Wild, Wicked and Wanton: A Hot Historical Romance Bundle

by Natasha Blackthorne

  “God,” she breathed as hunger went shuddering through her.

  “What?” His voice was demanding, harsh.

  “Yes, oh yes, fuck me…just like that.” She wanted him to consume her with fire.

  He grasped the top of her shift, at the back, and she felt him tighten his fingers upon it, preparing to tear the fabric. Wetness flowed between her shaking legs. She arched her pelvis into his body.

  The door came bursting open.

  “Mr. Sexton, really!”

  Grey let her go. She stumbled back, dazed, and slowly focused on Miss Fairchild who stood there, hands on hips, expression outraged. “Mrs. Hazelwood told you downstairs you could not be here in her house today. It is bad luck, that’s what is it. Do you want to sabotage your own marriage?”

  * * * *

  “Your titties are about to pop out of that dress.”

  Beth turned to see her older sister sitting on the bed, a mischievous expression on her round, ruddy, coarse-featured face. Her overly rounded figure was flattered in a new, high-waisted gown of medium blue muslin. Beth met her teasing gaze and rolled her eyes. “Please, Ruth—you aren’t helping my nerves any.”

  Ruth chuckled and stuffed another piece of ginger biscuit into her mouth.

  Beth’s head still stung from the assault with a gleaming silver brush and her hair pulled her scalp too tight. Two thin braids were wrapped about her head, and the rest of her tresses had been swept up and allowed to fall down the back of her head in a cascade of ringlets. They had rinsed her hair with something blue and now it looked as silver-white as moonlight.

  Gingerly, she touched her cheek. Carefully polished with rice powder, her skin looked as white as alabaster and as smooth as satin, as if she were not a day over sixteen and as innocent as a snowdrift. What an illusion! She sighed.

  “You keep breathing like that and they’re gonna pop right out.”

  “Oh please, don’t even think it.” Beth stood and smoothed out the folds of her white silk gown, and the rows of lace at the hem seemed to float over the floor like a cloud. And just as Ruth had so eloquently pointed out, the square neckline was cut very low and its lavish lace trim somehow seemed to create the impression that she might spill out at any moment. The thought of how much the gown had cost made her hands shake.

  Was she really going to do this? Was she really going to marry Mr. Grey Sexton, merchant prince from New York? A man too busy even to write to her?

  A powerful, dignified man who had climbed a tree in daylight to see her.

  A gentleman who didn’t care that she was bastard-born and poor. The first and only man who’d ever made her scream with pleasure and come until she couldn’t move.

  “Did you pick that dress out?”

  Ruth’s voice startled her back to their conversation.

  “Ah, well—yes and no. Grey picked the pattern and I approved it. He has a better notion of what is proper and fashionable.”

  “I think he wanted to give folks a gander at what he’s marrying you for.”

  Beth gaped at her sister. “You think he is marrying me solely for my bosom?”

  “Well he ain’t marrying you for your wealth or bloodline and what else is there?”

  Maybe others would think the same as Ruth. They would know Beth for a harlot and suspect her of being a fortune-grabber. Her empty stomach lurched and she pressed a hand against it. She hated the thought of people believing she was marrying Grey solely for his money. It made a whore of her and a fool of him.

  The memory of his hands on her body, his deep voice telling her he loved her, suddenly flashed into her mind. Wasn’t everything in life really a gamble? Her blood quickened. She could gamble on love.

  Miss Fairchild came running into the room carrying a flat, leather case. She pointed at the chair. “No, no, Miss McConnell, please sit. I have one last adjustment to make.”

  Beth ran over to the tall, spare woman and grasped her arm. “This gown is too daring, isn’t it? Tell me true.”

  “It is the height of fashion, I assure you,” Miss Fairchild said in her cool, crisp tones. “Now please sit, my lady, we have little time left.”

  With a sigh, Beth sat, tapping her silk-shod foot nervously on the floor. Miss Fairchild moved frantically behind her and set the box on the vanity. “Just one moment.”

  She looped something around Beth’s neck and it lay cool against her throat. Then she laid something on Beth’s head. A tiara.

  “This just came. Mr. Sexton was set to give it to you himself but I enlisted Mrs. Hazelwood’s help in forbidding him to come back up here.” Miss Fairchild backed away. “There, now—don’t you look like a proper princess?”

  Beth looked in the mirror. The tiara sparkled in the sunlight. She thought it was just silver laurel leaves but when she looked closer she saw the diamonds and aquamarines amid the leaves. The delicate silver filigree necklace glittered with the same precious stones.

  “Good Lord,” Ruth choked. “You must’ve given Sexton one a hell of a shagging to get that.”

  Miss Fairchild paused in the act of attaching a piece of sheer, white veiling to the tiara to make a clicking sound with her tongue.

  “Please, Ruth—enough.” Beth took an uneven breath and dared to touch the glittering headband. She managed a trembling smile. “You are shocking my lady’s maid.”

  “Aye, I guess it’s ‘milady’ to you from now on.” Ruth chuckled again, two spots of too-bright color showing on her round cheeks.

  Beth stared at her reflection. She saw a young woman with pale blonde hair and angelic features, dressed in a frightfully expensive gown.

  But she didn’t look out of place. There was not one sign of the harlot about her. She just might win this gamble. Yes, she was going to marry him. Despite the risks. Despite everything.

  God help her not to regret it, because there would be no looking back.

  She’d do whatever she had to and make things work.

  Chapter Ten

  As the carriage clipped along the brick streets, heading towards Christ Church, Beth laid her hand on her half-brother’s shaking arm. “Are you all right, Charlie?”

  He looked down at her and nodded, a tight-lipped smile on his large, moon-shaped face. Sweat beaded his broad forehead, dampening his curling forelock of sandy-colored hair, and he tugged fretfully at his crisp, new stock. How unusual it was to see him in a gentleman’s dark blue jacket, buff-colored knee breeches, silk stockings and brass-buckled shoes. A swelling centered in her throat.

  It was almost cruel, expecting self-conscious Charlie to escort her down the aisle. Yet it would have been even crueler not to ask. Mrs. Hazelwood had not been pleased. Oh, she would never willingly have indicated as much, either by expression or words, but the frostiness in her eyes had given it away. If the old woman had had her way, Beth would never have gone to live with her half-siblings, or indeed acknowledged them at all. She would have settled down and married the nice young Anglican minister, Mr. Williams.

  One afternoon, Mrs. Hazelwood had brightly suggested that, if Charlie was unavailable for any reason, then Joshua should do the honors. “After all, he has always been much like an older brother to you.”

  Beth had almost spat tea all over Mrs. Hazelwood’s fine damask settee. Charlie’s cough brought her attention back to the moment at hand. Grey had purchased her family a larger, newer shop on Third Street. It would require a larger staff to man it. With Charlie overwhelmed by all the details, she’d spent the past weeks interviewing apprentices and examining their work. “I think Jimmy will work out just fine.”

  Charlie twisted his mouth. “You know I’ll have to hire three helpers to do the job you used to.” He compressed his lips. “But I’ll likely never get the same quality.”

  She laughed softly. “Should I stand Mr. Sexton up and stay here in Philadelphia, then?”

  He frowned and fidgeted with his new silk top hat, which lay in his lap. “Now, Elizabeth, there’s no call to tease me. You know my
tongue’s not as clever as yours.”

  “Nor as sharp,” Ruth added archly.

  Charlie glanced up and exchanged a half smile with Ruth, then he looked back at Beth. “I’m saying I’ll miss you, Elizabeth.”

  “I shall miss you, too—both of you,” Beth said softly, her heart too full to say more.

  * * * *

  Pressed into a corner of Mrs. Hazelwood’s parlor, Beth rubbed the hollows at her temples where twinges of pain buzzed in tandem with the rumble of voices. A sea of heads was bobbing all about her, making her lightheaded. She drew in a deep breath of hot, humid air and the scent of sweat and stale spirits made her want to gag.

  Still, she wasn’t about to leave the corner and venture into the midst of that bursting, bustling crowd. If she had to smile and voice thanks for any more best wishes, if she had to allow another one of Grey’s seemingly endless number of friends and associates to kiss her… She shuddered. As the day had worn on and the spirits had flowed, she’d been forced to slap more than one pair of wandering hands—hard—with her fan.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mrs. Asahel de Grijs Sexton.”

  The deep, mocking voice settled in her guts like dread. Beth slowly pulled her eyes from the crowd to meet Thomas Watson’s cold, amber eyes. Leonine resplendence in a dark blue suit, he leered at her. “You’ve certainly come up in the world.” He moved a little closer and whisky fumes threatened to overwhelm her. He dropped his voice. “Though somehow I doubt you’ve taken your last ride in a strange man’s carriage.”

  She stepped back, opened her mouth to respond, then clamped it shut. If he wouldn’t give her peace for Grey’s sake then he certainly wouldn’t heed any pleadings or threats she made. Her head began to pound. She turned and stormed through the crowd. People startled and grew silent as she approached them, parting and letting her pass on her way. Whispers erupted in her wake, burning her ears. She could feel all eyes probing and stabbing into her. She hastened towards the sideboards lining the wall. Her silk and satin skirts seemed to make impossibly loud rustling sounds, drawing more attention to her flight.

  The refreshments beckoned like a lifeboat in a storm, especially the claret and the whisky.

  A lady delicately sips punch at a wedding, especially her own.

  Mrs. Hazelwood’s sternly voiced reminder from earlier today echoed in her ears.

  Well, mercy, even if it did have to be sickly sweet punch, she needed a strong drink. Badly.

  A thin, black-haired young man in a bottle-green jacket seemed to spring from the swarming crowd and inserted himself directly in her path. Silver eyes glared down at her in a disturbingly familiar fashion. The refined, almost beautiful features radiated pure disdain. He was so damned tall for a smooth-faced boy.

  Jan de Lange Sexton, Grey’s seventeen-year-old son. A subtle sneer curved his sensual lips. “How old are you?”

  A deep laugh made her whirl and put her back to the sideboard. Watson’s expression was pitiless. “Ah, Jan, you never ask a”—Watson’s eyes raked Beth’s body and he rolled his tongue inside his cheek—“lady her age.”

  They were staring at her like a pair of bloodthirsty wolves—Grey’s closest friend and his son. She swallowed hard. How much of an uproar would it cause if she were to push that grinning, snickering boy aside and bolt up to her bedchamber in the attic?

  “But I’d certainly like to know. Miss McConnell, you look at most nineteen.” His dark brows drew down in an expression of disgust. “What foundling cradle did Father snatch you from?”

  Beth drew her spine as straight as it would go. It didn’t help. Her two antagonists still towered over her.

  “I am Mrs. Sexton now, and I am looking for my husband,” she said, struggling to keep her voice level, though her palms were sweating profusely.

  He chuckled softly. “You’d best get used to being on your own and waiting, sweeting.”

  “Have you seen him?” She wouldn’t let him goad her.

  “He’s in the card room, discussing the terms of some idea he and Mr. Hunter have for building a turnpike through the wilderness.” Jan laughed, an eerie echo of Grey’s cynical tones. “Even on his wedding day, he’s dealing with business. It shouldn’t have surprised me, of all people. But it did.” He allowed his eyes to drop to her bodice. “I would have thought such a prime piece of goods would have more influence over him.”

  Under his open regard, her face heated. “Will you kindly let me through?”

  Jan gave his haphazard cravat a straightening tug. “Pardon my despair, but if you can’t distract him for any length of time, what hope have the rest of us?”

  She didn’t know what to say. “Excuse me.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Sexton.” Jan placed mocking emphasis on the last two words, but he stepped out of the way.

  Beth hurried away from him and made her way through the crowd to the side bar and helped herself to a cup of punch. She downed the sickly sweet concoction in one swallow, then helped herself to another.

  “You want to be careful with that,” came the chiding tones.

  She went rigid all over. Not this, too. “I’ve already had to cope with that maudlin letter you sent—I can’t tolerate any more from you today, Dr. Wade.”

  “I am only trying to advise you. After the supper, there shall be a prodigious amount of toasting, to your health and happiness. As unlikely as your happiness is to be, you will have to drink after each one. Mr. Asahel Sexton’s beautiful young bride cannot be seen as rude.”

  She whirled to face him. “Why are you here today? I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “I couldn’t stay away. I just had to see it with own eyes. You—throwing yourself away.” His coffee-brown eyes were pools of aching emotion. Oh, he was so very good at projecting a romantic image. Thank goodness she was older and wiser now.

  “Elizabeth, dear.”

  Beth turned and saw Mrs. Hazelwood at her side. “Thank you for such a lovely wedding celebration, Mrs. Hazelwood.”

  “Yes, my dear, it was my pleasure—and it does seem to be winding down.”

  Beth glanced around the crowded room. “Does it?”

  “Well, it shall as soon as you and Grey depart.”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose it shall.” Did Grey even remember he had a wife to collect before he departed?

  Mrs. Hazelwood’s small gloved hand touched her arm. “My darling girl, seeing as you have no mother to speak with you”—her graveled voice dropped—“it falls to me to discuss certain matters…” Her voice broke off and she cleared her throat.

  Oh God, surely not. “The wedding night?” Beth whispered.

  As far as Beth knew, it’d been over forty years since Mrs. Hazelwood had had a man warm her bed. What could the woman possibly even remember about it?

  Mrs. Hazelwood nodded, allowing her forehead to wrinkle a little. “Oh, you really are so set on your independent mind and the liberty of your person. This connubial business will not be easy for you. You cannot be prepared for certain…invasive aspects of it.”

  Beth smothered a choked cry.

  Oh, dear God, get me through the rest of this evening…somehow.

  Mrs. Hazelwood squeezed her hand. “Shall we adjourn to my study?”

  Beth turned back and seized another cup of punch. She was going to need it.

  * * * *

  “A lady lies passively and accepts her husband’s will.”

  Mrs. Hazelwood’s pleasant voice held a rare edge. Beth buried her flaming face in her punch cup.

  “Are you listening, my girl?”

  Beth lowered the cup to her lap and focused her eyes on it. “Yes.”

  “I wanted a different life for you.”

  Beth traced a finger around the empty cup’s rim. God, she ought to have brought two cups. Or three. The whole damned punch bowl. “Yes, I know.”

  “A minister or a schoolteacher would have suited you better. You could have helped him with his work and kept busy. You tend to hold too tightl
y to your own will.”

  “Grey says I may occupy myself. He says he found a charity school where I can teach the piano.”

  Mrs. Hazelwood scoffed. The uncharacteristic utterance brought Beth’s head up and she gaped at the older woman.

  “Well, you must put it right out of your mind.” Mrs. Hazelwood’s voice was firm.

  “But why?”

  “Because a New York society lady does not work.”

  “Grey says he does not mind.”

  Mrs. Hazelwood waved, a sharp, cutting gesture. “What does a man know of what he wants in a wife? Nothing. He wants his wife to be a special, fragile creature. Someone softer, purer than his life in the world. He doesn’t want her coarsened by working. If he cannot place her on a pedestal, then he will lose respect for her. Once he loses respect, the loss of his affection shall soon follow.”

  “I can’t believe it is that way. Not for Grey.”

  “He was born into a society family. His mother was a de Grijs—a true, genteel lady. He will have the same inner expectations as any gentleman. Maybe he is not aware of it now, but it is there, believe me. And if you fall short, God help you, girl. You’ll shame him to the core and he’ll resent you for it. This is why I didn’t want you to marry him. You’re ill-suited for his life. I can’t even imagine a girl more unsuited to be Mrs. Asahel de Grijs Sexton. But now you have made your choice and you must play your role to the best of your honest ability. You will not shame him or this house you were born into.”

  * * * *

  In the carriage, Beth became aware of a throbbing in her head and realized it had been there, at a lower level, for quite some time—since that moment with Jan at the side bar. The tiara weighed on her head like lead and she longed to take it off but did not, lest Grey think she was rejecting his extravagant gift.

  They were riding from Mrs. Hazelwood’s house to the mansion Grey had rented for the next week on the banks of the Schuylkill River.