“I’d like to sample your mouth next,” he said. “Tongue out, pet.”
“Pet” wasn’t his usual endearment for her, but it suited the occasion.
He took her hands from his cock, placing them on his thighs. “Keep them there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Her use of “sir” had a cheeky edge that was pure Beatrice. As much as she liked surrendering to him, she was also used to being in control. Used to doing as she pleased. He knew she wanted to suck his cock, and he would give her what she wanted…but he’d do it in his own fashion.
Taking his erection in hand, he placed just the head of it on the pink shelf of her tongue. He rested it there, not moving, relishing the velvety softness. Savoring her obedience which was all the sweeter for its rarity. He heard murmurs from the crowd as she continued to look up at him, with an adoring lust that could not be missed. Knowing the strength of the woman who so prettily cradled his prick betwixt her lips for all to see gave the act a special meaning that warmed his heart and brought a raging fire to his loins.
“Very nice,” he allowed. “Now keep this pretty mouth open for me while I fuck it.”
He slid a hand into the brunette curls of her wig, holding her head still, and entered her mouth in a deep thrust. He grunted as slick, wet heat enveloped his cock. Since he’d introduced her to the art of fellatio, she’d come a long way, and he knew exactly how much she could take. Knew how to bring forth her moans with the demanding drives of his shaft, knew that his rough use of her mouth was making her pussy wetter and wetter.
He plunged all the way in, butting the back of her throat, groaning as he felt its exquisite clench. The small gurgling sound she made inflamed his lewdest impulses. He withdrew, letting her draw a breath through her nose, then he did it again and again, deeper with each pass. Until, finally, his balls rested upon her delicate chin.
He traced the stretched, quivering outline of her lips.
“Do you like having me buried in your throat, pet?” he inquired silkily.
Her eyes were lambent with desire even as diamonds glimmered on her lashes. She nodded, and he eased his prick from her, giving her a moment to recover before he skewered her throat again. He was close: the silken submission of her mouth and the lustful sounds of the crowd were bringing him rapidly to the edge. A dark, animalistic edge that, in all his sexual adventures prior to Beatrice, he’d never reached before.
It was one thing to fuck with abandon. Another entirely to fuck the woman you cared about in such a fashion. To know that you could share your ugliest failures, your darkest lusts, your tenderest dreams…and she could take it all.
Because she was that strong.
Because you trusted her…loved her.
The recognition blazed through him. His chest heaving, he pulled out.
“Keep your mouth open, pet,” he gritted out. “Hold it nice and wide for me.”
She parted her lips, red and swollen from the pleasure he’d taken between them. Fisting his cock, he aimed, jerking rapidly. His orgasm blew through him like a storm, jolts of sizzling bliss that forced his seed from his cock and into her keeping. Shuddering, he watched as she held his pleasure, proudly displaying what she’d drawn from him, her eyes radiant with emotion.
Applause exploded from their audience…the audience that had faded from his consciousness in the heat of his coupling with his lass. He saw her start, as if she, too, had lost herself in the bond between them, forgetting the world beyond. A droplet of his seed clung to her chin, and he thumbed it away, feeling her erotic shiver. He saw the need in her gorgeous eyes—and damn if it didn’t send a fresh wave of heat to his loins.
“I’ll take care of you soon, angel,” he murmured as he helped her to her feet. “For now, take your bow, and let’s get out of here.”
In the carriage, Wick tucked Beatrice into his side. She trembled with unassuaged desire, her hand stroking his thigh in a delightfully needy manner, but there were guards riding atop the carriage. He would wait until he got her home, then he would make love to her until dawn.
In the meantime, he took out the black book. In the wavering lamplight, they began reading through the names. The members were listed in alphabetical order by surname, with columns showing date of acceptance and membership status in the Hellfire Club.
Many names were familiar to Wick: aristocrats, industrialists, more than a few politicians.
As he turned the page to the surnames starting with “G,” he heard Beatrice’s sharp intake of breath. Her face drained of color.
“What is it, angel?” he asked. “Recognize someone?”
“T. Edgar Grigg.” Her hand fluttered to her marked cheek. “The man who caused my scar…he was a founding member.”
32
“Beatrice, love, wake up.”
She opened her eyes to a feeling of disorientation. She saw Wick drawing open the curtains, recognized that she was in his room. After they returned from the Hellfire Club, he’d made love to her until the early hours. It was as if their time in the glass cage had unlocked a new level of intimacy, nothing forbidden between them. He’d shown incredible stamina and virtuosity, taking her in positions that made her blush to think of them now.
At one point, he’d arranged her on her hands and knees, her cheek pressed against the mattress and her bottom raised. Gripping her hips, he’d hammered into her from behind, the heavy siege of his bollocks against her tender entrance a jarring bliss. He’d breached another place too, his thumb pressing deep into territory so shocking and wicked that she’d climaxed on the spot. He’d wrung countless releases from her, her throat raw from her sobs of pleasure.
After that, she’d fallen asleep. But her slumber had not been restful. It had been plagued by images and memories that not even Wick’s lovemaking could keep at bay.
Grigg, the man who’d played such a pivotal role in her past, had made his way into her present. In her dreams, he’d been a looming ghost, a specter out for blood…something she could never escape. She’d run and run, at times believing she’d finally left heartbreak behind, but it always caught up with her in the end.
Her temples throbbed. She knew she wasn’t thinking clearly, knew it was the lack of sleep and traumatic revelations of just hours ago that had sent her into this strange spiral. She tried to tell herself that everything would be all right: she and Wick had a plan.
Today, they would seek out Mr. Lugo, the investigator Harry Kent had recommended. They would ask Mr. Lugo to look into the family Grigg had left behind, to see who might have inherited the watch…and who might wish to gain revenge against Beatrice for the death of their kin.
Bea had briefly considered going to her brother—who, given his vendetta against Grigg, probably had some information—yet she decided against it. What if Benedict decided to take matters into his own hands? Knowing him, he might try to destroy this new villain, without even recognizing that this present situation was the result of his need for vengeance.
She quaked, thinking of the havoc her brother could wreak. She couldn’t risk it. Better to wait a few days for a professional investigator to find the answers.
If only Benedict had left Grigg alone, she thought with despair. If only I hadn’t interfered with Grigg’s beating of that boy…yet how could I see such cruelty happening and do nothing?
She rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes. Lord, she needed more sleep. Why had Wick awakened her so early? From the light he was letting stream into the room, the day was in its infancy. And it wasn’t as if they had to worry about the servants: his valet was as discreet as Lisette and wouldn’t blink to find Beatrice in his master’s bed.
Wick must have read her expression correctly for he sat on the mattress beside her, stroking a tendril from her cheek. “Sorry to wake you, love, when I’m responsible for depriving you of sleep.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot. Under the cover of night, it had been easy to abandon herself to the eroticism of their lovemaking. Now, with everyt
hing else stirred up inside her, she felt intensely self-conscious. As if a layer of skin had been ripped off, leaving her raw and exposed.
She smiled to cover her discomfiture. “Is there a reason for being up at this ungodly hour?”
“I’m afraid there is.”
Wick wasn’t the sort to dissemble. He usually delivered news, good or bad, in a straightforward manner. Therefore, his hesitation heightened her feeling of unease.
“What’s happened?” Scenarios flooded her brain. “Did someone discover we were at the club? Dear God, did something happen at my estate—”
“No, angel. Nothing like that. It’s not bad news…”
“What is it then?” she said in a rush.
“It’s my mama.” Wary lines carved into his handsome face. “I received word that she’ll be arriving here today.”
“My darling Wickham. Since you haven’t come to see me in ages, my naughty boy, I had to come to you!”
As Wick dutifully accepted his mama’s embrace in the drawing room later that morning, Beatrice stayed back with Violet, quietly observing. The Dowager Viscountess Carlisle was a striking woman. She was probably in her sixties, but her carefully maintained complexion and figure took decades off her appearance. She’d blessed Wick with her coloring and bone structure and perhaps his innate elegance also came from her: she looked effortlessly chic in an emerald carriage dress with a Chinoiserie border, her golden-brown hair a shining chignon beneath the sweeping brim of her hat.
After giving Wick a thorough inspection—peppered with comments that he looked “tired” and “ought to try that new eye cream” she’d brought with her—she turned to her eldest son.
“Carlisle,” she said with a brittle smile. “I didn’t see you standing there.”
Since Carlisle had been standing next to Wick the entire time, his brawny figure rather hard to miss, Beatrice couldn’t help but wonder at the dowager’s comment.
“Don’t mind her,” Violet muttered under her breath. “I never do. But poor Richard—he’s always been subject to her blasted games. She plays favorites, even with our boys. If she had her way, she’d spoil Wickham—ours and yours—rotten.”
While not dutiful, Violet’s comment seemed at least accurate.
“Mama, I’d like to introduce you to my friend,” Wick was saying.
“Is that her, standing by…Violet, my dear.” The dowager glided over. “I was momentarily blinded by the brightness of your gown and didn’t realize it was you.”
Bea thought that Violet’s sunflower yellow morning dress set off the other’s brunette coloring beautifully. Vi had no outward response to her mama-in-law’s barbed comment, leaning in to exchange air kisses with the lady.
“Good morning, Mama,” she said brightly. “Perhaps you ought to have your eyes checked while you’re in Town? Overlooking Carlisle, being blinded by my dress…those could be symptoms of weakening vision in your dotage, you know.”
Carlisle cleared his throat, obviously trying to smother a laugh.
“There is nothing wrong with my vision,” the dowager hissed.
“Spectacles are quite fashionable nowadays,” Vi said with an innocent expression. “Many of the older set carry them as accessories.”
The dowager drew up her shoulders, pointedly walking past her daughter-in-law to pause in front of Beatrice. “Wickham, dearest, introduce me to your…friend.”
As Wick made the introductions, Bea felt his mother’s gaze sweep over her. Since she had been observing the dowager since her arrival, she knew that the other had been observing her in return. This meant that Wick’s mama had had plenty of time to see Bea’s scar. Plenty of time to school her reaction.
Yet the dowager made a show of her surprise nonetheless, her hazel gaze widening and lingering on the ridge that now seemed to throb and burn on Bea’s cheek. In the eyes of the beautiful lady, Bea saw the reflection of a beast.
As pain knifed her in the chest, she told herself that it shouldn’t matter what Wick’s mama thought of her…but it did. In the other’s expression, she saw what had led her to flee London all those years ago: disgust hidden behind feigned sympathy.
“My dear Lady Beatrice,” the dowager said with a solicitous smile. “How I admire your courage. It cannot be easy to make an appearance in London.”
“Mama,” Wick said in a tone of warning.
Bea wasn’t about to let him fight her battles for her. Pretending to misunderstand the dowager’s comment, she replied, “Thank you, my lady. Coming from the country, I confess it does take courage to confront the commotion of Town. I am unused to the crowds and the noise.”
The dowager’s smile did not waver. “Now I know of several Wodehouses. Are you any relation to the Duke of Hadleigh?”
“He is my brother, but we have not been in contact for some time. It is my preference that things stay that way.”
The lady’s fine brows rose, but Bea felt she had to be blunt. The last thing she needed was for the other to alert Benedict to her presence in Town.
Wick must have shared her concern for he said, “I trust you will be discreet, Mama. I am assisting Lady Beatrice with a matter which must be handled with the greatest care and caution. Her life could be at risk if her personal details are bandied about.”
“Goodness, how dramatic.” The dowager’s hands fluttered to her breast. “Not to worry, my dears—you know I am the soul of discretion. I shan’t breathe a word to anyone of Lady Beatrice’s presence.”
33
The day after his mama’s arrival, Wick received word from his men that they’d located Randall Perkins’s family. They’d spoken with a couple by the name of Palmer living in the Seven Dials. Although the Palmers didn’t know a Randall Perkins, they said they did have a nephew named Ralph—a troublemaker, apparently—whose age and physical description, down to the port-wine stain, matched that of Perkins.
Leaving Richard and Violet to deal with settling Mama in—the latter being none too pleased that Beatrice occupied her favorite suite—Wick wasted no time in making the journey over to the address his men had given him. Since he was accompanied by Beatrice, who refused to be left out, he took along guards for good measure.
They arrived at a tenement at the heart of the Seven Dials. At night, the neighborhood was the playground of thieves and cutthroats, and anyone heading into the narrow, winding streets and dead-end alleyways was taking their life into their own hands. By day, the thickly populated area appeared less menacing, but pickpockets were everywhere, on the lookout for pigeons to pluck.
As Wick handed Bea down from the carriage, her hand gripped his.
“What is it?” Wick asked.
“I swear it’s that same boy again,” she whispered. “The urchin I saw outside your office three days ago and again outside Doolittle’s Emporium. He’s hiding in the alley across the street.”
Wick casually glanced in the direction she indicated. Sure enough, he saw a movement, the flash of brown hair, a ragged sleeve disappearing into the shadows.
“I’ll send Wilcox after him,” he said, gesturing to the guard atop the carriage.
“No, don’t.” She stayed his hand. “He’s just a lad. I’m sure he means no harm.”
“You’re too soft-hearted love. That ‘lad’ had the look of a mudlark.”
“A what?” Bea tilted her head.
“A mudlark. A band of street urchins who scavenge the Thames and pickpocket for a living. They may look innocent but try taking on a flock of them. Mudlarks are notoriously enigmatic of purpose and loyal to their own.” Wick took a hard look into the alleyway. “If you see the boy again, let me know. I’ll have a talk with their leader.”
“You know their leader?”
“I’ve hired The Prince of Larks in the past to gather information.” At her puzzled look, he explained, “The mudlarks are known as scavengers and pickpockets, but their main trade is the acquisition and sale of knowledge. They have eyes and ears everywhere…which is extremely us
eful when, for example, you want to know a competitor’s bid on a project or how a Member of Parliament plans to vote. And while the Prince doesn’t mind his larks engaging in petty theft now and again, he doesn’t countenance them harassing females.”
“You have rather colorful acquaintances, don’t you?” she said after a moment.
“Welcome to the London underworld.” He led her toward the tenements, a ramshackle building with a sagging roof that resembled a collapsed soufflé. “Now stay close and keep your wits about you.”
The number his man had given him was on the fourth floor, which necessitated climbing a set of exposed, creaking stairs that felt as if they might collapse at any moment. They passed flats with peeling doors and some without doors at all, a ratty curtain serving as the only means of privacy. They stepped over men passed out in the hallway, too drunk or uncaring to take the final steps home. Women in dirty aprons dealt with squalling children, some of the younger females still wearing the face paint of their profession. The air was ripe with greasy, pungent smells.
Wick found their destination, a corner flat that had a door painted a cheerful blue. He knocked, wincing when that set off the screaming of a babe within. Those cries were joined by more cries and still more cries, the effect like auditory dominoes: within seconds, the rising cacophony could be heard down the hall.
The door swung open, a stout matron wearing a cap glaring out at him.
Toting a crying babe in each arm, a third one strapped to her back, she demanded, “Wot you want, eh? Spent an ’our, I did, getting the sprats down and there you go, knocking loud eno’ to wake the dead.”
“My sincere apologies, madam.” Wick bowed. “I’m Wickham Murray, and this is Lady Beatrice Wodehouse. My man was here earlier, and he said you had information regarding Randall Perkins…whom I believe you know as Ralph Palmer?”
The Duke Redemption Page 25