The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor)

by Alexander, Victoria

  He narrowed his eyes. “It’s extremely awkward otherwise.”

  “Unfortunately, you gave me a moment to think. To come to my senses, as it were.” She pinned him with a firm look. “I would think a man of your experience would know better.”

  “One always has something to learn,” he said slowly.

  “And then I became apprehensive, you understand, the enormity of it all. Not for you, of course, but for me. And, well, here we are,” she added weakly.

  “Indeed, we are.” He studied her for a long moment. Good Lord, what if he’d changed his mind? “Apparently, there is only one thing to do.”

  “Oh?”

  He moved to her and drew her into his arms. His lips brushed across hers. “We cannot allow you to think.”

  “No . . .” She sighed against his lips, warm and full and oh so wonderful. “Thinking is not at all a good thing.”

  He shifted his head and ran kisses along the line of her jaw.

  “Oh my.” Her eyes closed and her head dropped back. “That is not at all conducive to rational thought.”

  “Good.”

  His lips continued their exploration. Down the column of her neck to the base of her throat. She shivered beneath his touch, his glorious touch. Her back arched and his mouth drifted lower, to kiss between her breasts.

  “Oh God, Winfield, yes . . .”

  Slowly he pulled the coverlet from her hands and let it drop to the floor. She scarcely noticed.

  He held her with one arm, and cupped her breast with his free hand. Exquisite. She’d never noticed how large his hand was, how gentle, how exciting. His thumb lightly brushed her nipple and she gasped. He took her nipple in his mouth and sucked lightly. His tongue and his teeth teased and toyed until she grabbed at his shirt to steady herself. Pleasure spread from his touch to wash through her and desire pooled in her stomach.

  She moaned softly and he shifted to lavish attention on the other breast. “Oh . . . yes . . .”

  His hands skimmed over her sides and he slowly sank to his knees in front of her, his lips trailing light, teasing kisses lower to her stomach. His tongue traced slow circles on her midsection and she gripped his shoulders and reveled in the feel of his lips on her skin. His hands slid over her, around her and he caressed her derriere. And she wondered that her knees could still support her.

  He slipped a hand between her legs and explored the inside of her thighs and moved higher. Slowly. Deliberately. Her muscles tensed with anticipation, and she throbbed with needing him. At last his fingers brushed over her so lightly she wasn’t sure she felt anything at all. Save her growing need for much, much more.

  Without warning, he got to his feet, swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  “Winf ield—”

  “You’re not thinking again, are you?” His voice was low and harsh with desire.

  “No.” She could barely get out the word. He laid her on the bed and opened her legs. “I can’t . . . think.”

  “Good.”

  He climbed on the bed and lay between her legs. His head lowered and she felt his breath on her. His tongue flicked over her and she sucked in a hard breath at the sheer sensation that shot through her. A loud moan sounded in the room and she realized it was hers.

  His tongue teased her with long slow strokes, every touch bringing a sensation of pleasure so intense it was nearly unbearable. Her hands fisted in the bedclothes and she writhed beneath the pleasure of his touch. He teased her, tasted her, drank of her. He reduced her existence to a creature of no more than pure sensation. She existed only in the touch of his mouth, the caress of his lips. Tension she had nearly forgotten spiraled within her, growing, gathering. Her past experience had not prepared her for the force, the power of the pleasure he gave her. His tongue, his teeth, his hands brought her inevitably closer and closer still until she was very nearly—

  Abruptly, he stopped and slid off the bed.

  Shock and disappointment coursed through her and she whimpered in frustration. Did the man have any idea what he had done to her? She struggled to prop herself up on her elbows and stared at him. “What are you doing?”

  He shrugged off his shirt and pulled off his trousers faster than she could have thought possible. “Well, I’m not giving you time to think.”

  “You have robbed me of all coherent thought,” she murmured.

  Her gaze flicked over him. His shoulders seemed broader without clothes, his muscles tight and defined, his legs long and lean. And his erection, his cock, was most impressive. She’d never used the word before, even in her own mind. It was no doubt a measure of her arousal that she did so now and did not find it distressing but most exciting. The word and the appendage. “Indeed, there is only one thing on my mind.” She reached out to him.

  He flashed her his wicked grin, took her hand, then joined her on the bed. He took her in his arms and the long length of his naked body pressed against hers. His flesh was hot and hard against hers. His lips met hers and she opened her mouth to him, welcoming his tongue, his taste. Her hands explored the hard curves and planes of his back, his buttocks. Her legs entwined with his. His cock pressed against her, hot and demanding. Dear Lord, she wanted this. Wanted him. She hooked her leg over his and tried to pull him closer.

  He shifted to cover her body with his and slipped his hand between them, sliding it between her legs. He caressed her, his hand slick with her own desires, and she throbbed against his fingers. And again tension, aching and intoxicating, built within her. She reached down and wrapped her hand around his cock and he groaned with a need that echoed her own. She stroked him, reveling in the feel of his hard heat pulsing in her hand. He moved her hand and guided himself into her. Slowly, he pushed into her and she held her breath, existing only in the feel of their joining. He filled her with a perfection she had not expected, not imagined, not even in her dreams of him. So full, so right, so complete. As if they were made one for the other.

  He thrust into her, then withdrew almost entirely and thrust again. She wrapped her legs around his waist and urged him deeper. He stroked into her again and again, and she rolled her hips against him meeting his thrusts. She moved in rhythm with him, harder and faster, in a tempo as perfect as life itself. A cadence increasing with every movement of him within her, every rock of her hips. The room, the world filled with the sound of their passion. The bed rocked and creaked beneath them. She scarcely noticed and didn’t care. She was lost in sensation and pleasure and the need for more. Faster and faster he drove into her. Her blood pounded in her ears. Her breath came short and fast. She wanted.... She needed.... She ached....

  She tightened around him and release exploded within her. Waves of sheer delight coursed through her and she arched upward and cried out with the joy of it. And she felt him thrust again, deep and hard, and he shuddered within her and groaned with the power of his own release. He buried his head in her shoulder and for a long moment, his body shook against hers, with hers.

  And for a minute or an hour or forever, they lay together spent, content in each others arms.

  “Good God, Winfield,” she murmured against his neck.

  He chuckled, raised his head and looked at her. “Dare I take that to mean you were not disappointed?”

  “I have no doubt you can do better.” She giggled at the startled look on his face. “But I can’t imagine how.” She grinned. “No, my dear darling Lord Stillwell. I thought this was quite remarkable.”

  He stared into her eyes. “As did I, Lady Garret, as did I.”

  He shifted off of her, then wrapped himself around her, pulling her back against him. She fit quite nicely. She could feel his cock, still shockingly hard, nestled against her. They might yet have to do something about that.... The thought brought her up short. Twice in one night? She grinned. Who would have thought?

  As much as she tried not to, she couldn’t help but compare Winfield to John. It was unfair of her. John had not been nearly as experienced as Winfield
. And he’d had very definite ideas about what was proper and what was not. John never would have buried his head between her legs or made love to her with the lights on. And while she had experienced release with John, it had never been quite this explosive. More like tumbling gently off a cliff than flinging oneself over the edge, with rapt abandon, completely out of control. No, it wasn’t fair at all to compare the two; it was simply unavoidably accurate.

  There was far more to be said for a wicked man than she had imagined.

  And she would never be civilized again.

  He lay on the bed beside her, propped his head on his elbow and studied her. At long last he had found the woman of his dreams. The woman he could spend the rest of his days with. “Did you know your eyes change colors depending on your mood?”

  “I am aware of that, yes.”

  “They’re brown with flecks of gold when you’re happy or amused or concerned. Green when you’re in the throes of anger or . . .” He leaned over and brushed his lips across hers. “Passion. And a blend of colors—hazel, I suppose—the rest of the time.”

  “And what color are they now?”

  “More brown than green at the moment.” Her eyes were glazed with the sort of somnolence seen in women who have been well satisfied. “And extremely smug.”

  She laughed.

  “You should know,” he said in a casual manner, as if it wasn’t at all important. “I believe I have found my last, my final fiancée.”

  “Me?” She propped herself up on her elbows and stared at him. “You want to marry me?”

  He chuckled. “It does seem like a logical next step.”

  “Does it?” She glanced around. At his clothes and hers strewn around the room and the disheveled sheets and coverlet that said more than words what had happened here. He resisted the impulse to grin like a fool. A happy fool. “Because of this?”

  “Not entirely, although you must admit, this was well worth doing again and again until the day one of us breathes our last.”

  She grinned. “I am more than willing to admit that.”

  “Given that we agree on that crucial point, marriage seems most convenient.” He shrugged as if it was of no importance. “Indeed, I think it’s an excellent idea.”

  “Did you ask all of your fiancées to marry you after”—she waved at the crumpled bed sheets—“this?”

  “I’ll have you know I never did . . .” He repeated her gesture. “This with any of them.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have no idea.” He shook his head. “It didn’t seem honorable, I suppose.”

  “Now, I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended.”

  “Or perhaps I could simply wait for this until marriage with them. With you I could not wait another moment.”

  She nodded. “Flattered then.”

  “Perhaps if I had I would be married now.”

  “Then one does have to be grateful for your restraint.”

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers. “And dreadfully unhappy because I would have missed you.”

  “That is a very sweet thing to say.”

  “And sincere, I hope. I am most sincere.”

  She smiled. “It did sound sincere.”

  “So.” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. “Will you agree to be my next fiancée?”

  She studied him for a moment. Her hair was tousled and down around her shoulders. Her skin flushed and warm. He could indeed spend the rest of his life with this woman. “Absolutely not.”

  Shock coursed through him. “What do you mean ‘absolutely not’?”

  “I mean . . .” She sat up and drew the sheet up around her. “No.”

  “No?” He stared at her. “Why not?”

  “You do not have exceptional luck with fiancées. The thought has occurred to me that you might possibly be cursed.”

  He drew his brows together. “Cursed?”

  “Well, as you pointed out earlier tonight, you are an excellent catch.”

  “Cursed?” He shifted away from her and sat up.

  “So one does have to wonder why you have never made it to the altar.”

  “I chose the wrong women,” he said staunchly.

  “Three times?”

  “Apparently.” He glared. “I’ll have you know, I have never indiscriminately asked women to marry me. I selected each of them quite carefully as to her suitability as a wife and the next Countess of Fairborough.” He paused. “Well, perhaps not the first but definitely the second and third.”

  “Surely this has occurred to you? The idea of a curse, that is. I mean, honestly, Winfield, three fiancées?” She grabbed the sheet and struggled to wrap it around her, then slid out of bed. “How many people have had three fiancées and yet have never been married?”

  “We are a small but select group.”

  She plucked a stocking off the bedpost. “And you claim as well that you have never been in love.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you in love now?”

  “I don’t know,” he snapped. “I’m not hearing choirs of angels if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You needn’t be snippy about it.” She spotted her corset, crossed the room and retrieved it.

  “Forgive me,” he said in a dry manner. “I’ve never been in this position before. Snippy is the very least of what I’m feeling.”

  “You mean you’ve never had a woman who didn’t jump at the prospect of marrying you?”

  “They do tend to say yes—before today, that is,” he said sharply, then drew a calming breath. “Allow me to ask you the same question. Are you in love? Do you love me?”

  “I’ll answer that only on the condition that you do not respond by saying aha.” She grimaced. “That is beginning to be most annoying.”

  He nodded. “Agreed.”

  “Then, in answer to your question . . . I don’t know.”

  It was all he could do to keep his mouth shut.

  “It was so very easy with John.” She circled the room collecting her clothing. “I had no doubts, no questions. Of course, I was much younger.”

  “And with me?” He held his breath.

  “You, my dear Winfield, are nothing but doubts and questions.”

  “It seems to me not having all the answers is rather exciting.” He studied her closely. “Aren’t you the one who told me that something unknown, something new, even something dangerous was worth the risk. Wasn’t that what made life exciting?”

  “You’re going to have to help me with all this, you know.” She scooped her chemise off the floor.

  “Miranda.” He slid out of bed, grabbed his trousers and attempted to pull them on. “Am I worth the risk?” He hopped across the floor, struggling with the trousers.

  “Having difficulties?”

  “Yes,” he snapped and managed to finally get the blasted trousers on. He straightened and glared at her. “Are we worth the risk?”

  “Probably.” She smiled in a wry manner. “Do understand I’m not saying I won’t marry you.” She pulled her chemise on over her head and allowed the sheet to drop to the floor at the same moment. Nicely done and quite modest had it not been for the lamp behind her that turned the sheer fabric transparent.

  “How very odd as that’s exactly what I thought you said.” He noted his shirt, slid halfway under the bed, snatched it up and put it on.

  “Not at all.” She settled into his comfortable reading chair by the fireplace, shook out a stocking and drew it up her shapely leg. He could certainly watch that for the rest of his life. “I don’t want to be engaged to you. It’s as simple as that.”

  He stared in confusion. “That’s not simple.”

  “Of course it is. It’s extremely simple.” She tied her garter and met his gaze firmly. “You do not do well with engagements.” She shrugged and started pulling on the other stocking. It was most distracting. “It might be a curse or simply bad luck or more likely poor choices on your part.”


  “Thank you,” he muttered.

  She tied her garter and stood up. “But I do not think it’s wise to become fiancée number four.”

  “I see,” he said slowly. “So while you are not open to a betrothal you are not precluding the possibility of marriage?”

  She beamed at him. “Exactly.” She picked up her corset and wrapped it around herself, then turned her back to him and glanced over her shoulder. “Help me with this if you please.”

  “What are you doing?” He moved closer.

  “I’m getting dressed, of course. I can’t return to my house carrying my clothes instead of wearing them.”

  “Why don’t you stay here?” He took the corset laces and started tightening the undergarment.

  “Because if I am not there in the morning, my servants will certainly notice and think that something dreadful has happened to me. They will then contact my family and God knows what might happen next.” She glanced back at him. “Do you want that?”

  “You have a point there.” There was nothing quite as erotic as a woman in little more than a corset. Pity, they tended to wear them under their clothes. “But didn’t I hear someone say tonight that she was twenty-eight and able to make her own decisions?”

  “One step at a time,” she murmured.

  He leaned close and kissed the nape of her neck. “When?”

  “When what?”

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. “When will you marry me?”

  “Do pay attention, Winfield. While I didn’t say I wouldn’t marry you I never said I would either. If we agreed to a specific when we would essentially be engaged.” She hesitated. “Beyond that, I’m not sure your previous engagements didn’t fail because you rushed into them. I think we should take our time and continue on as . . . friends.”

  “Friends?” He kissed the side of her neck.

  She moaned softly. “Yes, indeed, friends. We’ve done quite well as friends.”

  “I don’t really want to be your friend.” His thumbs toyed with the undersides of her corseted breasts. “I have friends.”

  “Yes, well . . .” She swallowed. “I simply prefer to get my affairs in order before taking such an enormous step, that’s all.”