A Wicked Kind of Husband

by Mia Vincy

  “And how was Lady B.?”

  “Lady B. is the most awful woman I have ever had the misfortune to encounter! She insisted it was true.”

  An odd chill shivered through him. If Cassandra believed the woman, if that was why she was upset…

  “But she had this knowing smirk on her face the whole time,” she continued, to his relief. “She even said it was romantic that her husband thought she was worth fifty thousand pounds! Heavens! Even you are more romantic than that.”

  “Romantic for a pimp, I suppose.”

  “For a what?”

  “A man who procures customers for prostitutes. Did your governess teach you nothing?”

  Half a smile. “I must have had a headache that day.”

  Their eyes met across the carriage. If he really wanted to improve her mood, he would go to her, hold her, kiss her. And then—what? Then what?

  “What else did she say?” he said.

  She huffed out. “That she could not help herself: She was overwhelmed by your charm and consideration. So I knew she had the wrong man.”

  “Indeed. What a shame women cannot give evidence in adultery trials. If she said that, they’d be laughed out of court.”

  “Then she mentioned your birthmark, as proof that she had seen you…” She waved a hand at him, looked away, her color rising again. “She said it is like a little horseshoe on your right thigh. Is that true?”

  He would be on trial before all of London shortly, but this was the trial that mattered the most. He regretted, suddenly, ever sleeping with any other woman at all. It was hard to imagine wanting anyone else now.

  “Other people would know of it too,” he pointed out. “They could have told her.”

  “The old birthmark-as-proof-of-seduction ruse?” she said dismissively. “It shows up in Shakespeare and folk stories all the time. It was merely awkward that I had no idea either way. So I said that was no proof and I asked her to describe your…”

  “My what?”

  With a pointed glance, she indicated his groin, looked at him, blushed, and looked away.

  “My dear Mrs. DeWitt! I am shocked! Also, I am very proud of you,” he added.

  Her eyes danced with mischievous glee. “I thought, ‘What would Mr. DeWitt say in this situation?’ and that is what I came up with. You are a terrible influence on me.”

  “I am an excellent influence. And?” he demanded. “What did she say? About my sugar stick.”

  “Your…? Oh. You are so vain.”

  “If ladies discuss me in such intimate terms, I have a right to know what they are saying.”

  She drew a breath to compose herself and gamely looked him in the eye. “She said it looked like all the others she’d ever seen.”

  “How many is she comparing it to?”

  “I forbore to ask.”

  She was trying to look prim, and failing, for she had a glint in her eye and a smile playing around her lips.

  “What did you say to that?” he asked.

  “What could I say? Yours is the only one I’ve ever seen and that only fleetingly.”

  “Then let me tell you: She’s wrong. Mine is better than all the others. It’s bigger and stronger, and more handsome and more noble.”

  “All that!” She opened her eyes wide. “Magical too, I suppose?”

  “It can do tricks.”

  “For example?”

  “It can sit up and beg.”

  She groaned with what sounded like amused horror. A moment later, she broke: She covered her face with her hands and laughed, her shoulders shaking. He was half out of his seat to cross the carriage to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she had stopped laughing and was breathless with desire instead.

  But he couldn’t do that, so he settled back in his seat and enjoyed watching her. Enjoyed the way her laughter washed over him, rippled all the way to his groin. It took him by surprise, that desire could flare up, so hot and intense, simply from the pleasure of her company.

  Chapter 13

  By the time they were inside and peeling off their outerwear, Cassandra was once more the polite, well-behaved lady. Joshua could not decide if he was irritated that she hid her playful, bawdy side, or thrilled that he alone knew her secret.

  Either way, it was irrelevant. It had been an entertaining interlude, and now he had work to do.

  He turned to tell her precisely that, only to see her hand off her bonnet and gloves to the waiting footman and take hold of the fat tassels fastening her pelisse.

  “You called me ‘darling’,” he said instead.

  “He was annoying me.”

  “You kissed him, I suppose.”

  Her head jerked up. She glanced at the footman, who disappeared so quickly he almost sprained something.

  “Bolderwood,” he clarified.

  “Not today I didn’t.”

  “But before.”

  “We were engaged. So yes.”

  She tugged at the tassels, untied the bow. As he anticipated, the pelisse fell open and she briskly slid it off her shoulders.

  As for kissing Bolderwood, she apparently felt no need to elaborate. Fair enough: Nothing to elaborate on. The whole matter was settled and of no interest whatsoever. He had work to do.

  “Anyone else?” he asked.

  Finally, he had her attention. “Are you jealous, Mr. DeWitt?”

  “Be dreadful for me to be chatting with some fellow, and the whole time he knows he has kissed you and I do not. I did you the courtesy of telling you about my liaisons.”

  “That was a courtesy, was it?” she muttered, and stood before the small mirror to check her hair. “No one else. Except Hugh Hopefield, but I was only fifteen and he kissed everybody.”

  She looked at him then, and the entrance hall filled up with everything that lay between them: Her longing—His desire—Their new camaraderie—Her secrets—Their kiss. She had that look on her face, the one she got before she made an impossible request. He had to stop it now.

  “Right, I’ve wasted enough time today.” He clapped his hands once. “I have work to do.”

  Success! She did that trick again: She pasted a polite smile over whatever she had been about to say. He had seen her use politeness as a sword and as a warship; now she used it as a wall, and if he was shut out, it was all his fault.

  “Quite,” she said.

  And as if he were already gone, she started shuffling through the cards and letters on the salver, sorting them into two piles. She paused at an unsealed note, unfolded it, and began to read.

  “Right,” he said again.

  She did not look up, so he turned and headed for his study. But after only three steps—

  “Joshua!”

  He spun around. “Yes?”

  “This note is from Sir Gordon Bell. He says he will learn what he can about Lord Bolderwood’s case and call on us here tomorrow.”

  “You already wrote to him?”

  She held out the piece of paper. “Before I went to the warehouse.”

  He ignored the note. “Before you asked me.”

  “I should not want to waste time,” she said, an edge to her voice. “After all, you are always so busy.”

  She tossed the note onto one of the piles. It tumbled straight off but she ignored it. Instead, she picked up the other, smaller pile and brushed past him for the stairs.

  Joshua stood where he was until her skirts had disappeared from view. Right. His study was straight down the hallway, with all the work that awaited him.

  Yet somehow his legs took him up the stairs too.

  Joshua looked about the drawing room with mild curiosity. As he had no need for drawing rooms, he had never entered this room; Cosway had overseen its furnishings. Airy—Feminine—Blue walls and carpets—Useless ornaments—Pianoforte. Ah, so that’s where the music came from.

  It also had a writing desk, where Cassandra now stood, going through her correspondence.

  “I thought you had work to do,” she
said.

  “I do. Important decisions to make. That’s what I do, you know. I make decisions all day.”

  Not that he could think of a single thing right now, but he had lists on his desk and Das would show up sooner or later. He crossed to the window, inspected the street and the park on its other side, and when he found nothing to complain about, turned back to face her.

  Cassandra still stood expectantly, politely, letter in hand.

  “So you’ve only ever kissed two men in your life,” he said.

  She dropped the letter onto the desk. “Three. I kissed you last night.”

  And he could still taste her, still feel her body curved against his as she slept. “You were drunk. It doesn’t count.”

  Why in blazes had he started a discussion about kisses? Especially since she had declared her hand: She wanted him to kiss her, impregnate her, and go. Of course she would go. Everyone always did. Only his work was reliable.

  If he went now, he would save them both a lot of heartache.

  He did not move.

  “If I kissed you now,” she said, in a voice like rose petals, “would that count?”

  The sensible part of his brain tried to wrest back control, to ward her off. Insult her, mock her, tease her, leave her.

  But the sensible part of his brain was silenced by the sight of her, as she swallowed nervously, gripped her skirts, and then smoothed them down. Then she took one step toward him, two, three…

  She moved slowly. He had time to escape. But suddenly she was right in front of him. Standing this close, in the daylight, he began to understand the trick of her eyes: They were a mix of golden-brown and green and he could look at them all day. Except that he also wanted to look at her cheeks, soft as petals and warm as life, and her mouth, those plump, curved lips that had caressed his last night.

  Desire stirred with an eager savagery. Time to stop lying about why he had followed her up here.

  “Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. DeWitt?”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she said with some asperity. “Although I should not need to seduce you. The door to my chamber is open. You may come in any time you like.”

  “You can start by making it sound more appealing than inviting the vicar’s wife for tea.”

  “Oh.”

  She looked so sweetly uncertain that he almost relented. Then her face brightened.

  “I’ll wear my nightcap,” she offered.

  The laughter caught him unawares, as did the surge in desire. She looked so pleased with herself for making him laugh that he couldn’t resist catching her face in his hands.

  “It’s working already,” she said softly. “I’m making excellent progress.”

  He leaped away, clasped his hands behind his back. He roved around the room, aiming for the exit, the stairs, his study, yet somehow missing the door on each circuit.

  “Would it be so dreadful?” Hurt threaded through her voice and sliced through his chest. “I am your wife.”

  “You didn’t enjoy the wedding night.”

  “That doesn’t matter. But if you need to enjoy it, tell me what to do. I am happy to do my duty.”

  Duty. He hated that word. Bloody polite-speak for “I’ll suffer through it in the hope there’s a child at the end.”

  He slumped against a wall. One way or another, he had to decide. He made decisions every day but he could not make this one.

  What she wanted from him: A child. What he wanted from her: To lose himself in her welcoming warmth. End result: Cassandra lying still under the covers in the dark, gritting her teeth, thinking only of the children she would bear. And once she had what she wanted, sending him away and leaving him alone again. And if she did get with child…Oh sweet mercy, then what? Then what? Then what? That was the chant of his heart as it thumped in his chest.

  Then everything would change, and he did not want anything to change.

  Suddenly, he was irritated with her.

  “You’re difficult,” he snapped.

  She straightened and gaped at him. “I am the least difficult woman in the world. You know where the bedroom door is.”

  “Exactly.” Unable to stand still, he resumed his pacing. “You are accessible, available, and compliant.”

  “Then I am easy, not difficult. You can take me as easily as—as—as a piece of candied lemon.”

  “You are not candied lemon. Candied lemon is not complicated. You are very complicated.”

  “Heavens, Joshua, you make as much sense as an Italian opera. I want children, I know how they are made, and I am aware of my duty as your wife. How is that complicated?”

  “I am not one of those men who is aroused by a woman’s obedience.”

  She was clearly puzzled, poor thing. “You want me to be disobedient?”

  “I’m not aroused by disobedience either.”

  “By what are you…aroused?”

  By passion, he wanted to say. By knowing that you want me as much as I want you, not because it’s your duty or because there’s a baby at the end of it, but because you want to share pleasure with me and you will never leave. But he couldn’t say that, because the next thing he knew, she’d be acting that out for him, and that would only end in babies and tears.

  He groped for an answer, for an end to this entire conversation. He felt helpless, indecisive, unsure: He did not recognize this version of himself. From somewhere downstairs, he heard the front door, male voices. Das, most likely. He needed to decide. Put a stop to this, once and for all. Send her away. Get back to work. Find a lover, even. Anything to put his life back to how it was. Much more disruption and his life would fall apart. No, it wouldn’t. He had forged something too solid, too strong. His world was his business, and his business would never fall apart.

  But oh, sweet mercy, to put it all aside for a moment, just a moment, to forget the whole world except for this woman. He wanted to tear off her gown, release her hair. Stir her desire, make her want him so badly she forgot all about politeness and duty. He needed her wild, suddenly. He wanted her raw.

  “Did you hate it when I kissed you last night?” she asked.

  “No. But you might hate it if I kissed you.”

  “Why?”

  “You are so nice and polite, my darling Cassandra.”

  He advanced on her, the curve of the pianoforte at her back. She made no attempt to escape, and he easily caged her in. What the blazes are you doing?—No harm done—Get away from her—One time won’t hurt.

  Then what? Then what? Then what? pounded out his heart.

  “If I kissed you, it would not be nice,” he said. “It would not be polite. It would be…”

  He leaned in. She swayed back. He paused. She paused. Then he leaned in again, and this time she stayed still, though her breath came in warm, ragged puffs. When he took hold of her skirts, she yelped, then pressed her lips together. With wide eyes, she stared at him, as he inched up those skirts.

  One inch…

  Another inch…

  Another inch—

  Then the door crashed open and Joshua was clutching air, as she ducked under his arm and crossed the room.

  “Bloody hell, what is it now?” he snapped and pivoted toward the doorway.

  And everything stopped again.

  The man who stood there was not one of the servants, nor one of his secretaries. Joshua did not recognize the man, but he knew him anyway.

  A young man, a few years younger than him. A tall man, not as tall as Joshua, but wiry and strong, with similar coloring and similar features. Longer hair, tied in a queue, the way some sailors wore it. Weathered skin, as if he spent a lot of time outside, in the Navy perhaps. A walking stick, as if he had sustained an injury in the Navy and been discharged.

  Joshua’s overworked heart skipped, stopped, thudded, and he tried to tell himself it had nothing to do with this man, because this man was not a man he knew. He did not want to know him. It had been too long.

  “What
the blazes do you want?” he said.

  “It’s me. Isaac,” the man said. “Your brother.”

  It took Cassandra a few moments to catch up with what was happening, as her dazed mind and heated, pulsing body tried to recover from Joshua’s closeness. She even felt a flash of uncharacteristic irritation with the newcomer, until she looked at him properly and realized what he had said.

  This was Isaac! Joshua’s brother! She started forward, already smiling in welcome, when she realized that Joshua was still. Very, very still.

  She paused, looking from one brother to the other.

  “And?” Joshua said abruptly. “I sent you money. If you want more, tell Das.”

  Then he was moving again, toward the door. He brushed past Isaac, at full whirlwind stride. Hurt flashed over Isaac’s face, and Cassandra stared in confusion. As far as she knew, Isaac was ten years old when Joshua had seen him last. How could he possibly bear him any animosity?

  “I don’t need money,” Isaac called to Joshua’s retreating back as he reached the top of the stairs. “As I wrote, I wanted to—”

  “I’m busy.” Joshua whirled around. “I cannot see what else we have to say to each other. I don’t have time for this.”

  Cassandra rushed forward. “Joshua! Please. This is your brother.”

  “Barely. I’ve not seen the boy in fourteen years.”

  “We can’t—”

  “Not more nagging,” he snapped. He barely looked at her. “I’ve wasted enough time this morning on your idiotic notions.”

  She recoiled, stung. A moment ago, they had been about to kiss. An hour ago, they had been friends and allies. And now—

  Now he was leaping down the stairs, taking them two at a time in his haste to get away.

  Isaac stared after him. He was a couple of years older than her, and was no doubt confident in his own domain, but now he seemed lost and alone.

  Curse her husband.

  She dashed down the stairs, just in time to see Joshua barge past Mr. Das with a terse “Das, we’re going out,” scoop up his outerwear, and charge out the door.

  Mr. Das, still in his coat and hat, bowed easily to Cassandra, apparently inured to Joshua’s ways after all these years. Perhaps in a few years, she would be inured to him too. A few years? He would not even give her a few hours. And he called her complicated!