When the Earl was Wicked: Forever Yours Series

by Reid, Stacy

  She mattered to James, for he stood, proud and powerful to defend her honor. Tears pooled in her eyes, and her heart ached as if it would shatter. Verity stood, and it felt surreal as she moved closer toward the ring.

  The marquess danced lightly on his feet, keen anticipation in his eyes as he stared at James. But James stood there, his hands hung loosely at his side, his head canted left as he stared at the man. “I want everyone to understand this is not a match,” James said, his voice traveling through the room. How cold and dispassionate he sounded.

  “Of course it is,” Durham said with a taunting laugh. “The prize is twenty thousand pounds, and I’ve long wanted to fight you.”

  “That money will be donated to a women’s relief society.”

  Durham’s eyes glinted with mockery. “I see your sobriquet of the bare-knuckle king has led you to the delusion you will win this match. I plan to gamble and visit my favorite pleasure house.” He licked his lips suggestively and some in the audience laughed.

  “This fight is about justice, and a matter of honor.”

  She watched James with a terrible fascination, unable to take her eyes off his expression of ruthless purpose. His implacable mien was unnerving.

  The marquess’s face creased in a mask of concern. “What in God’s name are you about, Maschelly?”

  “You hurt someone I care about.”

  Everything inside of her went warm. Yet the silence around the two fighters was chilled.

  The marquess’s lips thinned. “I don’t—”

  James stepped closer and lowered his voice. Verity had to lean on the ropes to hear him. “This was years ago, and you have escaped the consequences of your actions. You attacked her, held her down, and tried to force yourself on her. You are a despoiler of innocence and beauty. You leave behind fears and nightmares. You abuse when you should protect. For that you deserve to die. There is no recognition in your eyes of whom I speak. And that tells me you have lost count of the faces you have hurt. You will learn a very painful lesson tonight, Durham.”

  Verity almost cast up her accounts. She had not been his only victim. Wild anger throbbed through her, it twisted and churned, until it became calm, and hinted of the darkness James had spoken about. This man had hurt her, possibly hurt other ladies or servants under his care because that was the type of man he was. Fury almost choked her.

  Verity barely heard the announcer shout that the fight was about to start, that they followed the underground laws which meant no rules, and the purse was twenty thousand pounds. But she heard the final word as it was bellowed, “Fight!”

  Both men moved toward the other with ruthless purpose. They both possessed similar raw-boned, powerfully built frames. Worry for James rushed through Verity, and she wanted to plead with him not to risk himself. The snake was not worth it. The Marquess danced in, his form graceful, and attacked. James shifted away with stunning agility and slammed a fist into the marquess’s side. Thwack. Someone behind her gasped at the inherent power in that hit, and Verity's heart roared.

  The marquess stumbled, and he shot James a dazed look, and she instinctively recognized that usually when contenders fought, it was not with such brutality.

  You will learn a painful lesson tonight, Durham.

  Verity pressed a hand over her mouth and watched in horrified fascination as James slammed another fist into the man’s gut before he could recover. The marquess doubled over for a few seconds before he stumbled upright. Then James moved in and gave him no mercy.

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Each hit echoed with the brutal and punishing force of their delivery.

  And not once had the marquess landed a hit on James. The marquess tumbled to the floor, and she expected a cheer from the audience, but they remained quiet.

  “Get up,” James commanded.

  It took him a few tries, but the marquess stood, swaying slightly. Verity winced to see the blood dripping from his lips, and the already ugly purple and black discoloration forming over his body.

  Then James shifted to face her and held out his hand.

  Her heart galloped and skipped a few beats, was he really holding out his hand to her and indicating for her to enter the ring? She breathed heavily, looking at his bloodied hands, unsure what James was thinking. But she trusted him unequivocally. She reached for him, and he helped her into the ring. She peered into the raw, brilliance of his gaze, uncaring they had an audience.

  “You said, if one day you could tell him what he did…the nightmares would go away forever.”

  She inhaled in a shallow, quick gasp, then turned and faced the marquess. Verity felt helpless in the grip of sensations—rage, fear, doubt, daring—swelling through her body. She stepped closer and stared at the man who had caused her such pain.

  “What the hell is this?” Durham snarled, swiping a bubble of blood from his lips.

  The warm, protective heat of James’s body moved closer. “She has something to say, and you will listen to every word.”

  “She?” The marquess peered at her from a swollen eye, an ugly smirk on his face. “What did I do, not leave enough coins?”

  She flashed him a look of pure disdain. “You took something from me: Peace and happiness, and you will not get another minute, you vile, revolting excuse of a man. You are a maggoty coward!”

  Anger flashed in his eyes, and he stepped closer. Yet she did not feel intimidated. She stepped forward, felt James’s start of surprise, but before he could stop her, she balled her fist and let it fly. Pain jerked along the bones of her arm, but with satisfaction, the marquess's head snapped back.

  With a roar of fury he charged at her, and with a nimbleness that rivaled James's earlier elegance, she danced from beneath his reach to behind of him. A murmuring of admiration swept through the crowd, but she did not direct her attention to their reaction. The marquess spun around, and Verity saw the perfect opening. She stepped in with sure swiftness and kicked him in the balls with all the pent-up pain she had lived with for almost five years.

  An odd high pitch squeal tore from his throat as he tumbled to the floor, clutching at his man parts. Tears leaked from his eyes and sweat coated his body. No remorse filled her. Verity wished she could do it again when she thought about every other woman whom he might have hurt. All the other ladies who might not have had an aunt to rescue them. Or a brother and a father to defend their honor. Or a…James.

  Verity stared at him, reached up and pulled the short wig from atop her head. It was important that he knew who had brought him to his knees. The marquess stared up at her, confused, and she still saw no recognition in his eyes. Unable to halt the need burning inside, she withdrew the pins that had ruthlessly confined her hair so and dropped them on the floor. The room had remained silent at this unusual display, and the clatter of hairpins seemed to echo loudly. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in dark waves. The marquess gasped, and his eyes widened.

  “You!” he spat like an oaf.

  “Yes, me,” she whispered, clenching her fist at her side.

  The Marquess stumbled to his feet, his cheeks flushed red with rage and embarrassment. James came up behind her and rested a hand atop her shoulder. Comfort. Warmth. Safety. The touch had been brief, but it centered her against the tearing emotions ripping through her chest. Her lower lip trembled, and she felt the urge to cry.

  “You will never look in her direction again,” James said beside her with such lethal softness for a moment she felt afraid.

  Then it vanished to be replaced with a warm glow of security.

  “If you ever come close to her again, or even approach her, I will kill you,” James murmured.

  The marquess paled alarmingly. “Maschelly, I—”

  “I will absolutely kill you.” The cold, ruthless conviction settled in the space between them, and no one spoke or moved for several moments.

  Then James turned and held out his hands. Without hesitation, she slid her hands in his, the t
hin leather strips preventing the soft, heated contact she wanted. Then he escorted her from the ring and to the side where he hurriedly put on his shirt, waistcoat, and jacket. He stuffed the cravat in his pocket, and they made their way through the stirring crowd who watched their departure.

  When they neared the door, a lady in a green filigreed mask whispered, “Upon my word! Is that Lady Verity?”

  A shadow seemed to detach itself from the wall and stood in front of them. It was the owner of the club. “I do not need to know the offense but I can tell it had been grievous, Maschelly,” Viscount Worsely said, his gaze stark and compassionate. “Durham will be blackballed from my club.”

  James stared at the viscount. “He is a future duke.”

  Worsely smiled. “And you are my friend.”

  James nodded. The viscount's eyes touched on her face, and then he bowed. "Lady Verity."

  It felt odd that her reputation had just been irrevocably ruined, yet here she stood, dispassionately unruffled. "Lord Worsely," she said, with a slight dip of her head.

  Then she looked at James, and that was all that had been needed. Without another word, he led her through the smoky and raucous interior of the gambling den to his carriage outside.

  Chapter 14

  Once inside the carriage, Verity leaned back against the squabs, but a tight tension held her rigid. Her future was now vague and uncertain. All the plans of marriage and a future away from her family had been dealt a severe blow. But Lord Durham had been dueled using fists, and she believed the man would never dare to approach or look at her again. The certainty crawled into her heart, burrowed deep, and filled Verity with the most fantastic sense of peace.

  I will absolutely kill you.

  James's conviction had rung with ruthless truth, and she believed he meant every chilling word. As they stared at each other in the low lantern glow, her entire being seemed to be filled with a sense of waiting. She spied heart rendering tenderness in the gaze upon her body. Her heart jolted, and her pulse pounded.

  “Are you hurt,” he asked gruffly.

  “There is a small ache in my arm, but it is not worrying. Thank you, James,” she whispered.

  “You should not be thanking me,” he snarled, raking fingers through his hair. James's jaw tensed visibly. "Your reputation has received a severe blow. I will do all in my power to fix it, Verity.”

  “I shall not allow it. It was my choice to reveal myself to him in such a place. There is no need to take on any more of my burden.”

  “Nothing about you is a burden or could ever be. And you…you were a burning flame of fearlessness. Never doubt it for a minute.”

  His assurance wrapped around her like a warm blanket.

  “Let me take you home, and tomorrow I shall visit—”

  “No,” she said with passionate certainty. “Take me to your home, James.”

  “Verity,” he groaned. “The scandal of the season just happened. The news will be over town like wildfire. The best place for you to be—”

  Her heart leaped. “James.”

  They stared at each other in a tense silence that throbbed with perilous awareness. Nervously she moistened her lips. “I know what has been lost! My reputation…and the hopes I had for the season have vanished like ashes in the wind.”

  She held out her hands which trembled, and a smile quivered on her lips even as tears filled her eyes. "But I also know what I have gained: my freedom, my pride, and my honor. I am going to drink at least two glasses of whisky, and I shall not give a damn! Then I shall head home." A blush heated her cheeks at the profanity, and she glanced away from his unflinching regard.

  James knocked on the roof twice and the coachman replied, “Yes, milord?”

  “Head to my townhouse.”

  “Yes, milord.” The carriage rumbled with speed as if the coachman had sensed the dreadful tension and urgency from inside. Once they reached his townhouse, he helped her down from the coach, and they walked up to the front door. He fished keys from his pockets and opened the door. The house was dark, and it was evident the butler had not waited up for him. They made their way to the library, where a little fire burned in the hearth, casting the room in more shadows than anything else.

  He went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “Would you like a drink? The options are whisky, port, sherry.” There was a dangerous edge to his tone.

  She locked the door with a snick. A thick, heavy silence blanketed the library. Verity needed his kisses and soothing touch to calm the wild, primal urges throbbing through her. Steadying her erratic pulse was impossible. "When I first thought about approaching you for lessons, I was so nervous. Your reputation about town is one of such wickedness, James."

  He glanced at her, before engulfing the contents of his glass in one swallow. The look in his eyes did something to her. The blatant heat and admiration caused her belly to tighten. “I’ve only ever seen the sweet gentleman.”

  His eyes lit with tender amusement. “Sweet?”

  She sauntered over to him, lifted a finger, and stroked along his chiseled jawline. His hand darted out, snaked around her waist, and pulled her roughly, almost violently against his body. She inhaled sharply at the contact, tipped on to her toes, and kissed him, swallowing his grunt of surprise.

  The empty glass dropped onto the thick carpet with a thud.

  She kissed him, curling her tongue over his, tasting and consuming him, before pulling away to say, “Oh, yes, so very sweet.”

  The fingers around her waist tightened even more. “Tonight I want that wicked seducer that is whispered about," she breathed against his lips. "I never want to close my eyes again and remember another body atop mine. It must only be you.”

  “And in the morning?” he asked gruffly, gripping her chin, and staring into her face.

  His touch was almost unbearable in its tenderness, and her heart knocked painfully inside her chest. “And in the morning…”

  They stared at each other. He released her chin and thrust his fingers into her tangled hair. The hold was firm, domineering, and possessive.

  “And in the morning, what will we be, Verity?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

  “And in the morning, we shall still be friends,” she said hoarsely, tears pricking behind her eyelids. And Verity sensed it was a lie. Everything was different. Something had changed, but she couldn’t identify what. And she could not imagine their path forward with the scandal that now surrounded her name.

  Tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks. His thumb brushed away the evidence, and he stared at her with such desperate need she trembled. “Do you have any idea how much I've wanted you?” His uneven tone scraped against her senses with its rich sensuality.

  “Then show me,” she whispered achingly.

  “Verity,” James said, pressing a kiss of violent tenderness against her forehead. “I am weak…weak for you.” The admission echoed like a curse. He brushed soft kisses on the tip of her nose, then her eyes, then briefly over her trembling lips. “I’ll not be able to resist you, so for God’s sake, please—”

  She caught the rest of his words with her mouth and poured all the raw emotions pounding through her into the kiss. He responded, he took over, and he kissed her with ravishing expertise until she trembled in his embrace. His tongue slowly stroked hers, and she gave herself over to the hot, languid sensations building within her. She hadn't known…dear God, she hadn't known pleasure like this existed, not from a kiss. Verity became lost entirely in the taste, the scent, and the feel of him.

  His large hands cupped her cheeks, their mouths barely separated , and they breathed raggedly.

  “This is adrenaline coursing through you. The hunger thrumming through you, the primal need always happens after a fight. It will pass, Verity.” His tone was rough with an erotic warning as his hands tightened on her hips.

  “What I feel for you, James will never pass. You torment my dreams. You enter a room, and my heart beats, and eve
n long after I have left your presence, there is a smile, a happiness in my soul I cannot explain, only want to bask in. You make me feel, James. I feel bound by touch.” She kissed the corner of his mouth, and down to his collarbone.

  A harsh groan vibrated from his chest. Aroused shock almost felled her when he tugged at the buttons of her trousers and delved deep inside to her wet slit. She shifted, breathing deeply, certain she would collapse at his feet. Verity fisted his shirt and jerked to the tip of her toes when he pushed a finger inside of her. There was a tight pinch, a feeling of being stretched, and…and vibrant sensations of lust.

  “I’ll not fit,” he said with such harsh sensuality a shiver tore through her.

  She bit his lower lip and then sucked gently to soothe the skin. Verity wasn't altogether sure to what he referred to, but she said, “You’ll make it fit.”

  The unintentional provocative assurance settled over them like a heated, sensual blanket.

  Holding her gaze, he slipped another finger inside of her, and a cry broke from her throat, a surge of heat arrowed through her belly and lower…to right where he had invaded. His fingers moved, a thumb raked over her sensitive nub, wetness coated his fingers, and a broken cry of need escaped Verity as she responded with wantonness.

  He withdrew his touch from her wet sex, and holding her eyes with his, James undressed her. It took so much courage not to ask him to extinguish the lights. Everything felt so wicked. He removed the evening jacket, waistcoat, shirt, and cravat. He unwrapped her bound breasts with gentleness, but there was nothing tender in the gaze that stared at her breasts once they were revealed. He bent his dark head and brushed a light kiss over the mounds of her breasts. With a groan he lifted her into his arms with an arousing display of strength, walked with her over to the sofa by the windows, and lowered them, so she sat astride him.