The Wickedest Lord Alive

by Christina Brooke

  “No, Lizzie,” he corrected her gently. “You only think you do.”

  The door closed silently behind him.

  Lizzie stared so hard at that door she might have burned a hole in the paneling. “Of all the pompous, arrogant, condescending…” She mimicked his clipped tones. “No, Lizzie, you only think you do.”

  She picked up a cushion and hurled it at the door. It dropped to the carpet with a soft and wholly unsatisfying thud.

  Minutes passed in a haze of disbelief. How could she have let this happen? Hadn’t she known? Hadn’t she predicted from the very first night he’d come to her after their wedding that this would be the outcome if she allowed him into her heart?

  And yet, here she was, facing a lifetime of misery. Of living so close to him, of sharing his bed, yet never glimpsing what was in his heart.

  Her face crumpled. Her entire body clenched tight with misery. All the pressure that had been building inside her since he’d come into her life again seemed to burst from Lizzie in one ghastly sob.

  She’d been terrified this would happen. She’d known it would. That she would give him everything. Not just her body but her trust and her love. The pleasure his body gave hers was not enough and never would be.

  She would be trapped in this marriage with him, wanting him, loving him, and knowing that he would never let himself love her.

  The difference now was that she knew he cared. She knew it. But he was too closed off from his own emotions to see.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Outside Lizzie’s bedchamber, Xavier leaned his shoulders against the door, tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut.

  That had been more difficult than he could have believed possible. He might not love Lizzie. He might not believe she cared for him with that enduring passion so lauded by the poets. But he did not want to hurt her.

  How the hell had she come to think herself in love with him? Hadn’t he been autocratic, cold, at times sarcastic to the point of brutality? What could she possibly have found in him to like, much less love?

  Was Lizzie a beggar for punishment, like …

  No. He would not pursue that line of reasoning. Dear God, how he hated the way Nerissa tainted everything of significance in his life. Particularly his history with Lizzie. He could never untangle his mother from the skein of deceit and intrigue that had led to his marriage.

  Of a sudden, he wished he could be as lighthearted and naïve as bloody Cyprian, with his flights of fancy and his lyrics of thwarted love. Lizzie deserved someone like that. Someone equally and most happily deluded about the human capacity for deep affection.

  Well, no, not someone like Cyprian. The poet would drive her demented. She was, after all, a practical lady at heart.

  A practical lady and a persistent one. She’d wanted to know what troubled him. At one point, he’d even tried to tell her.

  How might he have phrased it, exactly? My mother is colluding with my uncle to murder me. I just killed a man and concealed the evidence. He could imagine how that conversation would go. She’d think him deluded, insane.

  If it hadn’t been for that letter and the damning evidence it contained, he might have almost thought it himself.

  Until he read the missive written in his uncle’s hand, he had not fully believed the plot existed. He’d only realized that he entertained hope when it was extinguished, finally, by hard evidence.

  Still, the notion was fantastical. What sort of a mother contemplated such an act against her own son?

  Nerissa was headed for Harcourt, would arrive tomorrow if he were any judge of her determination.

  Rebellion and anger thrashed inside him. He needed to protect Lizzie, protect what they had from his mother’s venomous bite.

  Lizzie. So innocent, so inexperienced despite her wit and resourcefulness. He wished he hadn’t been obliged to bring her into this.

  A notion flashed into his brain, almost blinded him. His babe might be planted in her belly at this very moment.

  After all his machinations to bring her to this point, that thought had only struck him now. The time he’d spent in her arms had obliterated logic and planning.

  Their lovemaking had been passionate and lusty, yet intimate in a way he’d never experienced before. Maybe she’d felt its unique quality too, and that was why she’d blurted out her declaration of love.

  The need to get away made him push upright from her door. That was when he heard the sound. A dry, gasping noise like …

  Xavier shut his eyes, gripping the wine bottle hard. He’d made Lizzie Allbright weep.

  Something tightened painfully inside him. For the first time ever, he wished he could give a woman what she wanted from him.

  He was not going to resile from his response to her declaration. He balked at telling Lizzie he loved her just so she’d continue sleeping with him. That would be too bloody cynical and manipulative even for him.

  He didn’t want her to be miserable, but if her happiness depended upon him declaring his love for her, she would be doomed to disappointment.

  For a bare instant, he considered revising his position on allowing her to take lovers once she’d borne him sons. But the rage that burned through him at the mere notion made him dismiss that idea.

  Perhaps, he thought, she would take joy in their children and physical pleasure with him and that would be enough.

  For the sake of the succession and his estate, it would have to be.

  * * *

  Lizzie forewent her usual morning hack about the countryside that morning. Feeling tender from the evening before in both body and spirit, she sought out Cyprian Westruther, who at least was restful company.

  She found the poet in the library, surrounded by papers and still wearing his evening clothes.

  “Have you not been to bed, Cyprian?” she said, automatically sifting through his papers, tidying them, and putting the discarded sheets into a pile.

  He didn’t answer, but kept scribbling away as if demons possessed him. The tip of his tongue protruding at the side of his mouth gave him the look of a small boy intent on some complicated endeavor, and Lizzie smiled.

  She possessed herself of the stack of papers she took to be finished product and seated herself opposite him. Taking up a spare quill, she began transcribing them in her fair, neat hand.

  The work required concentration, but her thoughts strayed often to the previous evening and Steyne’s parting words. What would it take to convince him that her love was real? What would it take to make him acknowledge he cared for her?

  There had been moments when their bodies were joined, when he’d caressed her with such wonder, that she’d thought he might harbor tender feelings toward her. He certainly had not made love to her like that when he’d been merely doing his duty.

  Her skin tightened and thrilled at the memory.

  “There you are, Lizzie. I’ve been searching for you high and low.”

  Mr. Huntley’s voice came so sharply, Lizzie nearly upset the inkpot. “Oh! Mr. Huntley, you startled me.”

  “It is past eleven o’clock,” said Mr. Huntley. “Did we not agree that you would wait upon my mother at this hour?”

  Lizzie tilted her head. Mr. Huntley seemed rather agitated.

  “I have no recollection of it,” she said. “But if Mrs. Huntley requests my company, of course I’ll go to her.”

  She slid her pen into its stand and rose. “I’ll resume this later, Cyprian,” she said to him, but the poet, who was now gripping fistfuls of his own hair and muttering to himself, did not seem to hear.

  Huntley took her arm, but instead of going upstairs to the parlor his mother had commandeered for her use, he steered Lizzie out to the terrace.

  She had to skip a little to keep up with him. “I thought you wanted me to sit with your mama, sir?”

  “That was just a ruse,” said Huntley, turning to face her. “You seem upon terms of great intimacy with that poet fellow.”

  Lizzie blinked.
Then she laughed. “I assure you, that is not the case. Why, we have been sitting together for two hours, and he has not spoken a word to me.”

  “Two hours?” said Huntley. He shook his head. “I must tell you, it does not look well, Lizzie.”

  “Why, what possible objection can you have to Cyprian?” said Lizzie. “He would not hurt a fly.”

  “These romantical artist types are renowned for having an overabundance of feelings,” said Huntley with disapproval. “They do not exercise proper gentlemanly restraint upon their emotions.”

  Lizzie, who had suffered more than she wished to of gentlemanly restraint, said, “Well, I think it would be better for all gentlemen if they did show their feelings more. At least then we would know they have some!”

  Her voice had raised, and Mr. Huntley reared back as if she’d slapped him.

  “And another thing, Mr. Huntley, since we are speaking of such matters, I would appreciate it if you would stop telling everyone we are betrothed when it is no such thing. I refused you on the night of the assembly, and I have not changed my mind.”

  The flare of his eyes told her that her candor had wounded him. In a calmer tone, she said, “I am sorry, Mr. Huntley, but I could never be your wife. It would be cruel, and … and wrong, not to tell you this plainly.”

  He was silent for a time. Then he bowed his head and regarded his hands. “I know that you do not love me, Lizzie,” he said in a subdued voice. “I know that.” His shoulders heaved in a sigh. “I had merely hoped that in time you would see the advantages of the match.”

  “I am sure you would make the most excellent husband any lady could wish for,” said Lizzie. “But I cannot marry where I do not love, sir. And I am very sorry, but you are right. I do not love you.”

  He pressed his lips together once, then again. Nodding, he pressed her hand. “I understand, my dear. But please believe me your servant to command.”

  Lizzie gave Mr. Huntley’s hand a grateful squeeze in return. She was touched by his steadfastness. She had expected him to be affronted by her rejection of him. Perhaps he was somewhat relieved he would no longer have to listen to his mother’s harangues about Lizzie.

  “Miss Allbright.” The words were sharp and cold, spearing the warmth between her and Mr. Huntley.

  Lizzie saw Xavier striding toward them. Her hand naturally fell free of Mr. Huntley’s as she turned to answer him.

  Xavier’s eyes were cold upon her. What, did he think she had been exchanging intimacies with Mr. Huntley? How absurd. She lifted her chin.

  “Huntley, your mother is calling for you,” said Xavier without preamble.

  Lizzie’s erstwhile suitor appeared perplexed. “Are you sure? Mrs. Huntley never rises before noon.”

  Xavier shrugged. “Best go quickly, then. You wouldn’t want to keep her waiting. She might be ill.”

  Not a complete fool, Huntley eyed Xavier suspiciously for a moment, and was met with such a bland look that Lizzie felt like treading on Xavier’s foot, if only to alter that maddening expression on his face.

  “Very well, then. I’ll go. Forgive me, Lizzie,” said Huntley. “And you will remember what I’ve said.”

  She nodded and he hurried off, leaving her alone on the terrace with her husband.

  Lizzie, merely to be perverse, said, “If Mrs. Huntley is ill, I must go to her also.”

  “No, you must not,” said Xavier. “Walk with me.”

  She frowned at him.

  “If you please, dear Lizzie,” he said, giving her a flourishing bow.

  She rather thought she knew what was coming. If he meant to berate her about holding hands with Mr. Huntley, then she would enjoy giving him a few home truths, herself.

  “Very well,” she said. “I wish to speak with you, in any event.”

  They walked in silence until they were out of sight of the house. They passed the kitchen garden and some outbuildings. Hardly the kind of scenic walk she usually took around Harcourt.

  The dairy, which was grander than most Englishmen’s houses, was quite beautiful, but it seemed Xavier did not mean to show her that, either, for he hurried her past it.

  “Where are we going?” Lizzie asked him. “If anyone sees me sneaking off alone with you, my reputation will be in shreds.”

  He shrugged. “If anyone sees us, we will simply announce our betrothal at once. I perceive no difficulty. Particularly as you do not scruple to go holding hands with Huntley whenever the mood takes you.”

  “Surely you do not think you have a rival in Huntley,” she returned, her tone every bit as even as his.

  The habitual sneer curled his lips. “I don’t.”

  “Then I do not see why you mention the matter,” said Lizzie. “You know perfectly well there’s nothing between Mr. Huntley and me.”

  His mouth tightened, ever so slightly. “I do not care to see my wife on terms of intimacy with other gentlemen.”

  She stared at him. “You are not jealous, my lord?”

  “No, I’m not jealous,” he said, calmly towing her toward what looked like a disused potting shed. He wrenched open the door, sending dust motes swirling. “But if I see his hands on you again, I shall shoot him through the heart.”

  “Oh.” For some reason, the statement robbed her of her righteous anger.

  He was jealous. And truly, she ought not to feel so smug about that. “Well, you need not concern yourself with Mr. Huntley, my lord. Now, was that all you wished to say to me?”

  “Not at all,” he said, kicking the door shut.

  A little less certainly, she said, “What, then?”

  “Merely this.” He pushed her against the door and kissed her until she couldn’t breathe.

  “No, we mustn’t!” she said, but he merely stopped her protest with his mouth, turning her, backing her farther into the room.

  With his fingertips, he drew aside the muslin fichu she wore and brushed his lips over her clavicle until he found the precise spot at the base of her throat that he knew drove her wild.

  Oh, Heavens! If this was how he responded to another man holding her hands, it wasn’t much of a disincentive to repeat the offense.

  “There is a mark here.” His breath flowed over the tender flesh where he’d bitten down on her the night before. “I am a brute,” he murmured, but the wicked amusement in his tone did not make him sound very contrite.

  His tongue gently traced the faint bruise she’d made sure to cover this morning with the fichu. She shuddered and closed her eyes at the exquisite sensation.

  “We shouldn’t do this. Not here,” gasped Lizzie. She gripped his upper arms, felt the muscular shape of them encased tightly in blue superfine, and lost the will to push him away.

  For an answer, he slowly drew her fichu out of her bodice and tossed it on to the bench behind her. “I know,” he said, his gaze on her mouth.

  His attention lowered to her breasts, and she had the stupidest urge to cover herself. “Xavier. Please, we must talk.”

  “Talk away,” he murmured, dipping to trace the mound of her breast with his tongue.

  Her hands reached for his head, but instead of thrusting him off, her fingers plunged through his thick, black hair.

  She might as well accept that she was powerless to resist him. She’d tried, hadn’t she? But now, with her blood racing through her veins, she could not seem to utter more than a token objection.

  Lifting his head from her breasts, Xavier kissed her lips, plunging his tongue inside her mouth with a groan of hunger. She kissed him back, twining her arms around his neck as he lifted her to sit on the bench.

  His hand bunched up her skirts, sliding them to her thighs while he kissed her, and she didn’t even think to protest when he touched her between her legs.

  “Open your eyes, Lizzie,” he said.

  She licked her lips. She was supporting herself with her hands, felt the grit of the wooden bench beneath her palms. The heat of her arousal seemed to flood her body.

  His voice
was commanding. “Lizzie, open your eyes. I want you to look at me when you come.”

  She shivered, but obeyed him, staring boldly into fathomless blue as he explored her in a gentle, relentless rhythm that made her arch and shiver. The intimacy of his regard only heightened the power of his touch. One finger slid into her, then two. He stroked inside her until her breaths were shredded and her world contracted to his eyes, those black-fringed eyes, and the blood heating, expanding, boiling through her veins.

  She was so lost to shame that she sighed, “Oh, yes,” when finally, he freed his member and thrust inside her.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” His voice sounded rough, husky, and she gave a ragged laugh and rocked to take him deeper inside.

  Suddenly, Xavier stopped. “Someone’s coming,” he breathed in her ear.

  “What?” Her eyes popped open. She heard footsteps, heavy ones, outside. A shadow rippled over the grimy window, but the panes of glass were too dirty to see who it might be.

  “Did you lock the door?” she whispered.

  “I can’t remember.”

  She wriggled, trying to free herself, but Xavier held her fast. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.

  Her ears were exquisitely sensitive. A thrill went down her spine and she clenched around him involuntarily. He stifled a groan. Then slowly, he moved inside her, the tiniest bit. Then again, and again in slow, quiet pulses that sent ripples of bliss through her body.

  What if that someone came inside? What if they saw her and Xavier here like this? She’d die of humiliation.

  Panic seemed to heighten the sensations that intensified inside her. Little cries built in her throat as the pleasure climbed to a new pitch. Footsteps grew closer, moving to the door. She whimpered as a spring coiled within, wound tight.

  The door handle rattled, making Lizzie squeak with alarm. Xavier put his hand over her mouth, wrapped his other arm around her waist and buried his head in her neck. With one hard thrust, they both shattered, muffling their cries in each other’s flesh.

  The door handle rattled again, yanking Lizzie out of a sated daze. But the door held fast, and whoever was at the door gave up trying to enter and stomped away.