Twice as Wicked

by Elizabeth Bright

  He nodded. She watched him for a moment, perhaps waiting for him to say more, he realized. A fresh wave of agony seized him. She must think him little better than a monkey. Or more likely, a little worse. A monkey could peel a banana, after all—a feat he had reason to doubt he could manage at this precise moment.

  Why the devil was he thinking of monkeys instead of making proper conversation?

  Because he could not think with her standing so close, with her perfume invading his senses and the white cream of her neck demanding a nibble. He simply could not.

  She turned back to the painting of Mrs. Edwin, to his great relief. “She is certainly lovely. A perfect bosom, shown to its best advantage by a chaste cross on a string of pearls. I should probably not say such things, I suppose, but her bosom is there and finely displayed whether I mention it or not. Tell me, what do you think of her smile?”

  Good God.

  For a moment, he could only stare blankly, completely thrown by her use of the word bosom—twice!—and could not force his mind round any other thought. Heat saturated the back of his neck. He could feel her eyes, black and velvety, on his face, waiting for an answer. She had asked him a question, had she not? And not about bosoms. Very well, then. What did he think of Mrs. Edwin’s smile? He turned his eyes to the painting.

  “Otherworldly,” he said after a moment’s perusal. “She entertains us, but she is not one of us. She is apart.” He considered the subject more closely. “Perhaps she is laughing at us, because we are so easily amused by her beauty. The Mona Lisa of the theater.”

  Miss Bursnell’s lips curved in a slow smile. “An excellent analysis, Lord Abingdon.”

  The heat of his flush deepened. No one ever thought his analysis on artistic endeavors to be excellent. Oh, he knew that he was well-regarded, that the ton held him in high esteem—for being so devilishly clever as to be born the first son of an earl, if for no other reason. All in all, he was well recommended…but never sought out. Nor were his opinions.

  Yet, here was Miss Bursnell, asking for his views and declaring them to be excellent. It felt…bloody good.

  “Have you ever seen Mrs. Edwin perform?” she asked.

  “Yes. Have you?”

  “No. She performed here at Drury, did she not? And then elsewhere in London, after the theater burned. I spent several summers in Cornwall, but this is my first time in London.” She continued to study the portrait. “I suppose I have missed my chance, as she is now retired.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “You had never been to London before this season? But you are the daughter of a peer. How is that possible?”

  “There was never a reason, my lord,” she said quietly. “Northumberland is far from London, and I did not desire nor need a season. I was betrothed, and believed I would marry and spend the rest of my life happily in Northumberland. Unfortunately, my fiancé did not come back from Waterloo.”

  “I am so sorry.” If only there were a cudgel lying about so he could give himself a good whack to the head. “I seem to be in the habit of making you speak of unhappy things. Please forgive me.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “You do not need to apologize for things outside your control. You could not know the reason before you asked.”

  Her eyes were darker than ever as she looked up at him. He could not tell where the iris ended and the pupil began. How could a man ever prefer blue eyes to these velvet pools? Blue eyes were well and good, but one could not lose oneself in their depths. He had seen scores of blue eyes in scores of beautiful faces, and not once had he ever been in danger of drowning, as he was now.

  The heavy fringe of her lashes swept downward, obscuring her expression. Her white teeth sank into her bottom lip, causing the rosy color to heighten. The movement captivated him. He wanted to cup her face in his hands, rub his thumb over that lip, and replace her nibble with his. Not hard enough to hurt her, just enough to see what it felt like. He wanted a taste, that was all.

  He shook his head to clear the madness, but the madness would not clear. It was her scent, the bittersweet of lemons. Why could she not wear roses or gardenia, like every other woman of the ton? Why must she insist on wearing a perfume that begged him to lick her from head to toe?

  Oh, he was most certainly mad. A gentleman did not lick a lady.

  “I must return to my friend, Lord Abingdon,” she said, still not meeting his gaze. “I am sure she is wondering about my absence.”

  “Yes. Yes. No doubt you are eager to finish Lady Claire’s catalogue of dances,” he said absently, paying no heed to the words coming from his mouth. He was too busy attempting to control his breathing so he did not pant like a rutting dog.

  The dark fringe swept up abruptly, and her startled eyes met his own. She threw back her head and laughed, revealing even more of that slim marble neck. Another wave of her scent hit his nostrils. Blood pounded in his veins, roared in his ears. He could not take another moment of this.

  He pounced.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Alice was still laughing when she felt Lord Abingdon’s hand clamp firmly behind her neck, bringing her body up against his with surprising force. His mouth was on hers before she could protest—although she wasn’t entirely sure she would protest, if given the opportunity.

  She dizzied from the speed at which he pulled her from laughing into kissing. His mouth was warm and insistent, demanding something she did not understand and could not give.

  Or could she?

  Then she felt the gentle nip of his teeth on her bottom lip.

  She gasped.

  He took full advantage. His tongue darted into her mouth, gently running over her teeth and playfully nudging against her own. She shrank back from the sudden intimacy, but he followed her, his mouth never leaving hers, until her back was pressed against the wall and she could feel the full length of him hard against her body.

  The smell of him surrounded her, spicy and oh so male. Her hands fluttered against the hard planes of his chest, unsure whether or not to land there. Decorum and self-preservation insisted that she should push him off—they could easily be seen by anyone leaving the theater—but instead, her arms twined around his neck, seemingly of their own accord.

  His mouth roved her face, kissing her temple and eyelids before nibbling her jawline. He stopped at her pulse point, and his tongue swept it lightly, testing the rapid heartbeat that throbbed there. She whimpered, and his mouth once more found hers. Again, his lips coaxed hers apart, again his tongue invaded. But this time she understood. She brushed her tongue against his, explored the silky, piquant underside.

  He moaned and crushed her harder against him.

  “You taste sweet,” he murmured. “So damn sweet.”

  A great swell of chatter rose through the theater. She struggled to make sense of it through the haze of passion.

  Intermission! Soon the hall would fill with hundreds of people.

  “Lord Abingdon!” she warned.

  He seemed not to hear and continued to nuzzle her neck.

  “Lord Abingdon!” She pushed hard against his chest.

  “Hmm?” He blinked slowly, his eyes drugged and dreamy.

  “Please, my lord. It is intermission. People will see us.”

  With sudden understanding of the danger, he released her and took a rapid step backward. She did not wait for him to speak. She picked up her skirts and fled.

  Dear heavens.

  What on earth had just happened? What had she done?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alice shivered as she escaped the overheated theater and cannoned out into the cold, dark night. She had not stopped to collect her cloak, nor to inform Aunt Bea of her departure. She had not thought of anything other than fleeing her own mortification.

  What undiscovered, terrifying weakness had Lord Abingdon laid bare within her heart? If someone would be so kind as to hand her a knife, she would gladly cut out the traitorous organ.

  She heard footsteps run
ning toward her over the cobblestones and immediately hastened her step.

  Not quickly enough.

  A warm hand clamped down on her upper arm, bringing her to a halt.

  “Alice, stop!” Lord Abingdon panted.

  She tried to shake him off, but his grip was like iron. She glowered up at him. “Do not presume to call me that!”

  He eyed her warily. “My apologies. That was inappropriate of me.”

  She barked a laugh. “Perhaps you thought, after mauling me in a public place, you could dispense with other formalities, as well.”

  He had the good grace to blush deeply. His hand dropped from her arm. “Miss Bursnell, please come back to the theater. It’s cold, and you are unprotected. You must allow me to escort you back.”

  “I most certainly will not. I have had quite enough of your company for one evening. Good night, my lord.” She turned and marched swiftly in what she dearly hoped was the direction of home.

  She sensed his hesitation as he debated his next course of action. When he fell into step beside her, she groaned loudly, not bothering to hide her dismay.

  “You leave me no choice, Miss Bursnell. I cannot permit you to wander the streets of London alone, especially not at night.”

  “You are neither my father nor my husband. You cannot permit nor forbid me to do anything.”

  “Your point is well taken,” he said cheerfully. “Yet, why argue semantics? You have no hope of outrunning me in those slippers.”

  Anger simmered in her stomach. She whirled toward him. “You arrogant, insufferable creature!” She shoved at his chest, but she might as well pound on a brick wall for all the good it did. Why would he not go and leave her to her shame? For she was ashamed—deeply so. He was, after all, just a man and couldn’t help himself. It was she who should have restrained herself, as a true lady ought.

  “Are you quite finished?” His lips quirked, fueling her acute displeasure.

  “No, my lord.” She brought her foot down hard upon his boot with righteous indignation, grinding her heel on his toes. “Now I am finished.”

  He grunted and stumbled backward. “The devil. You did not protest this much while I kissed you.”

  She snatched desperately at the shreds of her dignity and managed to send him a haughty look. “Really, my lord, you hardly gave me a chance!”

  The remark hit home, she could see. His gaze faltered, and he rubbed anxiously at his cheek. It was not at all the response she expected. He may not have seduced her sister, but that did not mean he was inexperienced. He was the Duke of Wessex’s closest friend, for God’s sake! And—judging from the past few minutes alone—the man clearly knew how to kiss. She had most certainly not been his first.

  He, on the other hand, had been her first. Unless one counted a handful of innocent pecks from her late fiancé.

  Who knew kissing could be so…so…very pleasant? It gave her a whole new perspective on the reasons a young lady might find herself…in a spot of trouble.

  He gave her a slight bow. “It will not happen again, Miss Bursnell. You have my word on it.”

  She searched his face suspiciously. Was he mocking her? But his blue eyes were serious, with not even a spark of laughter lurking in their depths. Which in no way explained the brief jolt of regret that went through her at his gallant promise. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Will you return to the theater now? Please?”

  She bit her lip. She did not truly want to walk home. Her delicate slippers would be torn to ribbons. And how would she explain her disappearance to Aunt Bea? There must be a way to give in without further bruising her pride.

  As he watched her worry her lip, the sparkle returned to his eyes. She found that slightly ominous.

  “If you wish to continue home, I will be happy to accompany you,” he said. “You would be burdened with my company slightly longer than if we were to return to the theater now, of course, but that is no matter. It is a scant eight kilometers to Mayfair. I shall have you warm and safe at home in no more than…oh, two hours.”

  She blanched. Eight kilometers! The distance had seemed so much shorter traveling by coach. “Oh, very well! I will return to the theater. I cannot stand ten minutes more of your company, let alone two hours.”

  He made a sound suspiciously similar to a laugh being smothered by a cough. She glared.

  “Will you take my arm?”

  She hesitated. The very last thing she wanted was to touch him again.

  Honestly, she didn’t dare.

  He closed his eyes briefly. The lines of his throat quivered as he swallowed hard. “I understand your reluctance, Miss Bursnell, but I swear you are safe with me.”

  She had serious doubts about that. But with little choice, she took his arm and allowed him to lead her back to the theater.

  I understand your reluctance…

  No, he did not.

  She had lived her life with the belief that only a certain type of girl could be ruined. Not girls like her. To be seduced, a girl must be weak both of mind and of character, and Alice was neither of those things. Neither was Adelaide, however, so there must have been extenuating circumstances. Perhaps the man had tricked her into believing he would marry her immediately.

  But sometimes—not often, but sometimes—she’d wondered…had Adelaide been weak? Alice had always banished the unsisterly, uncharitable thought immediately to the darkest corners of her mind. But she’d known it was there, this thought, and it had always troubled her.

  Until now.

  Now, she understood.

  How could a lady not be seduced by such deep, sweet kisses that threatened to steal one’s very soul from her body? Until Lord Abingdon’s mouth had claimed her own, she had thought she knew what kissing was. But the chaste kisses she had shared with her fiancé had as little in common with Lord Abingdon’s searing heat as a kitten had with a lion.

  No, she no longer wondered how Adelaide had been seduced. She had likely been thoroughly kissed herself, and then things went on from there.

  Which begged an even more troubling question.

  Just how was Alice to find the seducer…without being seduced herself?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nathaniel put forth a monumental effort to avoid Miss Bursnell for the next fortnight—a Herculean task if ever there was one. In a city of over a million people, how the deuce was it possible to continuously find himself in the same place as one small lady? Surely, she ought to be…somewhere else.

  But no, wherever he was, there Miss Bursnell was sure to be. When he went with Wessex to Tattersall’s, she was there with Miss Benton. When he escorted his sister and aunt to Bond Street for a new bonnet, there she was, shopping with Lady Claire.

  Most disconcerting of all, here she was now, in Hyde Park, strolling arm in arm with Miss Benton. It was too much!

  “Miss Bursnell is following me,” Nathaniel muttered to Wessex as they rode side by side. “She is everywhere. I cannot escape her.”

  Wessex looked dubiously at him. “Yes, how obvious. Why else would she be here, in Hyde Park, during the fashionable hour? She must be plotting your murder even as we speak. And how clever of her to arrive before us!”

  “If this were the only time I had seen her, I would agree it’s just a coincidence. But it is not. It has been a fortnight of such coincidences, and judged as a whole, you must agree that these meetings are no accident.”

  Wessex rolled his eyes heavenward. “Very well. Let us hear it.”

  “We met last Tuesday at Bond Street, for example.”

  “You were in a ladies’ hat shop. How on earth could she have expected to find you there?” Wessex demanded.

  An excellent question, but Nathaniel was not so easily persuaded. “What of Tattersall’s, then?”

  Wessex sighed deeply. “My dear man, that was not a case of Miss Bursnell following you. That was a case of me following Miss Benton. You and Miss Bursnell were simply innocent bystanders.”

  This
gave Nathaniel pause. “Oh.” He gave Wessex a sidelong glance. “Wessex, if you don’t mind my asking—”

  “I do mind,” Wessex snapped.

  “Hmm. I see.” Nathaniel tipped his hat in greeting to Colonel Kent and Baron Dillingham but urged his horse forward without stopping. “He sent her roses,” he said under his breath.

  “Perhaps,” Wessex said sardonically, “Miss Bursnell is following him.”

  Nathaniel growled, to which Wessex just laughed.

  “If you are so sure she is set on murdering you, why do you care if she is here for another man? You should be relieved.”

  Undoubtedly. And yet, Nathaniel was not relieved. He felt a certain possessiveness when it came to Miss Bursnell. If she was following any man, then it should be him, damn it! He actually liked her, and that was the worry of it all.

  He frowned uneasily at his horse’s ears. She said inappropriate things, laughed at inappropriate times, and was not above stomping on a gentleman’s toes if he offended her. But he liked her scent of crisp lemons, the sweet taste of her lips, the sturdy feel of her in his arms. He closed his eyes, remembering. Beneath her dress he could feel the firmness of her bone and muscle. He could—

  “For God’s sake, man, open your eyes before you trample Miss Benton!” Wessex said.

  Nathaniel’s eyes shot open just in time to see Miss Benton do a quick sidestep to the left, nearly knocking Miss Bursnell to the ground as she did so. He tipped his hat to the ladies as nonchalantly as possible, as if he hadn’t been caught riding a horse in the most foolish way imaginable. “Miss Bursnell, Miss Benton. How do you do?”

  Miss Benton’s eyes danced with mirth. “Very well, my lord. And yourself?”

  “I am well.” He tapped his crop nervously on his thigh. Miss Bursnell had not yet spoken. Was she still angry from his kiss? “It is fine weather for walking, is it not, Miss Bursnell?” he ventured.

  Her obsidian eyes stared stonily back at him, but he knew she could not ignore a direct question. “Yes, my lord.”

  Miss Benton glanced wryly at her friend. “We were searching out the spring flowers, my lord, but Miss Bursnell complains that London gardens are too tame.”