A Wicked Kind of Husband

by Mia Vincy

  The pink feathers in her hair quivered, but otherwise she seemed calm and dignified. For once, it was Lucy who appeared unsettled, fearing retribution.

  Yet Cassandra merely smiled. “You’re right. I should drink more,” she said.

  Holding the coat together with one hand, she took the last full glass of champagne from the idiotic footman’s tray.

  “A toast to my dear sister Lucy, for her unforgettable debut.”

  She took a sip, Lucy laughed, and Cassandra tossed the drink in her face.

  Chapter 26

  With a wild screech, Lucy pounced. She tore the pink feathers from Cassandra’s head and waved them triumphantly. Cassandra, one hand clutching the coat, the other at her hair, had no chance to retaliate before Joshua tossed Lucy over his shoulder and marched for the nearest door.

  Then Arabella was holding Cassandra’s right arm and Lord Hardbury held her left, and they guided her outside and packed her into their carriage to take her the few blocks home. She buried her face in Joshua’s coat and inhaled him, her mind still on the shambles of the ball and social debris left in their wake.

  When she stumbled through the front door, Joshua and Lucy were nowhere to be seen. Arabella offered to stay with her, but Cassandra wanted to be by herself.

  Whoever that self might be.

  Numbly, she dumped her outerwear in the entrance and climbed the stairs to her room, listening to the sounds from the floor above. She needed a maid to help her undress but had no will to call. She had no will to do anything but press her forearm to the wall, and rest her forehead on her forearm, and wait for the world to end.

  She felt rather than heard Joshua come in and lock the door. She didn’t move, but every one of her senses tracked his presence.

  Three glissades of her dancing heart later, he enveloped her in his solid heat. His arms were strong and sure around her waist, and his chest made a safe, sturdy wall against her back. How lovely to be wrapped up in him like this. If someone attacked her, he would shield her. If her legs gave way, he would catch her before she fell.

  His lips brushed over her jaw. “You outdid yourself tonight, my sweet,” he murmured.

  “Are you laughing?”

  “Only on the inside.”

  He nuzzled her again, half caress, half tickle, and she tilted her neck for more. His scent filled her senses and his caress rippled out over her body, cascading over her skin like warm water.

  “Are you planning to stand against the wall all night?” he asked.

  “For the rest of my life, I think.”

  Oh, how she loved his soft chuckle. It belonged to her alone, to their intimate moments together.

  When he detached himself, she kept her face to the wall and mourned his absence, but he did not go far: He tugged the pins from her hair and let them fall. His fingers combed through her hair, lifting its weight, letting it tumble down over her shoulders and back, languidly as if he had all the time in the world and nothing better to do than play with her curls.

  “Where is Ruth?” she managed to say.

  “With Lucy. I shall be your lady’s maid tonight.”

  He gathered her hair over one shoulder and, with nimble fingers, unbuttoned her gown. She lowered her arms long enough for him slide the sleeves over her shoulders. He chased the gown down her body with his fingers, his hands grazing her waist, her hips, her legs, all the way to the floor. Every touch injected new vigor into her body, as though she were a doll in a story and he the magician bringing her to life. Doll-like, she lifted one foot and then the other so he could pull the gown away.

  Still she had not looked at him. Hope shimmered through her but it tangled with the dark fear that if she looked at him, this would end and he would leave her again. She replaced her arm on the wall and rested her forehead on it again.

  A few tugs of his nimble fingers and her corset also fell away.

  “I make a good lady’s maid, don’t I?” he said.

  Once more, his body enfolded her. His nibbling lips at her throat sent new invitations to pleasure that her body was eager to accept.

  “My lady’s maid never did that,” she whispered.

  He responded by cupping her breasts and teasing her nipples with his thumbs.

  She leaned back into him. “She never did that either.”

  “What would you do if she did?”

  “Give her a raise, probably.”

  Another intimate chuckle. How she loved the way she could feel his laugh with her body. She arched her back and rested her head against his shoulder, and enjoyed his enticements.

  “Will you dress me in all my nightclothes now?” she asked. “My shift and bed jacket and nightcap?”

  “I shall dress you in your nightcap and absolutely nothing else.”

  “Oh, you are wicked.”

  “I’m wicked? You’re the one who’ll be running around in nothing but your nightcap.”

  Desire and joy spiraled through her. And his teasing! If only this moment were a solid thing that she could embrace and keep forever. His desire, his kindness: She did not know if they were enough. But she needed him now, and he was there, and that would have to do.

  “I want to feel you everywhere,” she whispered. “I want my world to be nothing but you.”

  All at once his caresses stopped and she thought: There, now I’ve done it, now he will go. But he did not move away. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and rested his lips on her shoulder.

  “Joshua?”

  “I’m here.”

  He was less leisurely this time as he tugged up her shift and she helped him pull it over her head. When he came back to her, he had removed his clothes too, and his hot skin melded to hers, the promising length of his erection pressed against her. He squeezed her inner thighs and she whimpered.

  “Hold on to the wall, sweetheart,” he growled in her ear. “Let me take care of you.”

  “You can do it here?”

  “I can do anything you want. Inventive problem-solver, remember?”

  Without warning, he quickened his fingers in her neediest part, and she pressed into the wall and pushed back against him and tried to stay upright as he stroked her with such relentless ferocity that she gasped and pounded at the wall with her fists. He pulled back her hips, plunged deep inside her, filled her completely, and did not let her go, and she was nothing, nothing but sensation and love and him, woman and man and pleasure and hope. When bliss rippled over her, melting her limbs, those strong arms held her up and did not let her fall. He held her up and thrust into her, demanding and powerful, dynamic and rude, and she held on, she held on, and wished she could hold on forever and never let him go.

  Once he had carried Cassandra to bed, Joshua climbed in beside her, because it would be ludicrous to go when he would only leave half of himself here. She snuggled up against him, her hand spread over his chest as if to hold him down, and he surrendered to the contentment.

  Then she laughed warm puffs of air and traced little swirls on his skin.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Lady B.’s face. Oh, I’ve never been so angry in my life.”

  “How did you know about their games in the bedroom?”

  “I’m not as naive as I was.”

  “You never breathed a word.”

  “One does not speak of such things,” she said primly.

  “Clearly one does,” he retorted. “Never tell me you reached that conclusion alone.”

  Caught out, she squirmed, and he savored the movement of her softness.

  “I confess that Arabella and I discussed it. One time. But it’s all right,” she hastened to add. “We are married women.”

  “I swear, you make up these rules as you go along.”

  Her fingertips traced careless circles around his nipples. “It’s over for Lord and Lady Bolderwood, I think.”

  “They overestimated themselves.”

  “And for Lucy too. Her Season is over.”

  “On the upside, if
we can track down that Scotsman, we can pack her off to the Highlands. Shame it wasn’t an American, though. Or a Brazilian. Brazil might be almost far enough.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “Where did I go so wrong?”

  He pressed his lips to her hair, breathed her in. “You did what you could. She’s nineteen and old enough to make her own choices. And for some reason, she chose to ruin herself.”

  “I suppose tomorrow we might as well head straight back to Sunne Park.”

  Just like that, this was their last night. He lay too still and listened to her breathe. Her fingers had stopped teasing and she was too still too.

  A few more nights would not hurt. His life was in Birmingham, hers at her estate, but they could still have a few more nights.

  “You’re here now,” he said, sounding stupid and strained. “No need to go rushing back. If you can still show your face here.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes closed, so they don’t see me.”

  Oh sweet mercy, the sheer delight of her!

  “I heard of a physician who specializes in weaning people off drugs,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you’d like to meet him.”

  She lifted herself up and stared at him, but the dim light masked her expression.

  “To discuss your mother,” he clarified.

  Her fingertips pressed into his chest and she brushed her lips over his cheek. Lingered. “Thank you. Yes.” She dropped back against him. “You will go back to Birmingham soon?”

  “Soon. That’s where my life is.” He tangled his fingers in her hair, and his heart kicked up too hard. She would feel that. She would know. “We could all travel together,” he suggested. “I could break my journey at Sunne Park. Meet these famous pigs you’re always blathering on about.”

  “That would be nice.”

  His heart settled. The silence and the darkness mingled with her presence and bathed him in contentment. She shifted off him and turned over, and he curled himself around her.

  The house had almost settled for the night; no sounds but the uneven footsteps of Isaac heading up to his room. Cassandra was soft and her breathing was even, and it was only because he thought she slept that he spoke.

  “Are you with child?” he whispered into the night.

  She stirred. He ought not have asked. “It’s too soon to tell.”

  “When will you know? I want to know.”

  “Hush. We must be patient.”

  He caught himself tensing his muscles and willed them to relax. “It seems like an inefficient system to me.”

  “And yet babies keep on getting born.”

  “That’s human ingenuity, that is.”

  “Oh, is that what you call it?”

  He fancied she sounded strained too, but he could hardly tell what was real anymore.

  “I could stay until you know, before I go home to Birmingham,” he said. “If that’s what you want.”

  She said nothing, and nothing, until her nothing grew so heavy it almost crushed him.

  I want you, he wanted her to say. I want you, with or without a child. But that was merely his vanity talking, his selfishness. His life was in Birmingham and everything he wanted now was there. It was just that sometimes he got confused, because Cassandra felt so good, and there was no shame in caring about her, and they’d had an odd night, and everything had been topsy-turvy since she arrived.

  But he had made the promise now.

  “About the child, I mean,” he clarified.

  “Yes.”

  “So that’s settled then.”

  She was still. Stiff. She did not move, but a gap opened up between them anyway, and he did not know what he had done wrong or how he had misunderstood.

  But then she spun in his arms and threw herself onto him, her hands and mouth attacking him with a startling hunger and passion. He had no time to wonder, as his desire flamed and burned everything else to ash. She climbed on top of him and he welcomed her. Urged her, breathlessly, to take him and hungrily, greedily, took as much of her as he could. He knew her passion was fired by her longing for a child, he knew that, but if he focused on the sensations, he could almost believe it was her longing for him, because if she longed hard enough, and loved him hard enough, then it would be safe to hold onto her, for they would never fall apart.

  Chapter 27

  The next day, Cassandra woke late, and alone. She stretched with contentment in the warm bed, until she remembered the detritus of her life. The thought of facing her sisters at breakfast made her feel faint, and perhaps Joshua had anticipated that, for he had sent up a pot of tea and a slice of pound cake, along with a rose, and she wondered if that was his idea or if he’d simply told the servants to send what she liked, and she decided it didn’t matter, because he would leave in the end anyway.

  She looked at the tea and cake, and remembered his words, and felt nauseous. This is regret making me ill, she thought. She had never imagined she was betraying herself, when she agreed that when it was over with Lucy and the Bolderwoods, it would be over with them. She had agreed. She had even wanted it.

  His own position was plain: He would leave her as soon as she confirmed that she was with child. The child he intended to ignore. It was a victory, of sorts: At least she was getting a baby out of it. Oh, yes, a triumph indeed. She almost wished she could never get pregnant, because then he could never leave.

  But it didn’t work like that. One way or another, he would go. She must take what she could and be glad for it.

  She was composing letters in her mind when music drifted up from the drawing room. At first, she simply sat and listened before she decided to be brave and headed downstairs.

  It was a cozy scene: Lucy at the pianoforte, Isaac hovering near her, Emily flipping through a book, making idle comments, and Mr. Newell perusing a newspaper.

  One by one, they became aware of her in the doorway, stopped what they were doing, and turned. They all stared at her, like actors in a play where no one knew the next line. They were all waiting. For her. Whatever happened next in her little family, it was up to her.

  Cassandra turned to Lucy. The room grew so big she might as well be on a stage before a breathless audience of four thousand rather than four.

  “What’s that music you’re playing, Lucy?” she asked, amiably. “I don’t think I know that tune.”

  Three heads swiveled to look at Lucy, for the next line was hers.

  Lucy stroked the keys and adjusted the sheet of music unnecessarily. “Isaac bought a bunch of songs yesterday, and I’m trying them out,” she said. “This one is my favorite so far.”

  “Oh dear, Isaac.” Cassandra tried to stay cheerful and amiable. “I hope they aren’t, ah, sailors’ songs.”

  He looked a bit sheepish. “They seem all right to me, but to be honest, I find it hard to tell. Perhaps I’ll learn what’s proper as I keep better company.”

  “Better company? You won’t find that around here,” Cassandra said dryly.

  Inadvertently, she met Lucy’s eyes, and she thought she saw the glint of a conspiratorial smile.

  “Mrs. DeWitt?” Mr. Newell waved his hand in the air. “I checked all the songs, Mrs. DeWitt. I assure you they are not unsuitable.”

  “Mr. Newell, you are a godsend.”

  Another pause. A thousand different futures lay before them.

  Cassandra said, “Very well, Lucy. Let’s hear you sing this one.”

  She looked at Lucy, and Lucy looked at her, and everyone looked at both of them, and then Lucy said, “It’s called ‘The Skylark’s Dream’.”

  Lucy began to play the pretty tune, and sing the pretty words, in her not-drunk, pure mezzo alto. Isaac prepared to turn the pages, the others returned to their reading, and Cassandra sat at the writing desk. No one asked what they would do next, and if they were to ask, Cassandra would say that they were staying in London a few more days, after which they would return to Sunne Park and carry on as if nothing had ever happened at all.
r />   Cassandra was on her seventh attempt at a letter to their grandmother, when the butler announced Lady Hardbury.

  Arabella swept in, elegant in a blue-and-white promenade gown. She paused and looked imperiously down her nose at them, but ruined her own effect when a wry smile curved her lips.

  “What a disappointment,” she drawled. “I had hoped for more blood and bruises. I was even prepared to help hide a body; Hardbury and I were placing bets on whose it would be.”

  “We are being very civilized,” Lucy said. “We are singing nice songs and saying nice things.”

  “And now you can put on your nice gowns so we can take a nice stroll in Hyde Park.”

  “Oh, can we?” said Emily, throwing an imploring look at Cassandra. “It is such a lovely day for a walk.”

  “A walk, before all of society?” That thought made her feel faint too. “I cannot face them, Arabella. They’ll give me the cut.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Arabella said. “They’ll be too busy gawking and pointing to give you the cut.”

  Cassandra laughed despite herself. “Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “We can go in disguise,” Emily suggested.

  “Stop worrying, Cassandra, it will not be as bad as you fear,” Arabella said. “You will be happy to learn that Lord and Lady Bolderwood absconded for the Continent last night, and everyone agrees they behaved disgracefully. Furthermore, you are widely liked, which makes it easier for others to overlook your transgressions. The best part—and I am exceedingly proud of this—is that Hardbury, Dammerton, Sir Gordon Bell, and I have put it about that throwing glasses is an ancient Warwickshire tradition performed for luck, and that perfectly respectable people do it all the time. And can you imagine? Most seem willing to believe it, and some even claim to have already known that.” She shook her head slightly. “It makes me wonder what other nonsense society will believe if the right people say it. Oh, and at least six gentlemen wish to court Lucy, and they hesitate only because they are unsure whether to seek permission from the Duke of Sherbourne or Mr. DeWitt.”