Wicked and the Wallflower

by Sarah MacLean

  He considered it. She watched the battle wage on his beautiful face, his scar gone stark white on his cheek as he fixed his gaze over her shoulder on a faraway rooftop. She took the opportunity to lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

  “Devil,” she whispered at his ear, loving the shudder that went through him at the word. “By the details of our arrangement, you still owe me a boon.”

  His hands settled on her. His arm encircled her. Pulled her close. “Yes.”

  “That’s a marvelous word.”

  He laughed at her ear, low and graveled and without humor, his hands. “Indeed, it is.”

  “My boon, then?”

  Pleasure washed over her as he stroked the bare skin of her back. “Ask.”

  She put her lips to his ear. “I want tonight.”

  Before the words had disappeared, Devil was turning her, laying her down again, looming over her, cradling her face in his strong hands and ravishing her with his kiss—long and lush, making her body sing—her breasts, her thighs, that soft place between them that he’d loved so well and still ached for him.

  Felicity lifted her thighs and rocked against him, and he tore his mouth from hers with a hiss, throwing his head back to reveal the long cords of his neck. When he looked down at her again, his beautiful amber eyes were filled with desire and something close to pain. “One night,” he said. “One night and then you leave me. One night and you take your place in the world where you belong.”

  As though one night would ever be enough. “Yes,” she lied.

  “I shall make it right,” he whispered. “I shall keep you safe.”

  She nodded. “That’s what you do.” This beautiful man, who had spent a lifetime as a protector.

  He met her gaze. “You’ll have it all.”

  Not you, though.

  She pushed the thought from her head, reaching for him. “Please.” She lifted her hips to him. “Don’t stop.”

  He exhaled on a breathless laugh, leaning down to suck on the tip of one breast until it was hard and straining. “I have no intention of stopping, my greedy girl.” His fingers found their way to her core, stroking and lingering, stretching and petting, her breath coming faster and faster, pleasure coursing through her. She strained to keep his hand against her, even as his touch gentled.

  “More,” she said. “I want it all.”

  “I do, too,” he whispered, putting his forehead to hers and kissing her once again. “God, I am going to love being inside you when you come.”

  “Yes.” She kissed him. “Please.”

  “So greedy.”

  She nodded. “Wanton.”

  He huffed a little, strained laugh. “You shouldn’t know that word.”

  “You have taught me worse,” she said.

  “That’s true,” he replied, the words sounding strangled as he rocked against her.

  “You can’t have them back,” she said, spreading her thighs wide to accommodate him as the tip of him settled at the opening of her, hot and smooth and, “Oh . . .”

  “Mmm,” he said harshly. “Oh . . .”

  And then he was sliding into her with perfect control, slow and smooth, and it occurred to her that the sensation might make her mad. He was so hard, and so full, stretching her beyond anything she could have imagined, not pain or pleasure but some unbearable, glorious combination of the two. No. Pleasure. So much pleasure. She gasped.

  He froze. “Felicity? Talk to me.”

  She shook her head.

  “Love . . .” He kissed her gently. “Sweetheart, say something.”

  Her eyes flew to his. “Oh . . .”

  “Something more than oh, love. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She flexed against the full shape of him, and he sank deeper into her channel. He groaned, his eyes sliding closed.

  “Oh, my . . .” she said.

  He laughed again, hoarse and perfect. “Sweetheart, if you don’t say something other than some variation on oh, I’m going to stop.”

  Her eyes flew open. “Don’t you dare.”

  His brows rose. “Well. That’s something other than oh.”

  She reached for his shoulders, smoothing her hands over his muscles, each one more tense than the last. “You wish more words?”

  “I need them,” he said softly. “I need to know it’s good for you.”

  She smiled at that, and then leaned up and stole his mouth for a lingering kiss. When it was over, she curled her hand behind his neck, looked into his eyes, and said, “I want it all.”

  And he began—blessedly—to move. Long, slow strokes sent pleasure curling through her, again and again,

  “Tell me how it feels, love.”

  She wanted to, but it was impossible—she’d lost her words again. He’d stolen them with his kiss and his touch and the delicious length of him, stroking, guiding, pleasuring her. His movements were slow and delicious, enough to chase away the last hints of pain that had lingered, leaving only sighs and gasps and a perfect rhythm—one she was happy to match.

  And when she did, he opened his eyes, meeting her gaze, and she lost her words again at the pure, unadulterated desire in them. She reached for him, running her fingers along his jaw, where his scar ran jagged and white. “You want it all, too.”

  “Yes . . .” He hissed his pleasure. “Fuck, yes, I want it all.”

  And then his hips rolled beautifully and she cried out as he knocked against a magnificent place. He stilled, raising a brow. “There?” He repeated the movement.

  She clasped his shoulders. “Yes.”

  Again.

  “Please.”

  Again.

  “Devil,” she gasped.

  “Tell me again,” he growled, driving her higher and higher. “Give me the words again.”

  Her eyes flew open to find his on hers. “I love you,” she whispered as he thrust into her.

  “Yes.”

  “I love you.” She clung to him, the words a prayer. A litany. “I love you.”

  “Yes.” He held her gaze through it all, whispering that single, beautiful word, again and again, as he gave her everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she’d ever dreamed. As she whispered her love and they careened toward pleasure, hard and fast and perfect, like truth. And when pleasure coursed through her like a wave, he captured first her cries and then her laugh with his kiss. And only then, the sound of her riotous pleasure in his ears, did he find his own release, deep and powerful, her name on his lips.

  Minutes later, hours, perhaps, they lay in silence beneath the stars in the stunning wake of what they’d done. Devil had reversed their position, draping Felicity across his chest, where her head lay and her fingers danced circles on his skin.

  He held her tight against him, his arms and coat keeping her warm, his fingers sifting through her hair in a delicious, rhythmic caress, and for that brief eternity, she imagined that the night had changed him as much as it had changed her.

  She closed her eyes, the steady beat of his heart against her thoughts—the quiet, domestic fantasy that ended with his taking her hand in his and pledging himself to her, forever. She inhaled, overcome with the scent of him, tobacco flower and juniper and sin, and she imagined that, forever, any hint of it would summon the false memories she wove in his arms.

  A Covent Garden wedding, a raucous celebration filled with wine and song, and a night to follow on this very roof—a repeat of tonight, but better, because it would not end with him leaving her.

  It would end with a life together. A marriage. A partnership. A line of children with beautiful amber eyes and strong shoulders and long, straight noses. Children who would learn that the world was wide and good, and the aristocracy was nothing compared to the hardworking men and women who built the city in which they lived and made it better every day.

  Men like their father. Women like the one she hoped to become by his side.

  She closed her eyes and imagined those children. Wanted them. Loved them, already.<
br />
  Just as she loved their father.

  “Felicity.” He said her name, low and perfect, and she lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Dawn approaches.”

  Dawn, ready to burn away the dark and with it, those precious, unmade memories.

  Don’t send me back. Keep me here. I belong here.

  She didn’t say the words, but he seemed to hear them anyway. He exhaled, the sound broken. “You deserved more than this,” he said. “You deserved a wedding night. With a man ten times what I am. With a man who can give you ton and title, name and fortune, a Mayfair townhouse and a country estate that’s been in the family for generations.”

  Anger flared. “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I don’t want those things.”

  He watched her for an age. “Tell me again why you were crying in that bedchamber, the day you picked the lock. The day your friends turned their backs on you. Tell me again what you mourned.”

  Hot embarrassment flared. “It’s not the same,” she protested. “I’m not the same. I don’t care about Mayfair and balls.”

  “If I believed that . . .” He looked away, back to the stars. “I’d crawl to you without hesitation, but if I did, you would never have that life. Nor the acceptance.”

  “Would you love me?” she whispered, the sound barely there, barely different than the wind rustling over the tiles on the rooftop. The sound of skin brushing against skin. The sound of their breath mingled.

  The sound of hope.

  He exhaled, long and jagged. And then he told her something true. “Not enough.”

  And there, under the stars in this place she had come to love, Felicity resolved to prove him wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Everything had changed, Felicity realized, as she alighted from her family’s carriage the next evening, her mother following immediately behind, her rich pink satin skirts swirling around her.

  A year ago, a month ago, two weeks ago, Felicity had longed for this exact moment. It was mid-June and summer had arrived, all of London preparing to pack up and leave for the country, but the best of the city’s gossips wouldn’t dream of leaving before this particular ball—the Duchess of Northumberland’s summer herald, the most glamorous ball of the season.

  A year ago, a month ago, two weeks ago, Felicity couldn’t have imagined a more desirable event than this one, climbing the steps to Northumberland House, the manor windows glittering with candlelight, her mother fairly vibrating her pleasure at Felicity’s elbow, the handful of guests assembled outside and clustered around the door acknowledging her without hesitation.

  Welcoming her.

  Claiming her.

  Except everything had changed.

  And not simply the fact that she was no longer odd, wallflower, spinster Felicity.

  Nor that she was, to all assembled, the future Duchess of Marwick.

  Oh, that was certainly why the aristocracy believed everything had changed. But Felicity knew better. She knew that what had changed, summarily and irrevocably, was that she had fallen in love with the world beyond this, and with the man who had revealed it to her. And that truth betrayed another: This world she had once cared so much about was nothing in comparison to his. To him.

  Which he did not believe, and so, without recourse, Felicity had come to this place, filled with these people, to prove it to him.

  The knowledge straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. It kept her chin high, as she was suddenly unwilling to allow this place—these people—to hold dominion over her. There was only one person who held her in his sway. And only one hope of winning him.

  Which meant she had to find her fiancé.

  “Your engagement has already made the world take notice!” the marchioness said excitedly as they stepped into the great Northumberland foyer, throngs of people surrounding them. She looked to the main staircase, filled with revelers, and gave a little squeak. “We weren’t invited last year; we weren’t welcome. Because of—well, you know.”

  Felicity slowed and looked to her mother. “I don’t, as a matter of fact.”

  The marchioness looked to her and lowered her voice. “Because of your scandal.”

  “You mean the scandal of my being trotted off to the Duke of Haven’s marriage mart?”

  Her mother shook her head. “Not only that.”

  “The scandal of my aging spinsterhood?”

  “That might have been a bit of it, as well.”

  “Is it more or less a bit of it than my being exiled from the inner circle of the jewels of the ton?”

  “Really, Felicity.” Her mother looked about with a too loud laugh, clearly afraid that someone might overhear them.

  Felicity was less interested in that eventuality. “I would have thought that the scandal that eliminated our names from the guest list was Father and Arthur losing all the family’s money.”

  Her mother’s eyes went wide. “Felicity!”

  Felicity pressed her lips together, knowing now was neither the place, nor the time, but not particularly caring. Turning, she made her way up the stairs, toward the great ballroom. “It’s no matter, Mother. After all, we’re here tonight.”

  “Yes,” the marchioness said. “That’s the important bit. As is the duke. And we shall be here next year. And all the years after.”

  I shan’t be.

  “Even your father plans to make an appearance tonight.”

  Of course her father would, now that he felt he could show his face with the family coffers nearly filled once more.

  Felicity focused on the top of the stairs. “I must find the duke.”

  She had not made it ten paces when a voice called out from somewhere above, “Felicity!”

  The voice was familiar enough that she hesitated in her movement, turning instantly to meet Natasha Corkwood’s bright eyes, glittering with interest as she waved from the top of the stairs, bobbing and weaving to keep contact with Felicity. She turned to say something to her companion, and Jared, Lord Faulk, looked over his shoulder to follow her gaze, recognition and something else flaring in his eyes. Something predatory.

  Felicity looked away immediately, redoubling her movements up the stairs.

  When she reached the top, Natasha called out again, closer than Felicity would like. “Felicity!”

  “Darling, we should stop. Lady Natasha and Lord Faulk are your friends.” As simple as that, her mother swept the past away, as though eighteen months of shame and sadness and confusion was nothing.

  Friendship is not always what we think.

  Devil’s words echoed through her, tempting her to turn her back and leave them there, in front of every Londoner whose good opinion they courted. Instead, she turned to face them.

  “Felicity!” Natasha said, breathless, face full of a false smile. “We’ve been waiting for you!” Her hand settled on Felicity’s arm.

  Felicity’s gaze settled on the offending touch for long enough that Natasha removed it, at which point Felicity looked up and said, “Why?”

  Color washed over Tasha’s cheeks and she blinked, a little nervous laugh accompanying her surprise. “Why—because we have missed you!” Her eyes flickered to her brother. “Haven’t we, Jared?”

  Lord Faulk grinned, revealing large teeth, nearly too big for his mouth. “Of course.”

  As though the past had never happened. As though they’d had a vague disagreement after too much champagne instead of the lot of them pretending that Felicity did not exist for eighteen months. As though they were still her people.

  As though she ever wanted them to be again.

  Unfortunates.

  Devil’s word again, low and dark, whispering in her ear, its memory bringing her strength.

  “Your gown is stunning.” Natasha was still talking, and Felicity’s hands moved of their own volition to her skirts, full and fuchsia, as pink as pink came. The gown had arrived that morning from the dressmaker Madame Hebert—along with a little n
ote from the Frenchwoman, thanking Felicity for her business with once and future dukes . . . and any others who might happen along and enjoy you in pink.

  And it was stunning, lavish beyond anything she’d ever worn before, with a low-cut neckline revealing a wide expanse of shoulders, along with magnificent pink skirts shot through with deep eggplant silk thread, the whole thing giving the gown the look of sunset.

  Or better, the Devon sky at sunset.

  She wished Devil could see it.

  Devil would see it, of course. The moment she finished with the duke, whom she could not find in the crush of people. The thought set her heart pounding, and Felicity went looking for her fiancé, pressing further into the ballroom.

  “Thank you, Natasha—you always look so beautifully turned out, as well,” the marchioness offered at the edge of her attention, filling the silence when Felicity did not.

  Tasha dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, my lady. And my congratulations to you as well—on your soon-to-be son-in-law!”

  The marchioness tittered.

  Natasha tittered.

  Jared grinned.

  Felicity looked from one face to the next and said, “Am I mad, or are you attempting to befriend me once more?”

  Color rose high on Natasha’s cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Felicity!” her mother interjected.

  “I’m quite serious, Natasha. It seems as though you would like to pretend that we never fell out. That you never exited me from your group—isn’t that what you called it?”

  Natasha’s mouth opened and then closed.

  Felicity ignored her former friend, remarkably uninterested in her—for the first time in possibly ever. She searched the sea of revelers headed for the ballroom. Freedom. Without farewell, she said, “I must find the duke.”

  “Oh, of course she must,” the marchioness said overexcitedly, for some reason all too eager to keep their hangers-on hanging on. Sotto voce, she added, “Engaged couples wish to be in each other’s company as much as possible, you must know.”

  “Oh, of course,” Natasha fawned for the benefit of all assembled. “We’re still so impressed you managed to land him! After all, Felicity isn’t exactly the kind of wife a duke comes for.”