now I understand why you normally negotiate first.”

  Rebellions in her body created discomforts never experienced before. Disappointment made itself known in visceral ways.

  He stood. “You are safe. I promise.” He caught her gaze with his own and slid his hand under the fabric, beneath her pressing palm.

  “I thought you said I was safe.”

  “From that, for now. Not from me.” He wrapped her legs around his hips. “Move your hand now. I will not take you, if you worry I have put you like this for that. Unless you want me to.”

  She stared at him. She shook her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  She was not sure at all.

  “Move your hand. I am good to my word.”

  She moved her hand.

  “Close your eyes, Padua. Think of nothing.”

  That devastating touch pressed again, ensuring she obeyed. Her physicality dissolved until only the pleasure remained. Amazing pleasure. Demanding pleasure. No thoughts meant no restraints. She felt as she never had before. As she never knew possible.

  He knew just what to do to intensify the madness. She knew he watched. Wicked. Wonderfully wicked. She knew she moaned and cried. When the pleasure became too intense and relentless to bear, she knew she begged. For something, anything, she knew not what. She stretched toward it, desperate, insane and adrift in agonizing sensation.

  Suddenly it grew worse yet, wonderfully worse. Focused and deep. The locus of pleasure filled, then spread abruptly. It conquered what was left of her separateness. Then it burst, awing her with its perfect bliss.

  CHAPTER 10

  Ives pried Padua’s hand off his. As her climax neared she had tried to stop him and spare herself from plunging into the unknown. He sat her up and embraced her. He could feel the echoes of her explosive finish still affecting her body like aftershocks.

  Expression slack, skin flushed, she did not object to how he handled her. Perhaps she did not even notice. She set her head on his chest and rested limply against him. He pressed his lips to her crown and slowly trailed his fingers over the sheen on her shoulders.

  He should not have done this, but he did not care about that right now. Later he would scold himself for following impulse. He knew the lecture well. Anger, passion, sorrow—conquering outbursts of emotion remained a lifelong effort at which he often failed.

  Subtle changes in her body showed her retaking control of it. She did not move or break the intimacy of the embrace for a good five minutes, however.

  “We have been bad, I think,” she murmured into his shirt. “Very bad.”

  He’d be damned before he agreed to that. He might have been bad, but she had been glorious.

  “What you wanted to do—I suppose that is why decent women won’t have anything to do with you.”

  “One reason.”

  “There is more? Yes, of course there is.” She sighed. “It is well that you negotiate directly, although one wonders how you explain it all. I suppose being a lawyer helps. All those fancy words you can command. I expect those pour over the women, and by the time they dig through them all and understand your meaning, it is too late to be embarrassed.”

  In truth his mistresses needed little explanation. They were in the business of pleasing men. He did not shock them any more than a merchant is shocked on hearing a patron wants one gallon of the best ale for his shillings, instead of two gallons of the ordinary kind.

  She eased off him, and looked over her shoulder. She flushed, and groped at her garments about her waist. “I should—”

  He lifted the stays onto her shoulders. He tightened and tied the laces. He stepped back and lifted her petticoat by the neckline.

  “I can do it.” She took the cloth out of his hands. “Could you perhaps . . . ?” She made a twirling motion with her finger.

  He turned so his back faced her. “Are you embarrassed, Padua? You should not be. Not with m
e.”

  “I am too astonished to be embarrassed, but I expect that to change. I think that soon I will conclude I have been foolish. You are a revelation to me. I assumed that a man of your standing and cool thinking would never be so—impetuous.”

  “I only am when I am strongly provoked.”

  “Are you blaming me now?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. She had set herself to rights and now buttoned her pelisse.

  “I am not blaming anyone.” He turned and took her face in his hands. He bent and kissed her lips. “Not you, and not myself. I am saying that desire for you provoked me more than is customary. I lost my head.”

  Dark eyes gazed up at him with amusement and naked skepticism. “What pretty words. You do have a talented tongue, milord.”

  As soon as she said it she realized the allusion she made. Her expression fell in horror.

  He lifted her off the table and onto her feet. She looked at the table. “Shouldn’t we call for soap and water?”

  “The servants will take care of that.”

  She glanced to the door. “They know? Or do you make use of this table for such things frequently?”

  “They wash and polish the table every morning, long before anyone who uses it wakens.”

  “That is good to know.”

  He took her hands in his. He suffered all this talk of practical things because he knew she inched closer to embarrassment again. He could see the way her eyes avoided his, and how she forced the most bland expression.

  “I will be warning the footmen to be alert, lest anyone try to enter this house. You must promise to wait in the house until I come in the morning, Padua.”

  She nodded. “I cannot remain here forever, though. I need to let chambers and do other things that require I be abroad in town.”

  “We will discuss that tomorrow. For now, stay here.”

  He released her and turned to leave. To his delight she fell into step with him. They walked silently through the house to the reception hall.

  Damn it, he owed her more . . . more something. A shelter for her pride, at least, if the next hours brought regrets.

  “I must apologize for my bad behavior.” He hoped it did not sound as insincere as it felt. He was not one whit sorry. Rather part of his mind speculated on what he had forgone, and how to rectify the omissions.

  She made a small, reflective smile. “I think you were a rung or two lower in the pit of hell than bad. If I were not still recovering, the thought of what we—” A deep flush rose on her face.

  “The fault is all mine. I importuned you. It was inexcusable of me.” Oh, how it all tripped out, sounding so damned correct. He still burned for her. He had not descended far into hell at all while she lay in abandon on that table, but he would dwell in its depths tonight.

  She looked in his eyes. Her brow puckered. “It was impetuous, as I said. On both our parts. I am sure you agree that we must be more temperate in the future, if we are going to have any dealings with each other at all.”

  He bent to kiss her hand. “That would be wise.” And impossible. “I will go now, and see you in the morning.”

  * * *

  Padua made her way to her chamber. Her girl arrived and prepared her for bed. When she was alone again, she tried to pull herself out of the haze that had surrounded her since Ives had shattered her awareness into a thousand sparkling pieces.

  Their conversation afterward repeated in her mind. She had to laugh at herself. A man had almost ravished her, had seen her worse than naked, had almost done a very wicked thing to her, and she could only quiz him about the condition of the table that had served as her bed? She laughed until tears flowed. Oh, you are a very sophisticated woman, Padua. This aristocrat has not seen the likes of you before!

  The rest of their conversation had her sober in a snap. The apology. The attempt to take the blame. He had to say that. Did he mean any of it? Or did he really think he had gone to a great deal of trouble and had little to show for his efforts?

  They could never do that again. They could never do anything like it. She was not that kind of woman. Surely he was not the kind of man who lured women to their fall either.

  Or was he? Either he had few scruples in such matters, or she truly had overwhelmed his better nature and provoked impetuous behavior.

  Had she?

  What an odd notion.

  Surely not. She definitely was not that kind of woman either.

  However . . . if that were the case . . . might she nudge him toward handling her father’s case a bit differently than he would otherwise? He suspected her of possibly trying to bribe him. Should she?

  She almost slapped herself for entertaining the idea. How unworthy of her. How manipulative. Disgraceful, really.

  And yet . . . if a daughter had that power, shouldn’t she use it? Would it not be a bigger sin to turn away from a chance to help her father? In the least shouldn’t she give it serious thought before throwing the opportunity away?

  She rose and removed her dressing gown. She snuffed out the lamp, climbed into bed, and tucked the bedclothes around her. She stared up at the shadowed billows of the bed’s drapery.

  As soon as she closed her eyes, memories deluged her. Ives commanding her body with his mouth and hands . . . Ives driving her mad with a hundred feathers on her inner legs and thighs . . . Ives holding her close while profound pleasure eddied through her.

  * * *

  Ives went in search of Strickland after leaving Padua. The night was still young, and there was the small chance that if he occupied himself now he might eventually throw off the frustration and erotic energy that had his teeth grinding.

  He found Strickland at Damian’s, a gaming hall. Strickland liked to play faro and vingt-et-un, and many nights could be found doing so in one of the town’s haunts, sipping brandy while he avoided the wife he had never loved.

  Strickland spied him approaching and hailed him enthusiastically. Ives assumed that meant Strickland was up for the night.

  “Damned glad you are here. You can admire my good fortune,” Strickland said, casting a gloating glance at the man beside him at the vingt-et-un table. “Take a chair. Join us.”

  Ives did not gamble much. He had never developed the taste for it. All the same he sat beside Strickland and called for cards.

  “I saw Crippin tonight,” Ives said after they passed some small talk. “You remember him, I am sure.”

  Strickland shook his head. “Hell, yes. I did not realize he was in town. I thought he was up north. That is where he gets his nose into trouble.”

  “He goes where he is told to go. Apparently he was told to come to London.”

  Strickland peered at his cards. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “I hope not. I’ve a mind to thrash someone, and I would not want it to be you.”

  Strickland looked over, alarmed. He threw in his cards. “You are in a mood, I see. Let us get some air.”

  Together they repaired to a small terrace attached to the gaming hall. Strickland offered a cigar. Ives declined. Strickland lit one for himself. Positioned out of the light, he puffed away. With each inhale the burning end of his cigar made tiny orange highlights on his face.

  “Why do you want to thrash someone?”

  “Crippin has been keeping watch on Langley House. He stands in the shadows across the street and spies on its occupants.”

  The glowing tip stopped moving. “Surely not. No one would be so stupid as to set him on your brother’s house. Aylesbury could break any man in the Home Office.”

  “And yet someone has done it.”

  “Zeus. Is your brother residing there now?”

  “No.”

  Puff. “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Is anyone? If not, it makes no sense at all.”

  “Hadrian Belvoir’s daughter is currently using the house, at my invitation. Her father’s situation led to her losing her place at the school where she teaches.”r />
  “Ah. I see. Unfortunate for her.”

  “I could hardly leave her destitute and without shelter.”

  “No gentleman could do that.” Puff. “It goes without saying.”

  “Crippin was told to watch her, and abduct her.”

  “Abduction now! What for?”

  Ives explained his conversation with Crippin. “He implied I should help, so she can be questioned.”

  “Do you think she is an accomplice? If there is any chance of that at all, perhaps you should arrange it so those questions can be put to her.”

  “Of course she isn’t an accomplice.”

  Strickland paced in a circle, smoking and thinking.

  “Why do you know of course she is not? Have you been investigating her?”

  No, damn it. He had taken her at face value, hadn’t he? Because he wanted her. Today and tonight he had realized just how much he had accepted on faith.

  He still did. A few questions had arisen, however. Small ones, but they had lodged in his head beneath the desire. They were why, he supposed, he had not taken things further tonight when he knew he could.

  “That position she had at that school left her no time to be an accomplice to anything or anyone. Nor was she recognized by another resident of her father’s building when she first visited.”

  He had no trouble giving a list to support his claim. He had parsed through it all many times. Yet, despite these pieces of evidence, the prosecutor in him could not eliminate those small doubts, nor the tiny suspicion that Miss Belvoir might have been leading him in a dance ever since she intruded on his peace that first night.

  “Ah, well, if you just know . . .” The cigar’s glow made an arabesque in the air as Strickland gestured.

  “I did not seek you out to discuss her. I want you to deliver a message for me to your colleagues.”

  “I am not going to like this, am I?”

  “Say you saw me tonight and I was looking for blood over the insult to my family. Tell whoever is behind this that if I see Crippin within a mile of that street again, I will tell Lance, and he will take it up with the prime minister and the regent and inform the other lords.”

  Strickland sighed. “I would rather you wrote a letter. There is this problem with being the messenger of such a threat.”