“What in heavens are you doing?” she demanded breathlessly.
“Being more productive,” he told her.
Wick’s initial strategy for the evening had involved a lot of talking and bargaining, an exploration of alternatives. He’d planned to find common ground with Beatrice and work from there to stake his claim. Certainly, it hadn’t included making love to her at her ball. But with an opponent like her, a man had to think on his feet, throw her off balance. The moment he kissed her, quieting the nonsense she was spouting, he knew it was the right plan of action.
With a whimper, she slid her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, telling him the truth obscured by her words. She wanted him. Nearly as much as he wanted her.
Still kissing her, he carried her to the bench formed at the base of the tree. He settled her in his lap, tilting her head back for deeper access. He delved into her honeyed mouth, his hand fisting in her hair when her tongue boldly sparred with his. She was so full of passion, of life. How could she think, for even a moment, that she ought to spend the rest of her days locked away on this bloody estate?
“By God, you’re sweet,” he murmured. “I’ve dreamt of kissing you again.”
Her neck arched as his lips found her ear. He tongued the sensitive lobe before giving it a gentle nip. She squirmed against the taut ridge of his erection.
“Murray?” she whispered urgently.
A man could drown in the luminous pools of her eyes. “Call me Wick, angel.”
“Wick,” she said hesitantly. “If we make love tonight, it changes nothing.”
There was no if about it. He was going to plow her so hard they might not remember their own names, let alone the conflicts between them.
“Just be with me, Beatrice. Right here, right now.” He hooked a finger into the bodice of her ivory, off-the-shoulder gown. He found her nipple, strumming and rolling the straining bud until she began to pant.
Still, she argued, “This is just a meaningless tup. I’m making you no promises. And you can’t say you compromised me… Are you listening? What are you…oh, heavens…”
As a man capable of managing multiple tasks, he had, in fact, been listening to her while he’d tossed up her skirts. What he’d found made his stones burgeon. Lord Almighty, she was drenched for him. As he petted her through the slit in her drawers, her nectar coated his fingers.
“This isn’t meaningless,” he said thickly. “Passion like this is special—you are special. Whatever it takes to convince you that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes on, I will make it happen. In the meantime, I know you have made me no promises. Tonight is just about pleasure—yours and mine. Can you let the rest go, just for now? Can you give yourself over to me, to the pleasure of the moment?”
To convince her, he ran a finger up her dewy cleft, finding the peak of her sensation. He diddled her, circling and pressing her slick bud while watching her expressive face. Passion glazed her eyes, her cheeks flushed with need.
She wetted her kiss-swollen lips. “I can’t think…”
“Don’t think. Feel, Beatrice. Just let go.”
He felt the instant she surrendered, her body relaxing against his. Triumph surging through him, he frigged her harder, faster. He captured her mouth again, plunging his tongue inside, an erotic reminder of the pleasures yet to come. Her thighs stiffened around his hand, wetness gushing into his palm as he swallowed her cries of release.
Once her trembling subsided, he brought her to her feet. He was so hard that he feared ripping through his trousers. He tugged her over to a nearby branch; it was thick, about waist height off the ground. Turning her away from him, he pressed his hand against her spine.
“Bend over for me, angel,” he said.
In some distant part of her mind, Bea knew this was not a good idea. But the goal was to be in the moment, wasn’t it? And it was her birthday after all…
Her body seemed to have a mind of its own, obeying Wick’s wicked order. The wide branch supported her torso, but it was a bit high, her toes just touching the ground. Her hands clutched the rough wood as she heard the rustle of her skirts and petticoats being pushed up, felt the balmy night air on her stockinged legs. She twisted her head to look at him, and reality suspended at the dark male hunger on his face.
“I wish you could see yourself,” he said in a low, heated voice. “Your lovely bottom arching for my touch, your long legs so pretty in those white silk stockings. Then there’s that sweet, shy pussy of yours playing peekaboo through your drawers. All that beauty…the sight of you would make any man hard.”
She trembled, arousal reawakening her spent nerves.
“Not that I would allow any man to see what’s mine,” he added.
Although his deep, possessive tone ruffled her senses, she countered, “I’m not yours.”
“In this moment, you’re mine to pleasure as I wish. And there are so many things I want to do to this lovely body of yours.”
He reached for her drawers, and she heard a widening rip. Before she could protest, he bent his head, his tongue swiping boldly up her exposed cleft. Licking her in this position was so debauched.
It made her feel wild, her head falling forward as he skillfully and methodically destroyed her capacity for reason. There was a delicious relief to surrendering her thoughts and worries, to simply letting go. Soon there was only his heated possession, his laving strokes and clever swirls making her pant and grind against his mouth with helpless need.
“Christ, I love eating your pussy.” His voice was velvet, dark and seductive, blocking out the rest of the world. There was only him and her and pure, carnal pleasure. “You love being eaten, don’t you, angel?”
“Yes.” The admission left her as a moan.
“You want to give me more of your sweet pussy?”
“Whatever you want,” she gasped.
“That’s my lass.”
She felt his fingers push inside her, heard his low purr of approval when her muscles clutched on the fullness. He stretched her, driving into her passage, building the pressure.
“You’ve got two of my fingers, sweeting. Can you take another one?”
He stirred inside her, and she sighed, “Yes.”
He added to the fullness. It was too much, not enough.
She arched into his stroke. “Please, I need…”
“Say my name.”
“Wick,” she breathed.
“You’re so bloody beautiful, my Beatrice.”
He withdrew, and she was about to protest when she felt him spreading her, his fingers replaced by his tongue. She moaned as he licked into her clenching passage, stabbing into her with heated strokes as he manipulated her pearl. She catapulted into bliss, heard his reverent oath as she gushed against his mouth.
“Devil and damn, you undo me,” he growled.
Panting, she turned her head to see him rising, unbuttoning the bulging placket of his trousers. His cock was hugely erect, the head weeping seed as he gripped the fleshy shaft. His gaze was trained on her bared sex, and lust sharpened his features, his nostrils flaring as he jerked his fist.
“Stick up that bottom for me,” he said in gritty tones. “Show me that pretty pink slit of yours.”
His command sizzled through her. What he was doing—pleasuring himself whilst he looked his fill of her pussy—was shamefully titillating. And, at the same time, empowering. The knowledge that he found the mere sight of her arousing made her intimate muscles clench.
“Christ, that’s nice.” His gaze locked with hers. “Angel, do you want me to come for you?”
“Yes.” Her reply was throaty. “Please come for me.”
His jaw tautened as he pumped fiercely. With a rumbling groan, he began to spend. His seed blasted from him in milky streams, lashing her bottom and thighs with heat. She inhaled the musk of his pleasure with feminine satisfaction. His gaze hooded, he trailed his fingers through his spend, and she quivered as he rubbed his slick essence into he
r skin, marking her even more deeply.
“Angel,” he said hoarsely, “that was—”
“Bea, are you there? You have to hurry!”
Bea froze at the sound of Fancy’s voice. Luckily, Murray was a man of action. He yanked down her skirts and hauled her upright. Fastening his trousers, he put himself at a respectable distance just as her friend burst through the leaves.
Fancy’s panicked expression chilled Bea to the core.
“What’s the matter?” she asked tersely.
“Fire,” the tinker’s daughter gasped. “The barn’s on fire!”
11
Fingerprints of smoke smudged the morning sky. As Bea stared numbly at the smoldering remains of the barn, she was still unable to comprehend all that had happened in the last few hours. Around her, her tenants were going through the smoking rubble, seeing what could be salvaged, which she didn’t think would be much. She counted her blessings, however.
Hay and a barn could be replaced. Lives could not.
Gratitude welled as she saw Wickham approaching her in his long-limbed stride. He was sweaty, smoke-stained, and, in her eyes, he’d never been more handsome. During the crisis, while she’d been occupied with the task of getting water to the barn, he’d taken command of the scene. His natural authority had bolstered the others. He’d organized lines so that the arriving water could be passed in buckets man to man. He’d put others to work beating the flames with blankets.
He, himself, had taken an even greater risk. He’d led a team of men, wet handkerchiefs tied over their faces, into the burning structure to haul out what hay they could. Thanks to their efforts, half the fodder had been saved. His courage and strength had been a beacon in those dark hours.
He arrived at her side, his hazel gaze trained on her face. “You ought to get some rest, angel. You’ve been up all night. I’ll keep an eye on things.”
“I’m not leaving. And you’ve been up all night too.” She took out a handkerchief and, reaching up, wiped a streak of ash from his jaw. She didn’t miss the surprised warmth in his eyes. “I can’t believe what was supposed to be an evening of celebration ended like this. But I suppose we ought to be grateful that the accident didn’t cause more damage.”
“I don’t think this was an accident.”
Wick’s words jolted her, spreading icy prickles over her skin.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
He cast a glance around, making sure no one was within earshot, before answering her.
“When I was hauling out the hay, I saw a smashed lamp in the barn,” he said in a low voice. “The barn itself reeked of linseed oil.”
Linseed oil…an extremely flammable substance. One that had no business being in the barn.
The recognition chilled her. “You think someone did this deliberately?”
He gave a grim nod. “I found something else too—”
“Miss Beatrice, there you be!”
Milton Sheridan’s spry figure was headed their way. She and Wick exchanged a look, and she saw in his nod the tacit agreement to continue their troubling discussion later. As she tamped down her rising worries, she saw the tinker had a stranger following behind him, Fancy bringing up the rear. Fancy was regarding the newcomer with an expression akin to awe.
Bea couldn’t blame her friend: the dark-haired gentleman had an air of exceptional refinement. His clothes were precisely tailored to his large build and made from fabrics that had the sheen of highest quality. He was handsome in an austere sort of way. Beneath his elegant hat, his grey eyes were assessing Bea with an intensity that might have discomfited another lady.
Bea, however, was used to being stared at. She wasn’t wearing a veil, so her scar was in full view. Lifting her chin, she returned his stare and was surprised when his lips tipped up at the corners. It softened his severity and made him look more approachable.
“Miss Beatrice, this gent be looking for you,” Milton Sheridan said. The tinker had a long grey beard and bright blue eyes and, as a testament to his profession, everything he wore was either patched or mismatched.
To Bea’s surprise, Wick stepped forward. “Devil and damn…is that you, Knight?”
“Murray?” The stranger—Mr. Knight, apparently—looked equally taken aback. But he took Wick’s extended hand, the two exchanging a firm handshake. “I haven’t seen you since the Garritys’ ball.”
“Indeed.” Wick gave him a measuring look. “What brings you to Staffordshire?”
“I was about to ask the same of you.”
Bea blinked when two pairs of male eyes shifted to her. In the next instant, the men were staring at each other again, gazes locked like two bucks who’d just spotted the other on his territory.
Wick crossed his arms over his chest. “What business do you have with Miss Brown?”
“It is not Miss Brown I seek.” Knight’s quietly menacing tone matched his. “I am here for Lady Beatrice Wodehouse; her brother, the Duke of Hadleigh, gave me this address.”
Shock percolated through her. Benedict? After all this time, what does he want?
“You’ve got the wrong lady,” Wick said.
With a feeling of foreboding, Beatrice cleared her throat. “I’m afraid he doesn’t.”
That evening, Bea sat down to supper with her guests. Managing the crisis of the barn had taken most of the day, and she’d only had a quick nap before Wick, Fancy, Mr. Sheridan, and Severin Knight had arrived at eight o’clock. Her lady’s maid Lisette had helped her to quickly don a blue taffeta gown, arranging her hair in its usual style, with ringlets over her cheeks. Due to the presence of visitors, Bea had summoned her companion, Lady Tottenham.
Known as Tottie to intimates, the lady had applied to Camden Manor for a position two years ago. While Bea had not been looking for a companion, she’d felt sorry for the elderly woman, who didn’t have friends or family to take her in. Thus, Bea had given Tottie a place to stay…and quickly discovered how the lady had earned her name. Tottie had a fondness for her “medicine,” which she carried with her in a filigreed flask, and it could make her a bit wobbly on her feet.
Nonetheless, Tottie was a harmless dear who spent most days happily napping in the sun. And she could prove useful on occasions like this evening, when a chaperone was required. Bea noticed, however, that her companion’s chair next to Mr. Sheridan was presently empty.
Where had Tottie gone?
The soup course was served. It was Bea’s favorite spicy mulligatawny, yet she found she had no appetite. An ominous feeling occupied her stomach.
Who had set fire to her barn? Possible suspects rattled about in her head, her nerves on edge. She’d told the Sheridans about the linseed oil, asking them to be discreet, and she wished she could bring up the topic now. Yet she couldn’t discuss the subject in front of Severin Knight; he was a stranger with a nebulous connection to the past she’d left behind. She’d invited him tonight so that she could discover his, and her brother’s, intentions.
At present, Knight sat to the right of her, Wick to her left. Sandwiched between the two, Bea couldn’t miss the waves of hostile energy that passed between them, and it added to her unease. On the surface, the two were as different as night and day. Mr. Knight was the epitome of restraint and precision, his dark hair cut ruthlessly short, his grey cravat—the exact shade of his eyes—tied in a crisp knot. He was perfectly buttoned up, his broad shoulders rigid beneath his jacket of spotless charcoal superfine.
Wick, on the other hand, looked like some pagan god of sensuality. His thick, wavy mane had that artful, just-risen disarray. The casual folds of his cravat had probably taken his valet hours to perfect. His stark evening wear fit him like a second skin, adding to his sleek, predatory air.
He was making chitchat with Fancy, who was seated on his other side. Fancy had traded her usual plaits for a topknot, and her pretty pink frock was one of her own creations. She blushed at something he said. Then Wick shifted his gaze to Bea, his eyes flaring with pos
sessive gold. Remembering their tempestuous lovemaking beneath the tree, the heat of his virility upon her skin, Bea felt a flutter at her core, accompanied by an inexplicable sense…of panic.
Last night seemed magical and faraway, as if it had taken place in a different world. In the darkness, it had felt safe to surrender, to abandon herself to desire. To experience the pleasure and happiness of those precious moments in Wick’s arms.
Yet, as always, reality brought an end to dreams.
While she’d been cavorting with Wick, some bastard had committed arson on her property. It was only luck that no one had been harmed. And now her past had caught up with her in the form of Severin Knight, sent by her brother, whom she hadn’t seen in five years. The sequence of events—delight followed by disaster—felt uncannily familiar.
With her accident, she’d been caught unprepared. She’d put her faith in others, thought that they would help her out of the mire of despair. Instead, they’d abandoned her, each for their own reasons.
Papa…because he couldn’t stand to look at her when she was no longer his pretty princess, Croydon for much the same reason. Benedict because the sight of her rankled his pride, filled him with the need to avenge her honor, even when she’d begged him to leave things alone. Arabella and her so-called friends had deserted her because, well, they’d never really liked her anyway. And even her poor mama had left her: the duchess’s heart hadn’t been able to bear the aftermath of Bea’s accident.
Yes, Bea knew what happened when one depended upon others.
As seductive as her games with Wick had been, it was one thing to relinquish control during lovemaking and another to do so in real life. Feeling the longing his possessiveness stirred in her, she knew this game was too dangerous to play. She couldn’t trust herself to keep her emotions separate from their sexual encounters. During the fire, she’d started to lean on his strength, to believe that he would stand by her side...to trust him.
Even though she knew that he wanted to build a railway across her land. That he was beautiful, and society saw her as a beast. That there could be no happy ending for them.
The Duke Redemption Page 10