Wild, Wicked and Wanton: A Hot Historical Romance Bundle

by Natasha Blackthorne

  “I love you, utterly,” he said, still stroking her cheek. “All I am asking is for you to stop being so damned headstrong. Let me protect you. Let me guide you and make the decisions on how to proceed. Do you know why I asked you to accompany me tonight?”

  She shook her head, not really caring anymore.

  “I want others to see that I am not ashamed to be seen with you. I want to make the impression that I hold you in high enough esteem to bring you to respectable social events. I want us both to hold our heads high and prove that we’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” He paused in caressing her cheek. “Will you help me with that?”

  She nodded, slowly.

  “Trust me to know what is best. I will repair all the damage I have done to you.” He leaned closer. His breath caressed her cheek.

  Her heart made a little bounce, a desperate wish to believe—

  But wait just a moment.

  She was difficult to love?

  He had casually insulted her father’s profession.

  Then he had brushed aside her hurt feelings.

  Then he had revealed that huge lie about the importance of the talk surrounding their having met at the Blue Duck. He had acted as though such things didn’t really matter. That it would all blow over and be forgotten. He was older, more experienced—she had trusted him!

  In that one small thing, she had dared to trust him.

  And he had proved himself unworthy of her trust.

  He had just proved that he would lie to her, if he felt himself justified in doing so. When was lying to someone you loved justified, ever?

  He had proved that he was willing to put his own political agenda over the purity of her artistic vision, and he had proved that he wouldn’t listen to her very valid reasons for opposing his editorial designs.

  He had secrets, dark secrets. He wouldn’t share them with her.

  Because of those secrets, she didn’t know him. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered most. How was she to trust a man she still did not really know?

  And if he truly trusted her, wouldn’t he share his secrets with her?

  How could he ask her to trust him when he didn’t trust her, either?

  “Ah, I can sense the wheels in your mind turning, turning,” he said. “You are still counting your grievances against me.” He pressed his lips to her temple.

  Warm, supple yet firm lips.

  She closed her eyes and made her body rigid, fighting to resist his appeal. He was so compelling, so dangerously seductive. He could twist and turn her feelings in whatever direction he wanted. She had no similar power over him. None.

  He held all the power.

  He overwhelmed her.

  His ability to do this made her mouth go dry with fright.

  She was losing herself.

  Losing herself.

  “You must forgive me,” he repeated, his tone slightly teasing, as though all that had just transpired didn’t really matter.

  How often had Grandmother berated her, made comments that broke Emily’s heart with their biting disapproval, and then passed off her remarks as being due to feeling poorly or not thinking?

  Alex’s attempt to brush this off was simply more of his charm, more of his attempt to control her through manipulation. Earlier, it had been more his attempt to sidestep the insult to her father than the insult itself which had hurt her the most. His attempt to belittle her anger, to shunt aside her feelings, was too close to the barbs and dismissive gestures that Grandmother had regularly subjected her to.

  Now he wanted to smooth over all those dreadful things that he’d just said. But how was she to forget what he’d told her? The ugly truth was that loving her was something so unbearable for him, he wished he had never loved her at all!

  He wanted to forget all about her!

  He would tell her nothing about himself. Nothing.

  Yet he expected her to give him all her trust.

  And he thought that she was hard to love?

  Well, maybe she was—but he wasn’t exactly the easiest person to love either!

  She took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the rapid rise of heated emotion in her blood.

  Yes, she had known Alex capable of emotional manipulation. Yes, she had instinctively distrusted that side of him, even whilst it had proved such an irresistible enticement.

  She had been exactly correct to distrust that side of him!

  Her heart began to pound in alarm. Why, if she allowed him, he would tear her down, bit by bit, by demeaning her feelings, her vulnerabilities and needs with his little remarks. His barbs. By smothering her with his control. And the worst thing of all was he’d say he was doing it in the name of being protective. In the name of love.

  When he’d said plainly, not a few moments past, that he wished he didn’t love her at all!

  Just as Grandmother had done! Sharp words rose to her tongue, fueled by hurt so strong, she couldn’t hold them back. “How grateful I should be. The mighty Alexander Dalton, lowering himself to escort the daughter of a mere sea captain to a supper party. All for the sake of repairing her reputation, because he met her in a tavern and took her for a whore.”

  His eyes went cold as steel and the skin pinched near his nostrils. “Now, damn it. You know we have some differences.”

  “Yes, so you have patiently explained. I could never have expected the high-and-mighty Mr. Alexander Dalton to have lowered himself to notice lowly little me. The only reason he can notice me now, you see, is that he was damaged by life, by some damned secret that he will not divul—”

  “Don’t curse,” he snapped. “I don’t think of them. They don’t matter to me.”

  “You don’t think of what? Or is it whom?”

  “I don’t think of…I mean, I didn’t think of our differences, not deeply, before tonight. Before you made them such an issue.”

  He sighed, the sound full of exasperated patience. “I have been trying to spare you, to protect you against any unnecessary worries. But as I said, you will not help me to repair your reputation. I am a wealthy, powerful man. Nothing that happens between us can ever damage me as it can you. You must be made to understand the seriousness of the situation.”

  “The seriousness of the situation?” She gaped at him. Before tonight, he had laughed off concerns about her reputation. Why this change?

  “We love each other.” He sounded so grave.

  “Yes, we do.” She had to force the words past a sudden constriction in her throat.

  “It is so dangerous for you, Emily.”

  “Is it?”

  “I am no fit husband for you.”

  “I didn’t ask you to be.”

  “Not in words.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your actions belie your words. You seem determined to rush headlong toward that which you claim not to desire.”

  “What are you saying? Speak plainly.”

  “Would you care to see yourself pregnant and forced to wed a broken, soulless man?”

  “Goodness! You make marriage to you sound like the worst of all possible fates!” She took a steadying breath. “I do not wish to wed you or any man, but I don’t think you need paint such a—”

  “I would hurt you, Emily,” he interrupted her. “I would take everything you had and then I would hurt you.”

  That burning lump returned to her throat. She hurt worse now than she had when he’d said he wished he didn’t love her. He sounded so certain that he would hurt her. What woman wished to hear such a dreadful admission from her lover?

  But hadn’t she just come to the same conclusion? That he would control and manipulate her? That he would suffocate her and make emotional demands upon her, forcing her to give up everything important to her? Hadn’t she feared he might make so many demands that he might consume her very soul?

  Yes, she had feared that.

  Maybe they were saying the same thing here, just in different ways.

  She feared him, distruste
d his all too protective, controlling side, yet all the while she loved him. Loved being near him. Loved giving him pleasure and comfort. She wanted to continue to be his lover. She wanted to believe that he wouldn’t really hurt her emotionally. That she could find a way to keep him and keep herself at the same time.

  Was she a fool?

  “This is a dangerous time for you.” His voice was deathly serious, like she had never heard it before. “You could make decisions now that would prove your undoing. I am older than you, and vastly more experienced. You must listen to me and allow me to guide you safely though this.”

  “All of this because of our differences and our discussion of them?” She couldn’t believe the damage that they had done to each other, to their bond. The things said that she’d never be able to forget.

  “They matter, Emily.”

  “Indeed. Apparently they matter very much.”

  “We can’t simply wish them away. I…I didn’t mean to hurt you. I do not think any less of you.”

  “Yes, you don’t think any less of me…for having met me in the Blue Duck. For my having had a mere sea captain for a father.”

  The carriage drew to a halt. Outside, other carriages went clattering by, boots clacked on paving stones and a woman’s merry laughter mocked the scene unfolding between them. Emily’s heart was lodged solidly in her throat and her blood seethed. Seethed with what? Anger at him? Or fear at how he would respond to such words flung so rebelliously at him?

  She hurt.

  She hurt so desperately. She hadn’t known she could hurt so badly from mere words. These last moments had wiped clear anything that Grandmother had ever said or done to cause her emotional pain.

  He just stared at her, his jaw held so rigid. His fingers tapping on his leg.

  She refused to lower her chin or tear her gaze away from his.

  “Damn it, girl. You expect perfection from me, at all times. That’s not fair—”

  A knock sounded on the carriage door and Alex’s look immediately turned coolly polite.

  * * * *

  In the Cogwells’ parlor, the conservatively dressed women’s eyes widened upon observing Emily’s gown. She quickly came to realize that Rachel’s sense of what was fashionable was likely to be viewed as too daring by these more practical, modest, middling sort of women.

  Still shaken by the heated interaction between herself and Alex, and wanting only to run back to the carriage, she inhaled deeply, then smiled frozenly during all the introductions. There were too many names at once to match with the faces.

  The very last guest arrived. His bottle-green suit enhanced his russet hair and green eyes. He looked almost handsome in a sad, romantic way. But he made her internals twist in a sick panic.

  Richard Green.

  He stared at her with bitterness. With hate.

  Why had he lied for her to Rachel? Was it really just his fear of what Alex might do?

  He would tell.

  Maybe right here, tonight. No one had dared say anything openly to her about the Blue Duck, but maybe he would. Maybe he would ask her bluntly, in front of everyone and she would be on trial, her expression judged by everyone to seek the truth.

  An ashy acridness filled her mouth.

  She was still tipsy, still wobbly from the shock of her sexual reactions to Alex earlier. She was all alone in an unfamiliar house, facing a sure threat to everything she’d worked for.

  Suddenly Alex, who had seemed the very devil himself not but moments before, seemed to be her only source of safety. The only friendly face. She grasped his arm.

  He frowned with concern. “I am sorry. I didn’t know he’d be here. I’d never have brought you if I had known.”

  “Will he tell?” she whispered.

  “No.” Alex’s eyes glittered coolly. “Green wouldn’t dare.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because he knows I’d blow a hole through his head, that’s why.”

  She gaped at him, stunned by the violence of his words, the rumbling of danger beneath his soft tone.

  He gazed steadily back at her.

  He actually meant that.

  God, he might actually face Green in a duel.

  He could die.

  Gladly accepting a glass of wine from a passing servant, Emily all but gulped it down. Alex had told her none of it mattered. That any damaging talk about her would fade away.

  The depth of his lie to her was becoming clearer and clearer. A misguided attempt to spare her worry? Maybe…but, for certain, it was a way of protecting her that was not protecting her at all. It was a way of handling her that kept her naïve; he had been treating her like a witless child.

  She felt so stupid now, for it had become glaringly apparent that not only would the matter of her ruined reputation not be so easily brushed aside, but it could also become an exceedingly dangerous situation.

  Alex might be forced to face Green in a duel.

  The words kept echoing in her mind. It was more than a remote possibility. In fact, Alex had just looked very much like he relished the prospect.

  How terrible. How utterly terrible. How could Alex, so tender and caring as her lover, possibly look forward to such a violent prospect?

  She didn’t recognize this side of him.

  She didn’t know him.

  Yes, a man’s past mattered. And she ought to know all about Alex. Even the secrets he kept from everyone else. As his love, she should be privy to any part of his history that could make him into such a danger-seeking, violence-craving stranger.

  Seeing the servant come around again, she discreetly requested a refill. She sipped slowly now. Green caught her eye, nodding and grinning, his eyes ablaze with a strange, almost feverish light.

  He, too, seemed to relish the prospect of further trouble between himself and Alex.

  Again, she began to shake inside. Alex felt bound to defend her honor. To repair the damage to her reputation.

  He could die.

  No matter that she didn’t know him fully, she loved him completely. Utterly. And he could die. Waves and waves of shock washed through her as the truth hit her. Never before in her life had she felt such shock, such fear.

  Wanting only to numb such intense and unwelcome emotion, she quickly drained her glass.

  * * * *

  The dry, overcooked roast pork could only be swallowed by washing it down with copious amounts of wine and it had the most peculiar aftertaste. The conversation reflected the atmosphere, oppressively dull. Samuel Cogswell was Alex’s second cousin on his mother’s side, but they were not close. He came here once a year out of respect to his mother’s memory, but it was always an onerous duty.

  With boredom threatening to crush him, he introduced the topic of Rousseau’s Émile, a guaranteed point of controversy in this den of Federalists.

  Emily looked up instantly. The unnatural brightness in her amber eyes made him pause.

  God, she’s utterly foxed.

  Dread stirred within his gut. He didn’t know much about young ladies and their physical constitutions. Would it hurt Emily greatly, in some way he didn’t understand, to be intoxicated for the better part of a whole day?

  What about the lingering effects of the yellow fever? Would it harm her in some way related to her slow recovery from the deadly illness?

  He had not done an adequate job of watching over her. He had not taken her sensual nature seriously enough and protected her as she moved out from the limited world of girlhood into the oft-overwhelming world of adult liberties and pleasures.

  No, instead he had taken advantage of her intoxicated state and made love to her. Made love to her, when he had so recently vowed never to touch her again.

  Could he not restrain himself? What if she had been his wife? Would he not be able to go for any time at all without ravishing her? What if she were with child and he were told to abstain from her? Would he prove himself just as weak to his desires then as he had today?

&nbs
p; It just proved how ill-suited he was to assume the role of husband. The early training of his life replayed in his mind. A husband must love a wife as Christ loved the church. Indeed, he must put her needs above his own at all times, even to sacrifice his own life to save hers. A husband must always be strong for a wife. He must give to her without ceasing, all of his heart and soul.

  Yet what if a husband’s heart was damaged beyond repair, and his soul lost, hollowed out to nothing?

  How could a husband be a husband when he had nothing to give his wife?

  His gaze caressed her features and his heart, however damaged, softened and warmed.

  I have my love to give her.

  But his love was tainted by the shameful disgrace of his fallen past. He was steeped in sin. The sin of having given up his soul.

  Loving a woman didn’t make a man the best candidate for taking her hand in marriage. No, it sure as hell didn’t.

  Emily’s too-bright eyes still challenged him. “I agree with Mr. Rousseau that physical activity and open, natural air are important for the mind,” she said, “though his limited view of female education is clearly misguided.”

  “If you reject part of his philosophy, how do you justify embracing his ideas about nature and education in general?” Cogswell asked, smiling condescendingly.

  “Most men see women only as they wish to see them, existing only to serve domestic needs. I forgive Rousseau his prejudices just as I forgave my father his own.”

  “You are very generous, then,” Cogswell replied, sharing a wry look with his chuckling male dinner companions.

  “I agree most with Catherine Macaulay—both boys and girls should first develop their bodies and useful habits. Then focus on Latin grammar, French and geography, taught in an enjoyable manner.”

  “Latin grammar taught to girls?” Cogswell said, glancing quickly at his wife, who appeared close to fainting while fanning herself rapidly. Clearing his voice, he continued, “To what purpose, Miss Eliot?”

  “To discipline their minds,” Emily replied.

  Most of the men sat laughing, some of them wiping tears from their eyes with their linen napkins while their wives simply sat silently, their dull countenances frozen with shock. It wasn’t the most progressive gathering in Philadelphia.