The Wickedest Lord Alive

by Christina Brooke

  She wasn’t sure what that meant. She merely closed her eyes and surrendered to the feelings he conjured inside her.

  The encounter was strangely like and yet wholly different from their first time. He did not speak, and nor did he pause to remove their clothes. This occasion, however, it was his need for her, for the comfort of her body, that drove him. Not the imperative of getting a job over and done.

  She could forgive any lack of finesse because she felt, finally, that she was more to him than a vessel for his children. For his heir.

  With what seemed like teeth-clenching restraint, he entered her slowly, inching forward. His hands lifted her legs, encouraging her to wrap them around his waist as her skirts shushed between them. Then he surged forward until he filled her to the hilt.

  There was no sting this time, only a tight fit and delicious friction and sparkles of pleasure as he stroked inside her, his body powerful and gentle at once.

  She wished, this time, that they’d removed their clothing, That she might feel his skin, see the definition in his chest and arms. But the thought flitted away as he slid his hand between them to touch her. His thumb pressed the fleshy knot above the place they were joined, and slowly circled and circled, taking her high as a bird in flight.

  For moments, she hung in a haze of bliss. Then an explosion of pleasure took her so violently that her back arched as he stroked into her over and over, driving her climax to a peak.

  His own crisis followed swiftly. He thrust into her hard and fast, pumping his seed into her womb.

  * * *

  She was his now. Finally, irrevocably his.

  He wasn’t altogether sure why she’d allowed it. Truth to tell, for once, his mind wasn’t equal to analyzing the situation. For the moment, he would simply accept it. He could dissect the whys and wherefores in the morning.

  Xavier turned his head to look at her. She stared up at the canopy overhead, her face inscrutable.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept the night through, and yet a pleasant, druglike lassitude flowed through him now. He could easily fall asleep in her arms. But while that would be an unprecedented boon for him, it would not please her.

  At least while losing himself in Lizzie, he’d managed to keep the demons at bay. Now, as he struggled against this strange sense of relaxation, the demons poured back into his mind like a screaming horde of Vandals.

  He exhaled sharply, rubbed his face with his hands.

  “Xavier?” She turned to him, raising herself on her elbow, propping her head on her hand.

  Her silky white-blond hair tangled around her face with an abandon that was at once uncharacteristic and infinitely tempting. He speared his fingers through it and brought her down to him for a kiss.

  She returned his kiss with open enthusiasm, and when her hand stroked down his chest to his stomach, incredibly, his cock stirred. How could this long-legged sylph excite him so?

  This time, he would take her slowly, saturate her with pleasure until she could absorb no more.

  “Let us shed these, hmm?” He said, indicating their clothes.

  He sat up and pulled his shirt over his head, threw it down.

  She’d been about to protest or make some sort of maidenly demur. He could tell by the slight purse of her lips.

  But her green eyes widened at the sight of his naked torso. As if she’d never seen a man without his shirt before.

  He rose from the bed and pulled her up with him, turning her so that he might undo her gown at the back.

  “So many tiny buttons,” he murmured. She shivered as the green silk fell away from her and pooled on the floor.

  “Now the petticoats.” With a couple of practiced flicks at the tapes, those fell away, too.

  In the still silence of that bedchamber, she was panting with anticipation. His own breathing was a trifle strained, he’d admit.

  Still standing behind her, he paused to look up, past her shoulder. The looking glass opposite told him her breasts rose like two perfect apples above the line of her shift, her skin gilded by firelight. She’d removed her slippers or they’d fallen off at some stage. Her slender calves and pretty ankles, still clad in stockings, made his mouth water.

  He would leave those stockings on, he decided.

  Xavier’s fingers actually trembled as he dealt with the laces of her stays. Tempted by the vulnerable curve at her nape, he leaned forward to trace that elegant line with his lips.

  As she gave a pleasured moan, the stays opened and came away. He dropped the corset on the floor.

  Now, lastly, her shift.

  He reached down to its hem and pushed it up, lightly skimming her calves with his knuckles as he went.

  At her thighs, he lingered a little, tempted to delve between her legs, to tease her to climax with his hands. He waited, long enough to hear her breath coming faster as if she guessed at his thoughts. He smiled and continued on to her buttocks, caressing them, feeling his rod harden with the urge to bend her over and drive home.

  But it was Lizzie’s turn now. Further depravities could wait. He would initiate her into the many ways they might enjoy each other’s bodies before too long. Now he’d make her mindless with pleasure, make her crave his touch every waking hour and into her dreams.

  He forced himself to abandon the delights of her derriere and push the shift farther up, pausing again to slide his hands around to caress her breasts. Her nipples were tight points of flesh. He played with them, and her head fell back against his shoulder as she arched into his touch. His cock strained against his trousers as if he hadn’t enjoyed a mind-blistering orgasm only half an hour before.

  Closing his eyes, he continued to caress her, paying particular attention to the things that made her breathe harder, made her whimper with excitement.

  “Raise your arms for me.” She complied, and he plucked the shift from her body and turned her in his embrace.

  He kissed her gently, tempting her, teasing her tongue to come out to play. Her breasts pressed to his chest, and he ran his hand down her back in a soft caress.

  That’s when he felt it. A single, raised ridge of flesh on her lower back.

  Jesus!

  His eyes snapped open, and even while he kissed her, her reflection in the mirror beyond told him he hadn’t imagined what he’d felt there.

  A long, thin scar ran diagonally from the top of one buttock to a point perhaps a third of the way up her back.

  Bute.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, felt the white-hot sear of the lash as if he’d taken the beating himself, sucked in their mingled breaths in a shuddering inhale. He kissed her fiercely. He ought rather to be gentle in light of that scar. Yet there was such a mixture of need and ardor and fury in him, there was no containing it.

  He wanted to demand the truth from her, drag the story out. He had the horrible, sick suspicion he knew in what cause that single lash had been dealt.

  But he retained enough sense to decide against raising it now. He did not think it wise to question Lizzie about the scar when he was in the middle of making love to her. She might feel ashamed or self-conscious, however misplaced those emotions might be. And how could he explain to her that her scar only made her more precious? He did not understand that part himself.

  These things flew through his brain in seconds, even while he delved into her mouth with his tongue, urged her against him with a firm hand on her buttocks.

  Explanations could wait. Talking rarely helped anyway. Avenging her would be a matter he would pursue alone. He’d ruined Bute, hounded him from the country, but now, that was not punishment enough.

  He turned and lifted Lizzie back onto the bed, then bared his feet and shed his trousers.

  His cock was hard and ready, and when he turned to her, he heard her soft gasp. He realized it was the first time she’d seen his body. He let her look, and the feel of her watching him, taking in his size and the aggressive jut of his penis, made him harder still.

 
The skin of her cheeks and the upper slopes of her breasts was flushed bright pink. Her green eyes were heavy-lidded, sultry with desire.

  He had always thought the male member an odd-shaped thing. But the unfeigned hunger on her face when she lowered her attention to his groin made him feel like a king. His balls tightened and the throb in his cock intensified.

  This was going to demand every reserve of control he possessed.

  He leaned in to kiss her, lowering her back down to the mattress, doing his best to ignore his own pounding need.

  He licked her nipple, a slow lave that made her moan softly and writhe beneath him. He swirled his tongue hard against her areole and reached down to touch her.

  She was hot and wet down there, lush and inviting. He all but groaned as he pushed one finger inside her, then two. With his thumb, he rubbed gently at her clitoris while his fingers stroked in and out of her.

  He drew her nipple into his mouth and sucked while his fingers worked and his cock throbbed mightily with want.

  He drove her to the brink three times, until she was whimpering and begging him to finish it. When he finally let her come, her climax was so violent, she let out a hoarse scream that he smothered with his mouth.

  She lay there, a trembling tangle of slender beauty, begging for respite, but he was merciless. He lay down beside her and turned her on her side with her back to him.

  * * *

  Oh, God, there was more? Lizzie felt him, big and hard, pressing into her from behind.

  She held very still, unsure of how this was meant to work, or even whether it was not extremely wicked and unladylike to be so curious and accepting of this strange position.

  She needn’t have bothered to concern herself with that. There was an implacability about Xavier despite the gentle way he parted her slick folds of flesh with his fingers, before guiding his member into her.

  Her inner passage resisted him at first, but the moisture eased the hot, hard slide. She shuddered as he filled her, and even as he stroked so gently into her and out again, she sensed he held his passion under tight control.

  A wild desire to have him use her roughly and without constraint rose within her. She pushed back against him on the return stroke and he caught his breath.

  His hand moved from her hip to cover her breast, lifting it, running his palm over her nipple. He moved, and again she pushed back, tightening on him in reaction to the pleasure that spiked through her when he played with her breast.

  On a groan, he brought her upright to a kneeling position, still inside her, still behind her he pulled her down onto him, both hands smoothing up her body to cover her breasts, his breath heavy and hot in her ear.

  He nuzzled the crook of her neck, licking and kissing there, making her shiver with the dark thrills that raced down her spine.

  He discovered the junction between her neck and shoulder and nipped it lightly with his teeth, making her jerk in response.

  “You like that,” he murmured in her ear. “Harder?”

  “Yes.” She said it without hesitation, reaching up behind her to press down on his nape.

  He bunched a hand in her hair and gently pulled to further expose her throat. On a groan, he bit down as he thrust deep inside her, and the mixture of pleasure and pain made her shatter.

  And oh, Heavens, that wasn’t enough for him. Soothing the bite with his tongue, he reached down and rubbed at that place between her legs, so that even as her first orgasm faded, another one built and built like a rolling wave. Within seconds, helpless shudders claimed her again.

  He let go then, pounding up into her, kneading her breasts, prolonging her ecstasy until with three, final, hard thrusts, he buried his face in her neck to muffle his groan of release.

  It was much later before Lizzie remembered her scar.

  Had he seen it? He must not have noticed, though it seemed as though he’d explored every inch of her quite thoroughly tonight.

  They lay spooned together with the coverlet pulled over them. He did not seem able to stop touching her, however. Muzzily, she enjoyed the feeling of his fingertips trailing over her body, discovering her.

  She might pluck up the courage to pursue her own investigations very soon.

  Lightly, he traced a line on her lower back. A very precise line, along a particularly sensitive path.

  She turned her head and met his eyes. He knew. Of course he did.

  She rarely thought of the scar, or of what had caused it. The pink, slightly puckered line of tissue did not hurt, and it was a case of out of sight, out of mind, she supposed. Beth had not even mentioned it, though of course she must have seen it many times by now.

  Lizzie hadn’t forgotten it tonight, precisely. But she’d been too excited and overwhelmed and concerned for Xavier to consider how he might view this mark upon her body. This disfigurement.

  Suddenly, her throat was dry. She tried to swallow. “Do you find it repulsive?” Better to get it over with.

  “Of course not,” he said with a slight lift of his eyebrows, as if the very idea were absurd.

  Relief warmed her. She’d never conceived of her body as a thing of beauty, but for a time, he’d made her feel like the most exquisite, most desirable woman on earth. She didn’t want to spoil that illusion. Not yet.

  She turned to face him, surprised to feel a tightness in her throat.

  “Your father.” He made it a statement, not a question.

  Well, of course. He’d seen her father with his favorite weapon, hadn’t he? A horse whip. Strange that the man never took to his horses the way he took to his womenfolk.

  Xavier stared at her hard, as if he was preparing to detect her in a lie. “Was it because of me? Did he threaten to beat you if you didn’t marry me?” His voice grew hoarse. “Were you … were you already hurt that night I came to you?”

  “Oh, no!” Horrified, she took his face between her hands. “No, I wanted to marry you, Xavier. I told you that. Every word was true.” Her father had threatened to beat her, but it had been unnecessary. She’d wanted the young marquis from the first moment she laid eyes on him. She could admit that to herself now.

  A fraction of tension went out of him. “Then why?”

  She licked her lips. The memory of it still made her flesh cringe as if awaiting a blow. “I—” She blew out a breath, mustering the courage. “When I was about sixteen, I found him whipping one of the maids. When I tried to stop it, he…”

  Slowly, Xavier nodded, as if to encourage her to say it.

  “He tore my gown, and—and he told the maid to undress me down to my shift. And then he yanked it up and whipped me. Just once, but it was very painful.”

  “Once was enough.” There was murder in Xavier’s eyes, the same expression she’d witnessed when he defended Lady Steyne.

  “It is in the past,” she said. “And truly, it was the humiliation of it rather than the pain that hurt the most.”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “I will not sully your ears with what I think of your father.”

  She rather thought he would understand how she felt about Lord Bute. “I cannot be sorry he is gone.”

  When he didn’t look shocked, she was reassured. A little hesitantly, she added, “I can only imagine how horrible and painful the experience must have been for your mama.”

  Xavier looked at her very strangely, tilting his head as if by doing that he would see from her perspective. “You waste your sympathy there, believe me.”

  His tone was dry, but it held an undercurrent of suppressed emotion she couldn’t decipher. Had he pushed his mother away just as he’d set everyone else at a distance?

  “You do not speak very kindly of her,” she said. “Yet I saw your face that night when you strangled my father to defend her.” She ventured to put a hand to his cheek. “I know you love your mother, deep down, Xavier. If only you’d—”

  She broke off, taken aback at his harsh crack of laughter. He pulled away from her and sat up, swinging his legs over
the side of the bed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s just it, Xavier. Until you confide in me, I’m working in the dark.”

  “Work? What work?” He turned his head, and she flinched to see his old sneer. “Oh. You’re trying to fix me, are you? I see.” He slid from the bed and stood up, naked and magnificent and leaving her again.

  It hit her then. She didn’t want to save him or be kind to him or please him by being a dutiful wife. She wanted to love him. And loving him meant knowing everything about him and accepting it: the darkness, the pain, and the scars.

  She shook her head a little wonderingly. “I want to know you, Xavier. I want to be on your side. But how can I get close to you if you will never tell me anything?”

  He bent to pick up his trousers. “I’m trying to spare you. Trying to protect you from a side of life—of my life—that should never be allowed to touch you.”

  Xavier pulled his trousers on and buttoned them, then reached for his shirt.

  “I am stronger than you think,” she said in a low, trembling voice. “I am not some delicate flower who must be sheltered from every wind.”

  He paused then. “Lizzie, I told you once that I wanted to corrupt you. Now I find that is the exact opposite of the truth.”

  He went on dressing and then collected the wine bottle and glass, preparing to leave her.

  “We’ll announce our engagement tomorrow night at dinner,” he said. He might as well have been commenting on the weather.

  He moved to the door.

  “Don’t go,” she said softly. “Not yet.”

  He stopped without looking at her. “It would not do for me to be found here.”

  That wasn’t the reason he was leaving. Things had become too difficult, too painful, so he withdrew. She’d been wrong when she’d called him cold. He was only too vulnerable to pain.

  He started for the door again.

  She scrambled up. “Xavier, I love you.” She hurled the words like a handful of rocks at the back of his head.

  He turned back to face her, and his hot gaze traveled down her bare flesh in a way that made her blood rush and hum even as it hurt her heart.