A Wicked Way to Win an Earl

by Anna Bradley

  Alec tightened his arms around her. “You have bewitched me. I’m utterly and completely in your thrall.” He pressed his face into her hair, closed his eyes, and drew in her honey scent. “It must be the eyes of blue fire.”

  Epilogue

  “Lady Carlisle.” Alec strode into the room and came to an abrupt halt behind Delia, who was seated at her dressing table.

  “My lord?” Delia smiled at her husband in the looking glass. Goodness, how handsome he was in his formal evening attire—so handsome she’d like to unwind his cravat, slide his coat from his shoulders, and lure him back to the bed.

  If only they could stay hidden in their town house and let London carry on without them for the rest of the season! They’d hardly set a toe outside their bedroom since their marriage several weeks ago, though, and the ton would gossip if they didn’t make an appearance soon. Besides, she’d promised Lily they’d be there tonight.

  She stifled a sigh. Drat Lady Barrow and her musical evening anyway.

  “I wonder—” he began, then paused and raised his eyebrows at Alice, Delia’s lady’s maid. “Leave us.”

  Delia watched in the glass as Alice, who was putting the last touches on the elaborate arrangement of curls pinned to the back of Delia’s head, set aside her tongs, dipped into a hasty curtsy, and fled the room.

  “You must stop terrifying poor Alice.” Delia twirled one of the curls beside her cheek to smooth it. “Especially when she’s not yet completed my coiffure. You do realize the ton will titter if my curls are lopsided?”

  Alec was frowning down at a paper he held in his hand, but at this he met her eyes in the glass. “They wouldn’t dare, for they’d have me to answer to if they did.” He swept his gaze over the long curls that brushed her bare shoulders, and he moved closer, so his torso pressed against her back. “They don’t look lopsided to me.”

  Delia heard the husky note in his voice and gave him a saucy little smile. “No? What a relief.”

  He trailed his fingertips across her back, from one shoulder to the other. “Don’t be too relieved, sweet. I fear a total curl collapse is inevitable.”

  Delia shivered at his touch and at the warmth of his body behind her, but she lowered her eyes with a demure smile and pretended to focus only on her curls. “Oh, no, my lord. That won’t do. Not after all of Alice’s efforts to coax them into place.”

  Alec plucked one of her hairpins free. “Alice be damned.”

  Delia made a grab for the pin. “Alec! What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What?” He held up his hands in an innocent shrug. “I’m only trying to help. It was lopsided just there, after all.” He tossed the hairpin onto the dressing table. “Alice uses too many of these cursed things.” He captured one of her curls in his long fingers. “I like your hair loose, so I can run my fingers through it.”

  Delia drew a deep breath to calm her racing heart. His most casual touch or a glance from his dark, wicked eyes was enough to send her blood rushing through her body. “I’ll tell her you think so. Now, what have you there?”

  “Here?” Alec pressed closer so she could feel his hard thighs and burgeoning erection against her back. “Shall we see? I believe it’s something for you.”

  A rush of moist heat bloomed between Delia’s legs, but she forced a stern frown onto her face. One of them had to be practical, after all, or they’d never get to Lady Barrow’s, and she had promised Lily. “And I believe I’ve married the wickedest man alive. Not that. That.” She gestured at the paper in his hand.

  Alec glanced down at the paper as if he’d forgotten it. “Ah. Yes. Well, my lady, that’s what I came to ask you. Why don’t you tell me what this is?”

  “Is it Iris’s last letter?” Delia went back to tweaking her curls. “Read the part about Hannah aloud while I finish my hair, won’t you? It’s quite funny. Hannah caught Mr. Edward Downing trying to kiss Iris, and she went after him with her broom, and—”

  “No, it’s not the letter.”

  Delia darted a glance at him in the glass, surprised to hear an odd, tense note in his voice.

  “It’s a drawing,” he went on, “in Rowlandson’s style. Quite a good one, too—good enough so the figures are recognizable. That is”—he turned the paper sideways and studied it—“one of them is. A tiger, I believe. Or wait. Perhaps it’s not a tiger, after all, for it looks like a man—a man with wavy dark hair. Perhaps it’s an earl?”

  Oh, no. Delia’s fingers froze in mid-tweak. That blasted drawing! She should get rid of it, but every time she was about to toss it into the fire, she found she couldn’t quite let it go, after all, and she’d stuff it back into her writing desk. Alec must have found it there when he went to retrieve Iris’s letter.

  “Tiger?” She studied him in the mirror, trying to gauge his expression. He didn’t look angry, precisely, but not pleased, either. Or, dear God, had the drawing hurt his feelings? She’d never forgive herself if it had. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. A tiger, or some kind of predatory animal. He has rather sharp teeth, and long, curved claws.” Alec continued to turn the paper this way and that, studying it from every angle. “He looks like he’s about to ravish this poor, defenseless deer.”

  Delia twisted her hands in her lap. “It’s a gazelle.”

  “Ah. So it is. A gazelle, with a bow around its neck.” Alec lowered the paper, reached over her shoulder, and captured her chin in his fingers. He tilted her face up to the glass, so she was forced to meet his eyes in the mirror. “But this tiger—he’s not just a tiger, is he?”

  Delia saw a red flush climb into her reflection’s cheeks. “No. Not quite.”

  Alec dragged his hand gently down her neck and rested his warm palm against her throat. “No. I didn’t think so. He looks unpleasant, to say the least. Who is he?”

  Delia closed her eyes. Oh, dear God, he was going to make her say it. She bit her lip with embarrassment and shame, but in the next instant her eyes flew wide open to catch his in the mirror. He was gazing at her mouth, and his erection surged even harder against her back. Her eyes went wider. My goodness. Whatever else Alec was—angry, amused, or hurt—he was also deeply aroused.

  He slid his palm lower and dipped his little finger between her breasts. “Lady Carlisle? Who is he?”

  Aroused, and persistent. Delia sighed. “He’s you. At least, he’s who I believed you were at the time. I drew that ages ago, Alec, before I knew you. Before I fell in love with you.”

  Alec’s face softened, but he didn’t smile. “But you’ve kept it all this time. Why? Is there a part of you that still sees me that way?”

  His voice was light, but Delia heard it, subtle but unmistakable—a note of doubt. “No, Alec.” She turned around and looked up at him, then pressed her cheek against his hard stomach and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I don’t see you that way at all. I’ve almost burned that drawing at least a dozen times. I’m not sure myself why I keep it, except it . . . reminds me.”

  Alec stroked the loose curls away from her face. “What does it remind you of, love?”

  For some absurd reason, Delia felt tears press behind her eyes. “It reminds me I judged you harshly, before I even knew you—you see how harshly from that drawing. I keep it because it reminds me never to do so again. I came close to losing you, Alec. The drawing reminds me how fortunate I am to have you, and it reminds me to be grateful for you.”

  For a moment Alec didn’t speak, just continued to stroke her hair, but his hands shook a little now, and his stomach rose and fell against her cheek as he drew one deep breath after another. After a long silence, he unwound her arms from around his waist and dropped to his knees next to her chair. “My love. It’s me who’s grateful. I don’t deserve you, sweet.”

  Delia shook her head. “That’s not true, Alec—”

  “Yes, it is. Don’t you see, Delia?” He cup
ped her cheek in his hand. “If not for you, I would be the man in that drawing. Or worse. You didn’t misjudge me, love. You saved me.”

  Delia started to speak, but Alec stopped her words with his mouth. He kissed her tenderly at first, his lips soft and gentle, then with growing passion as he opened his mouth over hers and slipped his tongue into her wet warmth. Delia met him eagerly, and when he broke away at last, they were both panting.

  Alec traced his fingers over the pulse leaping in her throat. “There is one thing that bothers me about that drawing, though.”

  “Only one thing?”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her away from him, back toward the mirror. “Yes. The bow around the gazelle’s neck.”

  Delia gave a breathless laugh. “The bow? How funny . . .” She trailed off, watching in the mirror as Alec drew a flat, square box from his coat pocket.

  He slid his arms around either side of her waist and eased her back, so she was resting against his chest, and placed the box in the center of the dressing table. “Such a beautiful neck,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear, “deserves a beautiful ornament.” He flipped open the lid of the box with a finger.

  Nestled in an ocean of silk was a magnificent sapphire and diamond necklace. The round sapphires were designed to look like flowers, and each of the eight perfect, deep blue stones was set in a bed of diamond petals. From each of the three centermost sapphire blooms hung one long, teardrop-shaped pearl.

  Delia gasped. “Oh, my. Oh, Alec.”

  He lifted the necklace from its silk cocoon, draped it around her neck, and fastened the clasp. “I want you to wear this tonight.” His voice was low and husky, and his fingers lingered to stroke the skin at the back of her neck. “The necklace, and nothing else.”

  Delia was staring at the glittering stones around her neck, but at this her eyes met his in the mirror. “Nothing else?”

  Alec pressed his lips against her neck. “There are ear bobs, too.” He nipped at one of her earlobes. “I suppose you can wear those if you insist, but they’ll only get in the way.”

  Delia shivered. “Get in the way at Lady Barrow’s musical evening?”

  Alec was idly toying with one of the pearl drops, but he abandoned it and slid his fingers under the neckline of her gown, into her bodice. “Lady who?”

  “Lady . . . Lady . . .” Dear God. Lady who, indeed? A quiet moan escaped her as he circled her nipple with maddeningly slow fingers. “Lady Barrow.”

  “Hmmm. Lady Barrow.” He slid the hairpins from her hair one by one, until Alice’s elaborate arrangement of curls lay in ruins over her shoulders and down her back. He buried his face in them for a moment, inhaling deeply, then brushed the long locks aside and began to unbutton her gown. “I don’t recall inviting her.”

  Delia watched his other hand move against her breast, mesmerized. His skin was dark against her white flesh, his fingers long and sure as he pinched lightly at her tender pink nipple. “No, she invited us, to her . . . her . . .” Delia let her head fall back against his shoulder.

  Alec laughed, the sound soft, teasing. “Her . . . what?” He’d freed each of the tiny buttons from their buttonholes at the back of her gown, and now he tugged the silk down to her waist.

  Delia raised her head from his shoulder and tried to gather her thoughts. There was a reason she couldn’t melt into her husband’s arms, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember what . . . Oh, yes. Yes, of course. “Her musical evening. I promised Lily . . .” But her protest was faint, and it faded into oblivion at the look in his hot dark eyes as he watched her nipples stiffen against the thin, white material of her shift, begging for his touch.

  “So beautiful, love. Watch me stroke you.” His eyes never left her face as he cupped her breasts in his hands and ran his thumbs over her eager nipples. “Watch me in the mirror, sweet.” He darted his tongue at the pulse point behind her ear; then he slid his lips down her neck to suck and lick at her throat, the heavy necklace caught between his teeth.

  She could do nothing but watch, breathless, as he touched her. Lady Barrow, Lily, the musical evening—each thought fled her head one by one until there was only Alec, his voice soft and wicked in her ear, crooning to her, telling her how much he wanted her, and what he was going to do to her.

  When neither of them could stand the teasing touches any longer, he rose to his feet behind her and held out his hand. “Come to bed, sweet.”

  Delia turned in her chair and looked up at him with a mischievous smile. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” Alec let out a strained laugh. “It’s almost too late now, love.”

  Delia teased her hands slowly up his thighs until she reached his erection, straining at the cloth of his breeches. She caressed him though his clothes until he began to shake with desire; then she unbuttoned his falls, drew out his hard flesh, and stroked her hand over him, her fingers tight against the thin, hot skin. “Not yet, Alec.”

  His lids went heavy over dark, glittering eyes. “Delia.” His voice was a choked whisper.

  She ran her cheek against his shaft. “Watch in the mirror, Alec,” she murmured, and then she took him in her mouth.

  He sank his fingers into her hair. “Dear God. Delia.”

  Delia took him deeper, encouraged by his strangled moans. She looked up at him to find him staring at their reflection in the mirror, a hot flush of color high on his cheekbones. She sank down farther on him, tugging at his hard flesh with her mouth, digging her fingers into his hips when he began to move them.

  “Jesus. Stop, love. Stop.” He tore away from her mouth with a gasp, grabbed her up into his arms, and then nearly sent them both crashing to the floor in his haste to get her to the bed. Delia was giggling as he tossed her onto her back and fell on top of her, one hand scrambling to raise her skirts, the other ripping at his breeches. They both moaned when he slid inside her welcoming heat, and then he began to move, and the elusive bliss slid closer with each powerful thrust until Delia shattered with a scream, and Alec followed her, his body arching against hers as his pleasure took him.

  “My God,” he said, once he’d caught his breath. “I told you it was almost too late.” He rolled onto his back and dragged Delia on top of him. “I think I saw a celestial flash of light at the end.”

  Delia laughed, braced her elbows on the bed, and reached down to untie his cravat. “That was the diamonds.”

  He hooked a finger under the necklace and turned it this way and that, watching as it glimmered in the firelight. “They are beautiful, but it’s not the diamonds that dazzle me, love. It’s you. I want you so much, I can’t even manage to get my clothes off first.”

  “I’ll get them off for you.” Delia tossed his cravat over the side of the bed, then sat up and surveyed the general ruin of their evening attire. With a shrug, she started on his waistcoat buttons. “No music for us tonight, it seems.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Alec grinned up at her. “At one point I’m sure I heard a soprano.”

  Delia threw back her head and laughed. “Did you? Well, my lord, perhaps you’ll get to hear her again before the night is done. Was her voice very beautiful?”

  He gazed up at her for a moment, and his expression grew serious. “There are none to equal her in voice, beauty, mind, or heart.” He lifted her hand and pressed it against the middle of his chest, over his heart. “Here, especially, she is not just unsurpassed. She is only.”

  Delia cupped his face, his beautiful, dear face, in her palm. “Oh, my love. I have no need of musical evenings. You alone can make my heart sing.”

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A SPECIAL LOOK AT THE NEXT BOOK IN THE SUTHERLAND SCANDAL SERIES

  A Season of Ruin

  COMING IN AUGUST 2016 FROM BERKLEY SENSATION

  A high, thin voice floated on the air, audible even through the closed door. The music had begun. Pleyel. Of co
urse. The Scottish Airs. What else?

  Good God—musical evenings. Of all the bloody dull entertainments the ton inflicted on the gentlemen of London, the musical evening was the bloodiest. One stood about in a stifling room and waited for the music to start; then one squeezed one’s arse onto a miniature chair and pretended to appreciate the efforts of a screeching soprano. Wait, stand, squeeze, listen, pretend. It was damned tedious.

  Robyn rolled his shoulders inside his tight coat. He’d no intention of escorting his sisters all over London this season. That was, unless they wished to forgo their card parties, routs, and balls in favor of a visit to the gaming hells, or a frolic with the Cyprians in Covent Garden.

  He tried to imagine his sister Eleanor at a hazard table, her long, elegant fingers wrapped around a pair of dice as every rogue in London breathed down her neck. Or his sister Charlotte, engaged in a debate with the whores at the Slippery Eel over how low was too low when it came to low-cut bodices.

  No, he couldn’t picture it. Shame, too, because it would be amusing.

  Robyn pressed his ear close to the door and listened. Not to Pleyel, but for the soft shuffle of a lady’s slippers creeping down the hallway. He preferred petite, dark-haired ladies, especially those of an accommodating nature, to Pleyel.

  Ah, dear old London. Wickedness lurked everywhere, even in the unlikeliest places. Another reason to love the old girl.

  Where the devil was she? He tapped his foot, his eyes fixed on the door handle, willing it to turn.

  It shouldn’t be long now.

  * * *

  “Which do you think the handsomest?” Charlotte asked. She tapped Lily’s wrist with her fan and nodded her head toward the center of the drawing room.

  One couldn’t take a step in any direction without tripping over one elegant nobleman or another, but there could be no doubt which group of gentlemen Charlotte referred to. Lily had noticed more than one feminine eyelash batting in that direction.