Wilde in Love

by Eloisa James

  Willa frowned. The poor animal was so terrified that she hated to think of him being manhandled immediately. “Leave him there for the time being,” she said. “He used Sweetpea’s box, which I thought was quite intelligent. And he devoured the chicken I gave him.”

  “Naturally he ate the chicken. I can see every one of his ribs. Don’t grow fond of that ugly creature, because I forbid you to keep it. I don’t want any memories of Appalling Parth.”

  “I won’t,” Willa promised. She stood up and put Sweetpea into her basket by the fireplace. “A nap sounds lovely; I believe I’ll take one as well.”

  “Do you need me to help with your riding habit before I go?” Lavinia asked. “My maid took a half-holiday, as did yours.”

  Since the house party was supposedly exploring King Arthur’s tomb, the butler had given the personal servants a holiday.

  Willa shook her head. “Everything fastens in front, including my corset. You?”

  “As well.” Another pitiable screech came from the balcony. “I think I’ll name that animal Parth,” Lavinia said thoughtfully.

  “Parth is an overly refined name for that particular cat,” Willa said, joining her in the balcony doorway.

  The tomcat had wedged himself into the corner of the marble balustrade. His fur had dried in mangy patches. “How about Hannibal?” Willa asked.

  “Wasn’t Hannibal a military commander?” Lavinia asked. “This cat looks nothing like a soldier.”

  “I don’t agree; he’s clearly a fighter!”

  After the door closed behind Lavinia, Willa stripped to her chemise and collapsed on the cool linen sheets with a sigh. A peppery-sweet scent drifted into the bedroom from the balcony. Mignonette, perhaps, or roses.

  She closed her eyes and thought about Alaric, emerging like Poseidon from the river, his thin shirt clinging to the sleek muscles of his abdomen. She’d never realized how much fun it would be to be naughty.

  Sinful, even.

  She stretched, thinking perhaps … but it was daytime. She didn’t want to pull covers over herself, since the afternoon was hot and sultry.

  Instead she curled up on her side, imagining that Alaric had followed her up the stairs. Imaginary Alaric entered her room and peeled off his shirt, tossing it to the side, a roguish smile on his face.

  Would he say something? Quote poetry? Perhaps poetry that talked of exploration—say, John Donne’s “Oh, my America, my newfound land”?

  No.

  In Willa’s estimation—she was a virgin, but she’d made a study of men—Alaric would give her a heavy-lidded look and not bother with speech.

  Her imagination first placed his hands on her back; now it willed them to her front. Her breasts were smaller than Lavinia’s, but they were nicely shaped, and in her imagination they fit neatly into his cupped hands. By the time her daydream became a little fuzzy, Alaric had lost his riding breeches. She wasn’t entirely sure what he would look like unclothed, so she drifted off to sleep thinking it over.

  She and Lavinia had studied the male anatomy, having found a couple of risqué books in Lord Gray’s library. But they had decided the depictions of male anatomy contained therein had to be exaggerated.

  But … in light of Alaric’s wet breeches?

  Perhaps not.

  WHEN HIS KNOCK remained unanswered after several long moments, Alaric pushed open the door of Willa’s bedchamber. It wasn’t as if Sweetpea could answer, and a handkerchief full of roly-polies could scarcely be left in the hallway.

  Willa was likely in the drawing room, or in the garden with Lavinia—

  No.

  She was curled on top of her bed, asleep. She’d unpinned her hair; dusky curls spread over the pillow. Dark eyelashes lay on her cheeks, a pink stain on her cheekbones, and her beautiful mouth was curved in a very slight smile. She was wearing a scrap of fabric that had drawn up tight around her thighs.

  He froze, gaping at her with the handkerchief of roly-polies in one hand and the open door in the other. When his gentleman’s training reasserted itself, he looked away, his eyes traveling slowly around her room as he weighed whether to quietly retreat or to give Sweetpea an afternoon snack. He’d gone to the trouble of finding the things, after all. It’d be a shame to deny Sweetpea.

  The hell with it. He had never been very good at being a gentleman. He closed the door and stepped toward the little skunk’s basket, not looking back at the bed—and uttered an involuntary curse.

  The basket contained the blighted tomcat Parth had insisted on bringing back from the river. The cat fixed an eye on Alaric, and his single ear flattened against his head as he emitted a threatening rumble that sounded like a far-off thunderstorm.

  Nestled in the center of a half-circle of matted orange fur was Sweetpea, her nose resting peacefully on one of the cat’s paws. Alaric took a step closer and the tom’s mangy tail rose in the air and thumped down once.

  Right.

  He emptied the contents of the handkerchief into the basket and stepped away.

  Willa was his, though she didn’t know it. And didn’t believe it. Possibly didn’t want him.

  No, she did want him. She’d trembled all over when he kissed her. Her eyes had clung to his chest when he walked from the water. They had dipped below his waist, and stayed there when he emerged in skintight, wet breeches. Since he had a constant cockstand around her, she had had an eyeful.

  Alaric went over to the bed and carefully lowered himself until he lay alongside her. Then he ran his hand down the riotous curls that fell over Willa’s shoulders. He didn’t let himself look below her neck.

  Gaping at a woman while she slept was distasteful, but brushing his lips along the warm curve of her cheek?

  Waking her up?

  “Evie,” he whispered, hoping his voice would drift into her dreams, rather than startle her.

  “Mmmm,” she sighed.

  Mine, said the beats of his heart.

  “May I kiss you?”

  She didn’t respond, so he slid his lips past the arch of her cheekbone to the silky gloss of her hair, and then to the delicate pink curve of her small ear. He was still kissing her ear when she made a happy sound and curled against him.

  Alaric froze. His blood was pounding through his body and his cock was so stiff that it hurt.

  “What did you say?” he whispered.

  “You’re talking,” she said, sounding inebriated. “For …” Her voice drifted away and she turned onto her back.

  “Evie,” Alaric said, after a few seconds’ thought informed him a gentleman would not ease her chemise farther up her leg.

  He had to wake her. He propped himself up on one elbow, kissing her face in earnest, kissing her forehead, the small bridge of her nose, the rounded point of her chin.

  She sighed, opening her lips. He was about to kiss her, really kiss her, when he realized that if he was kissing Willa Everett, he wanted her to be fully aware.

  He nipped her bottom lip and whispered, “Wake up.”

  She sighed and one hand flattened against his chest. He watched in amusement as her fingers flexed …

  Her eyes popped open.

  Another woman might have yelped or even screamed.

  But Willa looked at him and said sleepily, “Alaric, what are you doing in my bed?”

  “Lying next to you.” He met her eyes just long enough to make sure that she understood he wasn’t a figment of her imagination—and that she had no intention of pushing him out of her bed.

  Her blue eyes were no longer dreamy, but curious. Desirous. He bent over and kissed her hard and hungrily, his fingers sinking into her curls.

  To his enormous satisfaction, Willa wound her arms around his neck as if he’d woken her like this a hundred times before. Which he had every intention of doing. A silent promise arrowed through him.

  He would do whatever it took to convince her that he was the only man who would ever wake her with a kiss.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Wi
lla threw herself into Alaric’s kiss the way a moth throws itself at a candle.

  His kiss had a hint of the unknown, and at the same time, there was something familiar about it. He smelled a bit like the river, and a lot like lemon soap. He tasted a bit like Alaric and a lot like spearmint. He felt …

  Bringing her hands down from his neck and resting them on his shoulders fogged her brain and she couldn’t come up with a suitable comparison. Sleek muscles flexed under her hands and her pulse quickened.

  “I …” she gasped.

  Alaric pulled himself away with a mumbled word.

  “What did you just say?” she asked.

  “I can’t repeat it in a lady’s presence.” That was a wicked smile. Sinful.

  “You already said it, so you might as well repeat it.”

  “A man can take only so many liberties in one day,” Alaric told her. His face was so close to hers that she could see that his eyelashes, a dark golden brown, turned to pure gold at the tips.

  She brushed his right eyelash with a finger. “They are beautiful.”

  “What?”

  “Your eyelashes. They’re two colors.”

  He propped himself up on one elbow. “Yours are mink brown, and they curl up at the ends.”

  “Sometimes I color them black.” Willa was trying hard to be casual under non-casual circumstances, but it was difficult. Her legs were trembling, for one thing, and she felt as if she were growing more rosy by the moment.

  His eyes were ranging over her face, and although she didn’t know what he was thinking, she knew he approved.

  Willa cleared her throat, thinking it was time she suggest that he lever himself into a standing position and leave.

  He must have seen it in her eyes, because he promptly kissed her again. She hadn’t had much experience with this sort of kissing—the kind that seared her bones and her lungs with heat and made her feel breathless and hungry for more.

  One kiss led to another, or perhaps it was all the same kiss. After a while, Alaric wound his fingers back into her hair. Willa decided he was ensuring that he didn’t run his hands down her thighs, or over her breasts, or any of the places that were aching for his touch.

  “Alaric,” she murmured, the word sounding unnervingly like a plea.

  His shoulders bunched under her fingers as the delicious weight of his chest lifted away. His eyes had turned the steely blue of the ocean where it’s deep and cold.

  But his eyes were not cold.

  “Evie,” he answered, giving her a small, secret smile.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” If they were to keep kissing, she had to—to understand him better.

  “Anything.”

  “What kept you away from England for so long?”

  He had been watching her, but as he thought about her question, he turned onto his back and stared at the stone ceiling far above them.

  “Horatius died,” he said, his voice flattening. “I couldn’t imagine the castle without him. I loathed Lindow Moss because he lost his life there. I didn’t come home because it allowed me to pretend he wasn’t dead. That everyone I loved was still here.”

  “I’m sorry,” Willa said, carefully. “I’ve heard of him, but we never met.”

  A large, warm hand caught hers and held it against his chest. “I don’t think you would have liked him, at least, not until you came to know him very well.”

  “Certainly I would have,” Willa said stoutly.

  His eyes glinted at her, full of laughter. “Why do people always assume that the dead must have been delightful? Horatius was a royal ass. I loved him, but you wouldn’t have.”

  “You don’t know my preferences,” Willa said.

  “I know you do not like pretentious people. The color of your eyes changes when you think someone is being absurd. Horatius was often absurd.”

  Since she’d never seen her eyes in that circumstance, she could hardly counter his observation.

  “He was as stuffed full of virtue as a pincushion is with pins,” Alaric continued, his hand pressing hers tightly against his chest. “He was so intent on perfection that his halo gleamed. If there’s a heaven, he’s up there with a banner establishing that his is the topmost cloud. His harp is the largest.”

  “You wouldn’t want him to be on a basement cloud,” Willa pointed out. “May I ask how he died? I mean, I know he died in Lindow Moss, but what happened?”

  Alaric turned his head again and met her eyes. “Foolishness. It’s not impossible to cross the bog at night, but he was drunk.”

  Willa’s fingers tightened on the warm muscles layering his chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning over and kissing his jaw.

  “He was such a fool,” Alaric said. “If you ever find yourself caught in the bog, don’t move until you’re rescued.” His voice was sad, with a tinge of anger. “We couldn’t even recover his body. He has a gravestone, but the coffin was empty.”

  “For years, I was furious at my parents for dying and leaving me,” Willa offered.

  “Raging at the dead is useless,” Alaric said.

  “I suppose it feels better to be distracted by foreign places.”

  Alaric rolled again and she found herself on her back.

  “This is so improper,” she gasped. “You must leave.”

  “I know,” Alaric said, grinning at her. “But we’re getting married, so it’s all right.”

  “I haven’t made up my mind,” she countered.

  “I’ve already begun providing for you. I brought Sweetpea roly-polies.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made Willa’s heart skip a beat. It was intoxicating.

  She sat up and pushed her chemise back down her legs. “You must leave, Alaric.”

  He sat up as well, winding his arms around her waist from behind. “Look at Sweetpea’s basket.”

  Willa turned her head—and gasped. The baby skunk was splayed on her back, eyes happily closed, while Hannibal placidly washed her belly.

  “Oh my,” Willa breathed.

  Alaric pushed her curls aside and kissed her neck. The brush of his lips made Willa feel raw and new. Vulnerable. She pulled free and got off the bed. “Please go.”

  A flash of disappointment crossed Alaric’s eyes that made Willa’s stomach roil.

  “I would like to marry you,” he stated, standing up.

  She silently registered those words. He’d said them with about as much passion as one might mention a partiality for pears over apples. If there was one thing she was very good at, after her first Season, it was refusing offers of marriage.

  “I am sorry to decline,” she said, making up her mind. “I couldn’t—I cannot marry someone whose life is shared by so many.”

  A nerve jerked in his jaw. “My life is not shared.”

  “Your many admirers would disagree.”

  “You have many admirers of your own. According to my aunt, half of London proposed marriage to you in the last few months.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Those proposals reflect my penchant for following society’s rules, along with the fortune my parents left me.”

  “In case you are wondering, I didn’t know you have a fortune and I have no need of it. I’d note that your beauty is a factor as well.”

  She shrugged before she remembered that she never shrugged. “That too.”

  “Your personality.”

  “Lavinia and I present ourselves as ideal young ladies. Our personalities are unknown to our suitors.”

  Alaric crossed his arms over his chest. “I have no wish to marry the shiny version of you.”

  “I have no wish to marry you.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “If anyone knew we spent this time together, you’d be ruined.”

  “Are you threatening to tell anyone?” Willa smiled, because she knew to the core of her being that Alaric would never betray her. For any reason.

  “I could.” He shifted his weight, just the tiniest motion.


  Her smile widened. “No, you couldn’t. Now you must go. Did you give Sweetpea her rolypolies?”

  He made a sound like a low growl. “Yes, I did. I’ll go—for now.” He walked over to the basket, and Hannibal hissed a warning. Alaric went down on his haunches beside the basket. Hannibal’s front leg whipped out, as fast as the wind, and his claws dug into Alaric’s sleeve.

  “I’m not stealing your kitten,” Alaric said, his voice deep and low.

  Hannibal unhooked his claws, as if tacitly admitting the possibility of an error.

  Alaric stood and crossed the room. When he reached the door, he turned around. “What if I were to write a poem and bring you more roses? All the roses in the garden? My father likes you; he would sanction their sacrifice.”

  “Are you in love with me, Alaric? Because in my experience, which, as you note, has been pleasingly full, such poems declare love.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Do you make fun of all your suitors this way?”

  Willa grinned. “I do not.”

  “We get along uncommonly well,” he tried.

  “I’m sorry,” Willa said, with genuine regret, because something about the way his voice had grown stiff was twisting her heart. “I want more from marriage.”

  “Did I tell you that I’ve made up my mind to stop writing?”

  She opened the door. “Your readers love your work so much.”

  He left without another word. Her remark wasn’t meant as an insult, but it seemed he had taken it as such. Willa closed the door behind him and sank into a chair.

  Sweetpea tumbled from the basket onto her nose. Hannibal grumbled. He reminded Willa of a fussy nanny, the kind who has raised numerous children.

  She’d done the right thing; she knew it.

  In that instant the door was flung open with such force that it struck the wall. Willa jumped to her feet. Alaric strode over to her, wrapped his arms around her, and took her mouth.