Wicked As Sin

by Jillian Hunter

  “Isn’t it possible that you could learn?”

  “Would you be willing to help me?”

  She laughed wistfully. “I always thought you managed well enough on your own.”

  “Because I knocked down anyone who stood in my path?”

  “You fought your stepfather. That was brave of you.”

  He swallowed. He was ashamed that she should know of that. “I was never viewed as the white knight of the village.”

  Her eyes flashed with mischief. “Some ladies are attracted to the darkness.”

  “I never took you for one of them.”

  “Don’t you want me, Gabriel?” she asked with a catch in her voice.

  “Yes. But for more than just one night.”

  “Isn’t that forbidden in the rake’s book of rules?”

  “Can you think of me in any other terms?” he said in annoyance.

  “I should ask the same of you.”

  “You have always been perfect in my eyes.”

  “But I’m not perfect. And if that is the only reason you desire me, then you are deceived.”

  “You’re going to change your mind—”

  “Oh, Gabriel. You don’t understand.”

  He shut his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Then don’t leave me.”

  How could he leave? His body absorbed her heat, her invitation. His breath shivered across her mouth. He lifted himself above her. He’d taken her in a thousand unfulfilled fantasies. Envisioned her beneath him when other women shared his bed.

  He told himself that there would be time afterward to discuss whatever matters weighed upon her mind. In truth he did not wish to give her another moment to reflect or refuse. His every instinct bade him to seal their bond.

  Don’t let her change her mind. Don’t let her realize how wrong I am for her. Surely I do not deserve anyone so pure and perfect, but I swear, I shall never ask for anything again in my life if I am given the chance to love her.

  “You’re staring at me the way you used to,” she whispered, her eyes suddenly wide open. “What are you thinking now?”

  “That I have never seen a woman more beautiful.” He kissed her, his hand tangling in her hair. She moaned in her throat. At this uninhibited utterance of encouragement, deep shocks of pleasure ran down his shoulders to his legs. Alethea, naked, opening her thighs to offer him pleasure. The lush sensuality of her body mesmerized him.

  He bracketed her within his arms, arching his back, his gaze fastened to hers. Contrary to what was said of him, he had not made a habit of despoiling virgins. He understood, however, that the first time would not be as pleasurable for her as it would be for him.

  Yet the hollow between her thighs felt moist, her flesh ready, enticing. He parted her plump folds and speared her with two fingers, penetrating as deeply as he dared.

  She took several sharp breaths. He could not imagine a worse terror than having to stop, nor a more desirable fate than thrusting inside her.

  He kissed her eyelids, her face. “I think I have been yours forever.”

  “Gabriel.” She breathed his name, her fingers pressing into his shoulders, as of its own volition her body opened beneath his.

  “Do you want me?”

  “Please,” he said hoarsely.

  “Is it passion that makes us burn, or love?” she whispered.

  “Can it not be both?” He stared down into her face, his eyes piercing her. Her breasts rose temptingly with her indrawn breath. “Can it?”

  “Yes, although I wonder—”

  He did not give her a chance to finish, to think her answer through. His heart soared. At that moment he did not particularly care what terms she demanded. “Tell me later,” he muttered, and slipped his left hand under her smooth hip. “Take all of me inside you—”

  She released a groan that broke the chains of his control. He reared back, ignoring the little gasp of vulnerability she gave, and penetrated her to the full. It caught him in the chest, the shock of pleasure. To be buried in her tight passage, to feel her shiver in relief beneath him. Sweetest of fantasies come true. It gripped his mind, his senses until he knew nothing but reflex.

  She arched into him. Although his body strained to respond in kind, he ground his teeth and slowed the tempo of his thrusts. Her first time. There would be nights of sensual exploration together. He would learn what pleased her and share his secret desires. Most assuredly he could have chosen a place better suited to lovemaking than an old sofa, as sturdy as it fortunately proved to be.

  He heard her ragged whisper as if from far, far away. “I waited for you to come back.”

  “I’m here now.”

  “Make me forget, Gabriel.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  When Jeremy Hazlett had violated her, Alethea had not realized that it was the innocence of her heart he’d broken, not her ability to love, nor her body’s capacity to know sexual pleasure. The carnal appetite that Gabriel had awakened, and proceeded to satisfy, at once embarrassed and excited her. She was convinced that no other man could have aroused her passion.

  Whereas the same act, or rather its violent parody, had brought her only revulsion before, she now felt her natural desires return with an intensity she could not subdue. In her heart, he was her first lover, her only love. And for a man who was undeniably well-versed in sin, there had always been a valiance about him to balance his darker aspects. She savored every feeling, pleasing and uncomfortable, that he summoned, until, in the end, she gave herself up to him completely.

  He led her past shame, forced her not only to submit but to acknowledge her hunger. Virile. He made her feel alive and strong, unafraid to reveal what she craved. He demanded. She surrendered, scarcely aware of the instant that his large body ceased to move. She knew only—in her own unexpected burst of pleasure, her release—that the trembling of his shoulders, the warmth deep inside her from his seed, meant he had found fulfillment.

  And if even for a moment she was afraid that this act had been motivated only by desire, he lost no time reassuring her otherwise.

  “You are the most desirable woman, the only woman I have ever truly wanted,” he said as he lifted his head.

  “Am I?” she whispered, stroking her finger down the deep crease in his cheek.

  “I remember the first time you touched my face.”

  “You’re considerably more attractive now.”

  He tugged one of the dark curls that had fallen across her breast. “So are you.”

  “I think—”

  “My cousins in London will want to meet you.”

  “Your cousins?”

  “My family. The other Boscastles. The boys.”

  She made a halfhearted attempt to sit up, her thoughts suddenly moving from their distracting nudity to the implications of meeting his infamous male relatives, not as his neighbor, not as a debutante, but as his lover.

  “They will accuse us of impulse.”

  He raised his brow. He was heady, full of confidence, prepared to take on the world to impress her. “Seven years is not exactly what could be called an act of impulse.”

  She regarded him keenly. “It wasn’t as if we had a courtship all that time.”

  He grinned. “Yes we did.”

  His playfulness was contagious, and yet the secret that stood between them overshadowed her heart. He had not known, had not guessed. Would it change how he felt? She could not bear to spoil this magic intimacy, but intimacy could not survive without trust, and trust was built upon truthfulness.

  She would have to confess. But how, when? Would he view her differently, still desire her as he did now? She glanced up at his dark sardonic face.

  “Seven years,” he said again.

  “We had no contact!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes, Alethea. We did.”

  She knew she was right because she would have remembered. She’d seen him only once since their early years—in London, flirting in the park—although he
had not seen her. If she had been tempted to wave in greeting, his battalion of lady admirers had more than discouraged her. She had, however, frequently scanned the papers for news of his activities, until it had become painfully obvious that he’d fulfilled her parents’ prophecy of a decadent life.

  “I don’t recall that you ever wrote to me or made any effort to see me,” she said, frowning at him.

  “I asked Jeremy about you whenever I saw him.”

  She looked away. “He never said.”

  He kissed her bare shoulder. “Perhaps he meant to protect you from the bane of the village. And if I did not see you, you were so often in my thoughts that it was as if we still knew each other.” He paused, his voice beguiling. “Did you not ever think of me?”

  “Of course I thought of you,” she said without hesitation.

  “I dreamt of you, too.”

  She turned her head, smiling wistfully. “You might have thought to tell me once in all those years.”

  He reached down for their scattered garments. “You were betrothed to another man. Do you hold that against me?”

  “No.”

  She held it against that other man, and only wished that Gabriel had been dishonorable enough to challenge his claim. But how could he have known? Even now he assumed what she had allowed the rest of the world to believe. That she had loved her betrothed, that Jeremy had not only died a hero but had lived as one. No one wanted to think that a polished gentleman, a man with pristine manners and impeccable bloodlines, would dishonor the woman he claimed to adore.

  But tonight she had needed Gabriel, to hold her, to exorcise the memory of her disgrace. It was as if by choosing him, she had defied the ghost of the man who had pledged to protect her.

  If only she dared to be honest with him about what had happened.

  They dressed slowly, pausing to share kisses, to assist each other. Alethea should have been weeping in regret, planning her penance. Instead, it was all she could do not to ask him to stay. Would he commit his heart to her? There was no guarantee that he had not spoken in passion, no assurance that by tomorrow he would not feel regret. But at least for now she felt hopeful, and wickedly happy.

  She had trusted Gabriel with her body. And she would be honest. Surely he had heard more unpleasant stories from his half-world women. If only he hadn’t put her upon a pedestal of her past virtue.

  His husky voice distracted her. He stood, lifting her with him. Her heart caught at his cheeky grin. “I forgot something.” He produced an expensive vellum envelope from the pocket of his evening coat. “I meant to deliver this when I saw you earlier tonight. It’s an invitation.”

  “For me?” she asked in surprise. “Who is it from?” She had declined every social offer she had received in the past year until they had stopped arriving at all. “Are you going to give it to me?”

  “Only if you promise you will come with me.”

  “Come with you where, you devil?” She reached for the sealed missive, only to find herself entrapped against his hard chest.

  His dark eyes teased her, warmly seductive. “It’s only an invitation for my cousin Grayson’s annual birthday ball in Mayfair. And if I do not let you go right now, I will still be here by the date of the party.”

  She smiled up at his shadowed face. She could still feel him inside her, the pleasure of his possession.

  “In London,” he said, handing her the invitation, “at the party, I will show you off.”

  “I trust you won’t mind if I bring either my cousin or brother as chaperone.”

  He bent to kiss her. “Even if you bring the entire village of Helbourne, you won’t be kept from me again.”

  It crossed Gabriel’s mind for only a split instant that he had not encountered the barrier of her maidenhead during their lovemaking. Not that he’d gone about seducing virgins or shouting hallelujah at the loss of a lover’s virtue. Sexual pleasures were enshrouded in myth and mystery. He understood instinctively what pleased a woman without having dedicated himself to a study of the subject.

  Young ladies, it was said, could injure certain delicate tissues during the course of a vigorous horseback ride. Certainly Alethea was an ardent equestrienne. And for all he knew, he had caused her discomfort, and she had refrained from expressing it. He wanted to think that she had been so swept away by passion that any hurt he had inflicted was immediately forgotten.

  He, on the other hand, would never forget or be the same afterward. And he could not wait to see the reaction of his cousins in London when he told them he had fallen in love with Alethea Claridge and that—yes, he knew she would not have given herself to any man otherwise—she loved him, too.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Alethea lingered in bed long past her usual hour, half-listening to the servants bustle below. She had not dreamt it, had she? The warm decadence, his affection. She rolled over, clasping her pillow. Slowly she became aware of her body’s deep awakening, the tenderness that gave adequate testament to Gabriel’s prowess.

  She felt thoroughly like a woman taken.

  Swived. Seduced. Done one proper. All those naughty words one should only speak in hushed whispers, if at all. Gabriel had implemented each of them, in the wickedest sense.

  “Lady Alethea?” a woman’s familiar voice called from behind the door. “Are you ailing?”

  She sighed, subsiding back onto the bed. She knew she had something to do. She always did. “No, Joan. Did you want something?”

  “I don’t think you’ll have time for a decent breakfast if you’re to be at the assembly rooms before ten.”

  “Assembly rooms?”

  “It must be my mistake. I thought—”

  Alethea flew out of bed. How had she forgotten? She was the patroness of Helbourne’s annual ball, the person who oversaw suppers and world-shifting decisions such as whether the ladies committee should buy a new pianoforte or put in a polished ballroom floor so that their slippers would not catch in the middle of a quadrille.

  And today she had promised to inspect the drawing room where the ladies took tea before dancing. Her brother had made a substantial donation, to be spent as she desired on curtains or chairs. Last year the vicar’s mother had gone right through a seat of the ancient oak settle onto her hindquarters.

  She rushed through her morning toilette and was still putting on her gloves as Wilkins drove her to the assembly rooms. No one else had arrived yet, only the old caretaker who lived down the lane. She would ask him to boil tea and take a few moments to catch her breath.

  In fact, she did not even need to ask. She had only just reached the small upstairs drawing room when she heard cups rattling on his tray. “Mr. Carson,” she said, “you are so thoughtful. How did you guess I was too rushed for my tea this morning? I overslept.”

  “No need to apologize,” a deep voice drawled from the door. “I myself had quite an active night. I trust your evening involved nothing too strenuous.”

  “Gabriel.” She whirled around, laughing at the sight of him walking toward her with a tray of tea and crumpets. “I had no idea you harbored domestic talents. What a pleasant surprise.”

  He frowned. “Do you mind not looking so lovely until my hands are free? I’m afraid I shall drop your tea and disprove my domesticity.” As evidence of this statement he deposited his burden on the table between them, the cups rattling precariously in their saucers. “There.” He gave her a dangerous grin. “Now my hands are free. And you still look lovely, I see.”

  She shook her head, happier to see him than she could show. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I went to your house right after you left, apparently, and asked your housekeeper where you were. She gave me directions and another sack of flour.”

  “I didn’t notice anyone following me.”

  “I rode ahead. And brought up your tea. I can be a good boy when I try.”

  But he hadn’t been good last night. Neither had she. The knowing smile that stole across his face re
minded her of how wonderfully bad they had been together.

  She swallowed, her eyes riveted to his. Her devil-may-care lover. His short black hair had been tousled by the wind. His dark gray riding coat and snug buff trousers molded in such a sinful manner to his rugged frame that she suddenly felt the need to crumple into a chair.

  He regarded her closely. “Do you want your tea?”

  “Not yet, thank you.” She smiled. “I’m surprised Mr. Carson allowed you to carry the tray. He doesn’t care for many people.”

  He walked around the table. “He worked once for my father.” For a moment his expression revealed a chink of vulnerability. “And he cares for you—which doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

  “He likes to serve my tea. I wonder why he didn’t come with you.”

  His shoulders lifted in a guileless shrug. “I sent him off on a small errand.”

  “What sort of errand?” she asked in a skeptical voice.

  “To buy some cheese in the village.”

  “Cheese?”

  “Well, I’ve run out of ham.”

  She folded her arms in amusement. “But not audacity.”

  His gaze slowly raked her, stirring her nerves into sizzling awareness. “Why are you here alone, anyway?” he asked.

  She forced herself to retreat a few steps toward the windows. “I’m inspecting the curtains for moths and mildew.” Although with Gabriel in the room she wasn’t sure she could tell one from the other.

  “How exciting.” He advanced on her. “May I help?”

  She narrowed her eyes. She did not believe his act of innocent gallantry for a moment. In fact, the sparkle in his eyes was unequivocally dangerous. A well-behaved woman would be on guard. While one with more wicked tendencies would be—tempted.

  She was definitely one of the tempted.

  He closed in on her one step at a time until at last she stood against the windowsill, his hands planted on either side of her.

  She held her breath in expectation. “Well, what do you think?”