Too Wicked to Wed

by Cheryl Holt

  In their midst, a man lounged on a lavish sofa. While he was strikingly handsome, with golden-blond hair and piercing blue eyes, he exuded a tough and dangerous air that made her pause. He reminded her of a wolf on the prowl, alert and prepared to attack with the slightest provocation. He was muscular and fit, tall and robust, and his features were arresting, but in a rough fashion that added to his aura of menace and peril.

  She imagined he’d had a hard life. Years of toil were etched in his face, yet he was so imposing and unusual that she was fascinated.

  He was naked to the waist, attired in a peculiar pair of trousers stitched from a light, flowing fabric that was likely intended for hot weather. The material hinted at burly thighs and long legs, and was the style a sultan in Arabia might wear while entertaining his harem.

  His shoulders were brawny, his stomach flat as a board. To her astonishment, he had a matting of hair across his chest. She’d never seen a man’s chest before, so she hadn’t known hair would grow there, and she suffered from an outlandish urge to tromp over and riffle her fingers through it.

  A covey of the blond sirens hovered around him, with one snuggled on his lap. They were caressing him all over, and they took turns leaning down and . . . and . . . kissing him on the lips!

  She tried to remember if she’d ever viewed two people kissing, but she couldn’t recollect a single occasion where it might have happened. Her world was so staid, couples so restrained, that a display of affection was beyond anyone of her acquaintance.

  She was spellbound.

  The man would dally with one woman, then another, and while Helen wasn’t positive, it seemed as if they were putting their tongues in each other’s mouths. The discovery did something to her insides. Butterflies swarmed through her tummy; her womb shifted and stirred; the mysterious feminine spot between her legs was relaxed and moist.

  The female on his lap moaned and arched up and, mesmerizing Helen even further, the man nibbled down her neck, where he proceeded to bare her breast and suck on her nipple.

  “Oh, my Lord!” Helen murmured, as a man spoke from directly behind her.

  “May I help you?”

  Cheeks burning, she jumped and whipped around to confront a fellow who was a clerk or secretary. He was younger than herself—probably twenty or so. Dressed impeccably in a conservative suit, a portfolio tucked under his arm, he was the only normal person she’d encountered since entering.

  His dark hair was neatly clipped, his demeanor proper and polite, his speech educated and refined, but his disdainful blue eyes made it clear that he knew how avidly she’d been spying. There was no way to pretend she’d been doing anything else. She was mortified, but determined to forge on with some amount of aplomb.

  “Yes, you may help me. I’m looking for Mr. Westmoreland.”

  “You found him.” He pointed to the man in the library with the bevy of admirers fawning over him. “Shall we go in?”

  She gulped with dismay. She’d been anticipating a grimy, disgusting criminal. Not some Greek god.

  “He is Mr. Westmoreland?”

  “Yes, but it’s Captain Westmoreland. And you are . . . ?”

  Obviously, she had to reassess her plan. Westmoreland was unlike any other man she’d ever met, and in dealing with him she would be completely out of her league. How could they casually chat when she’d seen his lips wrapped around that . . . that . . .

  She blushed bright red.

  “I’m no one of any importance, and he’s rather busy. I’ll stop by tomorrow when he’s not so . . .” She hadn’t the vocabulary to describe Westmoreland’s conduct, so she vaguely waved toward him, then spun to depart.

  “I can guarantee that he won’t be behaving any better later on.” The man gripped her elbow and halted any retreat. “He has a definite way with the ladies, if you catch my drift. Whatever your purpose, you might as well get it over with. Then, you won’t have to come back.”

  “No. I believe I’ll be off.”

  He clutched her arm even tighter. “Stay. I insist.”

  A guard stepped in and expertly blocked any exit. The clerk pushed at the door, and to her horror, everyone in the room froze and gaped at her.

  Westmoreland ceased his love play and glared—but not at her. In her dreary costume, and with his being surrounded by dazzling beauties, she was invisible. He focused on the clerk, a scowl marring his flawless brow.

  “What is it this time, Mr. Smith?” Westmoreland demanded. “Can’t you see I’m involved? I asked you not to interrupt again.”

  “You have a visitor, Captain.”

  “Who is it?”

  “She hasn’t said.”

  Westmoreland still hadn’t noticed her, and out of the corner of her mouth she whispered, “Mr. Smith, if you have any sense of decency, you’ll let me slip away.”

  “Sorry, but I have no decency remaining. I lost every ounce of it when the Captain purchased me in a slave market.”

  “He . . . he . . . what?” she stammered.

  “Go on,” Smith coaxed. “Go on. He looks as if he bites, but he doesn’t really.”

  Smith urged her in, the guard hurrying her along by giving her a firm shove. She stumbled, furious when several of the hussies snickered. She pulled herself up to her full height of five feet five, and she stared them down, quickly cowing them to silence.

  Westmoreland’s attention locked on her, and he rose. He’d forgotten the trollop on his lap, and she plummeted down, but he failed to note that he’d practically tossed her on the floor. He was imperious and rude as a king, and Helen was surprised. She wasn’t certain what she’d expected from the infamous brigand, but it wasn’t such an ample quantity of arrogance and conceit.

  Like a large, predatory cat, he approached, his gaze not wavering, and her pulse thudded like a small bird’s. While she’d figured he’d be tall, he was much bigger than she’d calculated. He loomed over her, and though she’d never pictured herself as petite, in his towering company she felt absolutely tiny.

  She stood her ground, deciding that she couldn’t have him detect how terrified she was. In the tales being spread around the country, he’d been credited with every foul felony from kidnapping to cannibalism. He was reputed to have killed thousands of men, to have eaten babies for his supper.

  While she discounted the more incredible yarns, all stories originated with a sprig of truth, and until she knew him better, she couldn’t predict of what he might be capable.

  “Well, well, Mr. Smith,” he mused to the clerk. “Guess who we have here.”

  “I haven’t a clue, Captain.”

  “Can’t you tell? It’s Miss Mansfield.”

  Her name rippled through the crowd like a wildfire, the coven of slatterns abuzz with speculation. From how they were evaluating her, it was clear that they were all aware of Archie’s folly. Was the entire city cognizant of his gambling debacle? Was the general populace tittering over his stupidity?

  How humiliating! How galling! When she got home—if she got home—she’d murder him. She’d have no despicable sibling; she’d be an only child.

  “How do you know who I am?” she snapped.

  “You and your brother could be twins,” he explained. “I must admit that I’d about given up on you. Does your appearance mean you’re finally ready to begin? Shall we do it right here and let everyone watch? That way, there’ll be a ton of witnesses, and we won’t have any question as to the terms of the wager being appropriately commenced.”

  He stepped in, and she stepped back. She had no idea to what he referred, and she frowned as Mr. Smith scolded, “Captain, if I may say—”

  “No, you may not, Mr. Smith. Butt out. It’s none of your affair.”

  “But she’s a respected gentlewoman, and you can’t—”

  “Mr. Smith!” he hissed, his temper barely controlled. “Have you gone deaf?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then, I suggest you be quiet.”

  Smith’s cheeks reddened,
but he braved a retort. “But you can’t debauch her. It’s simply not done.”

  “It’s done all the time,” Westmoreland asserted, his concentration not leaving Helen. “If you don’t believe me, ask her brother. Ask her dear, departed father.”

  She ignored their barbs and honed in on the mention of debauchery. Though she had no inkling what it might entail, it boded ill for an acceptable outcome.

  “What’s this nonsense about debauching me? I wish to confer with you about my brother’s debt, about having it forgiven—as is the fair and honorable conclusion. You can’t walk away with our estate after a measly turn of the cards. You know it’s wrong.”

  “I know nothing of the sort.”

  “You can’t do it!”

  “I can, and I will. It was your brother’s idiocy that led you here. Not mine. Besides, it’s totally within your power to have the property restored to him, which I presume is why you’ve come.” He grinned like the Devil himself. “I’m eager to start whenever you are. In fact, I can hardly wait. Just say the word, although I’m not much for talking.”

  “Well, that’s my plan, so resign yourself to a boring parlay of the details.”

  “I’m afraid a meager discussion won’t get you anywhere. I’m resolved to your fate.”

  “My . . . my fate? You make it sound as if I’m about to be hanged.”

  “Oh, it won’t be that bad. Any lady present will verify that I’ll make it quite good for you.”

  “Make what good for me?”

  Her rejoinder elicited out-and-out guffaws from the throng, and she flashed a menacing scowl to quell the merriment. He was unaffected, though, and he reached out and toyed with a lock of hair that had fallen loose from her chignon. For some absurd reason, her heart fluttered when he touched her, and she didn’t care for the experience, at all. She batted him away.

  “Stop babbling in riddles,” she commanded.

  “In riddles? What is it you don’t understand?”

  “What power have I regarding the return of the estate? I haven’t the vaguest notion to what you allude.”

  He chuckled, his voice a rich, deep baritone that tickled her innards and rattled her bones. “I take it your brother wasn’t completely frank with you as to the conditions of our wager.”

  “I know my home is in your hands, which is sufficient information.”

  “No, your home is in your hands.”

  It seemed as if he were speaking in a foreign language she didn’t comprehend. “My hands?”

  “Yes. After your brother squandered Mansfield Abbey, he tried to win it back by betting you.”

  She had so few possessions, no cash or other valuables. What could Archie possibly have staked? “By betting my . . . what?”

  “You’re a female.” His potent gaze wandered down her torso. “You have only one thing that would interest a man like me.”

  As his implication dawned, she huffed with outrage. “You contemptible cad!”

  “Aah, I see you grasp my intent.”

  “You and my brother actually gambled over my . . . my . . .”

  “Yes. And you lost.”

  “I’m to surrender my . . .”

  She couldn’t utter the word virtue in front of him, and she’d always been so sheltered that she didn’t know what such a submission would require. It involved a husband and wife and their actions in the marital bed, but other than that indistinct point, she hadn’t the slightest hint of what had been promised.

  “It’s a tad more than a mere surrender,” he advised.

  “What is?”

  “For thirty days, you’re to please me in any fashion I desire. If you do, and I’m satisfied with your performance, he can have his paltry farm. I’ll have no need of it.”

  “Thirty days?”

  “Yes. I’m to enjoy a month of dissipation, although now that I’ve met you, I have to confess that you’re too skinny for my tastes. And I’d prefer a blonde. But I suppose once we’re snuggled under the covers, I can shut my eyes and pretend you’re someone else.”

  He’d hurled so many insults that she couldn’t tabulate them all, and she was too stunned to respond. His claim was too awful to be genuine, too horrid to be implemented.

  “I don’t believe you,” she finally said. “Archie would never . . .”

  “Wouldn’t he?” He nodded at Mr. Smith. “Show her the contract her brother signed.”

  She was aghast. “You wrote it down?”

  “Of course. Do you take me for a fool?”

  She studied him more carefully, weighing character, assessing temperament, and she was sickened to realize how thoroughly she’d misjudged him as an opponent. He was more intelligent, more shrewd and driven, than she ever could have fathomed.

  “No,” she murmured, “you’re definitely not a fool.”

  “Your brother swore I’d be getting a virgin, and you should both hope he’s telling me the truth. I hate to be lied to, and I’ll kill him if you’re not.” He gestured round the room. “I’ll let it be your choice. Shall we amuse ourselves here in the library? Or would you like to go upstairs to my bedchamber?”

  2

  Mr. Smith?”

  “Yes?”

  Helen flashed her sweetest smile. “Would you usher the guests out of here? Mr.—that is, Captain—Westmoreland seems to be laboring under the oddest impression. We must talk privately.”

  “I’m not mistaken,” Westmoreland interjected.

  “He’s not,” Mr. Smith added, looking terribly sorry. “I have their agreement . . . if you’d like to read the terms?”

  “No, I don’t need to see it.”

  She was amazed at her composure. A thousand thoughts were careening through her head, most including maiming and murder, although under the circumstances, she’d be hard-pressed to decide with which man to begin.

  “If you’d ask everyone to go?”

  “Certainly,” he offered, though he didn’t move, and she realized that he was waiting for Westmoreland’s permission.

  With Smith being very young, and Westmoreland purportedly his owner, she could imagine how tricky it would be for him to assert himself. Helen, however, was a free person and not afraid of Westmoreland in the least.

  “Ladies . . . ladies . . .” Helen clapped her hands, rousing them as she would a group of schoolgirls. “The party’s concluded.”

  No one stirred, so she grew more aggressive. As if she were the hostess, she started snatching up wineglasses and blowing out candles. “Thank you for coming,” she said over and over. “Please stop by again. The Captain will be delighted to entertain you later.”

  She grabbed the drapes and yanked them open, causing shrieks of dismay as sunshine flooded the room.

  “Honestly, Westmoreland,” a harlot complained, “aren’t you going to do something?”

  Westmoreland gave a subtle signal to Mr. Smith and the guard. Within seconds, the library was emptied, and Helen was intrigued by how swiftly Westmoreland’s minions hurried to obey.

  How did he instill such loyalty and devotion? Through kindness? Through brute force? What type of man was he deep down? If she hoped to reason with him, she had to find out.

  He stood silently, observing events as if they had no connection to him, as if he didn’t care what any of the people present elected to do. As the last curvaceous bottom slithered out, the guard and Smith following, the door was closed, and Westmoreland spun toward her. An irresistible smile dimpled his cheeks.

  “What a tigress you can be,” he said.

  “I’ve flayed men with my claws.”

  “I’ll bet you have.”

  “You’d best be cautious around me,” she warned.

  “I will.”

  “I always get what I want.”

  “I can see that, and you’ve spoiled my fun in the process.”

  “You’re like a sheik with his concubines.”

  “Yes, I am. Aren’t I lucky?” He was completely unrepentant.

  “I�
��m sure your harem will return shortly.”

  “I’m sure they will,” he cockily concurred. “How could they bear to stay away?”

  He sauntered over to a mahogany desk that had been shoved into the corner, and he perched on the edge. Arms folded over his massive chest, his strong muscles rippling, he scrutinized her, his blue, blue eyes probing for signs of weakness or apprehension.

  She kept her expression blank, recognizing that if he glimpsed any vulnerability, he’d pounce like a hawk on a rabbit, but it was difficult to pretend nonchalance. Other than her brother and his friend Adrian, she was rarely in the solitary company of men, especially one who acted like a rapacious Romeo. She wasn’t positive how to behave.

  Considering the assemblage of trollops that had just fled, Westmoreland had definite opinions about how women should comport themselves and, wager or no, he would be vastly disappointed by her sober demeanor. She had no raucous tendencies, was never driven to caprice or whimsy, and for the briefest moment, she regretted that she wasn’t more madcap and uninhibited.

  What would it be like to toss off convention and do something totally outrageous? She had no idea.

  She couldn’t envision what it would be like to cavort with him. Merely from pondering such iniquity she tingled with an excitement and zeal that she’d never noted before, which had her confused.

  Was she secretly pining for male attention? Had she a covert wish to lead a different sort of life? Perhaps with her being surrounded by the familiar at Mansfield Abbey, she was unhappy with her lot but hadn’t realized it.

  It was so dreary, having to watch over Archie all the time, to be constantly hovering on the brink of ruin because of his selfish habits, so it was only natural that she’d crave some variety in her situation. But still, she was frightened by the ferocity with which she suddenly yearned for an adventure. The strange perceptions unnerved her, and she shook them away.

  “Now that we’re alone,” she said, “let’s begin again.”

  “By all means,” he mocked, “let’s do.”

  “Shall we sit?”