The Wicked One

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I have a question,” she said, her voice hitching as he flicked his tongue across one of her nipples.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  “Hm. Very well, then. Ask.” As he spoke, he lifted her in his arms and stood, carrying her to the deep couch and then sitting again with her still across his thighs.

  “I know at Lady Darham’s you…saw something you wanted. I didn’t expect you to remain after you had me.”

  He lifted his head from her soft breasts. “Do you want me to leave?”

  His voice sounded more strident than he’d intended. It had to be the fact that his cock was already straining at his trousers; what man in his right mind wanted to be asked to go when he was already imagining her naked? His…annoyance—for that had to be what the uncomfortable sensation in his chest was—was only because of her timing.

  “No, I don’t want you to leave.” She grabbed his hair and kissed him hard and openmouthed. “I’m only surprised you don’t want to leave.”

  So was he, actually. For a rather helpless, naive widow, she was quite compelling. And even considering his own situation, he found himself working to make her smile. To at least give her something to contemplate aside from her own untenable circumstances. “You are the most lovely flower in Vienna,” he returned, reaching between them to unfasten his trousers. “If not all of Europe. You’re also witty, willing, and I’m discovering that streak of cynicism.”

  “I’m not witty,” she breathed, holding onto his shoulders and lifting up a little so he could shove his trousers down past his thighs. “I talk about Frederick too much, and I constantly complain about money.”

  Oliver drew the black skirt of her gown up around her waist to join the rest of the material there. “What else would you be discussing?”

  With a breathless smile, Diane sank down on him again, impaling herself on his cock. “This, perhaps.”

  As she bounced up and down on him enthusiastically, he swiftly lost the power of speech. He thrust up into her, the heat and friction of her driving him almost immediately to the edge of control. Whatever the devil he was doing keeping company with a luscious young widow, this certainly made it worth the weeping and hand-wringing. In fact, in exchange for being with Diane Benchley he was beginning to think he’d be willing to put up with quite a bit more of it.

  She dug her fingers into his shoulders, and for a moment he was grateful that he still wore his shirt and jacket. He still bore fingernail scratches from their first night together. If nothing else, that had convinced him that this woman needed to be thoroughly ravished. Repeatedly.

  Using every ounce of self-control he possessed, Oliver held himself in check until he felt her tightening, shivering release around him. Then with what was likely no grace at all, he lifted her off his thighs and came against her with the help of her eager hands. He groaned, breathing hard as she leaned in and kissed him again.

  He was cleaning himself off as someone rapped on the small apartment’s door. Diane’s face turned gray and she jumped to her feet. “You have to hide,” she hissed, yanking up the top of her gown and settling her skirt back around her ankles.

  Swiftly he grabbed the second cup of tea that sat on the writing desk and strode into her bedchamber. It wasn’t the first time he’d fled after sex, but he’d never done so when the woman’s husband was dead—and when technically they’d done nothing wrong. Not in the eyes of the law, at least, though he supposed the church would disagree.

  He listened at the door as Diane admitted her dullard of a landlord. The fellow demanded his rent, now overdue by a fortnight, then proceeded to backpedal and apologize when Lady Cameron began to sob and weep hysterically about her helplessness and how awful and unreliable the mail was and how her brother-in-law the new earl would have the papers to her any day now.

  Once the fool left, Oliver emerged into the sitting room again. Diane leaned her forehead against the closed door, the knuckles of her hand white where she gripped the handle. Her mourning might not have been genuine, but she was a woman truly in a dire situation. His gut lurched uncomfortably at the sight of how…vulnerable she looked. “I had a thought,” he said in a low voice.

  She straightened, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Give me a moment, if you please,” she said shakily.

  His fingers clenched—not with anger or frustration, but because he abruptly wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her that she wasn’t alone, that he would do whatever he could to assist her. Him. A man who’d cheated to win the money he was presently using to purchase them food and to pay for his own apartment across the city. A man who’d fled London because he could no longer afford to live there unless he apologized to his damned uncle. And crossed his fingers, spit over his shoulder, and hoped that would be enough to earn Uncle Phillip’s forgiveness.

  Finally she blew out her breath. “I apologize. I know you dislike sticky emotions.”

  Oliver shrugged, more to settle himself than to signal anything to her. “You did away with dear Mr. Brunn quite handily, I have to say. At least twice now, as well.”

  “It won’t work much longer. A man’s discomfort with weeping cannot outweigh his love of gold forever.”

  “And there’s that cynicism again.” With a brief smile he walked to the table and handed her the second cup of tea. It was weak stuff, worse than piss, but he certainly wasn’t obligated to drink it. He did so because she made it for him.

  “Hence that thought I had a moment ago.”

  She took a long swallow, grimacing. “Which thought did you have, then?”

  “Just that Lord Cameron has been away from London for a year, and his circumstances in that time have changed drastically. Would it be terribly unusual for a man in that position to perhaps…amend certain papers?”

  Diane stared at him. If he’d needed a ruler to measure the distance between his moral compass and hers, he only needed to look at her face. She wanted to sin, but only in the bedchamber. Outside of that, Lady Cameron seemed to still follow the rules.

  “You’re suggesting that I what, forge a new will and pass it off as Frederick’s?”

  Or perhaps she wasn’t as interested in the rules as he thought. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I only asked if it wasn’t likely he might have put something in writing that took into account his altered circumstances.” Taking the teacup from her hand, he leaned down and kissed her again. “Then again, such things take money. A solicitor to declare the documents legal, someone to witness them, your husband’s signature, the—”

  “It sounds as if you’ve given this more than a single thought,” she broke in.

  “You didn’t deserve to have this happen to you,” he said, somewhat surprised to realize that he was utterly serious. “If a small lie can improve your circumstance, I think it would be worth it. Don’t you?”

  “I have signed papers on Frederick’s behalf, from time to time,” she returned slowly. “Frequently, actually.” She visibly shook herself. “But no one is likely to believe me over Anthony. And if they suspect a deception, I would find myself in prison. Or worse.”

  “It was only a suggestion, Diane. From an immoral scoundrel.” Smiling to show that he hadn’t meant to cause her further distress, Oliver reached out to tug on her rumpled sleeve. “What say we attempt a stroll along the river? A widow and a friend of her husband’s, here to provide a measure of comfort?”

  The smile that touched her mouth had nothing to do with comfort, and his cock twitched in response. “I’ve barely left the bed for the past three days. A stroll might be pleasant. But you don’t precisely look…brotherly.”

  “And I don’t feel brotherly. I did, however, go to the bother of getting dressed.”

  With an exaggerated sigh that did wondrous things to her bosom, Diane nodded. “A short stroll. Away from here. I don’t want Mr. Brunn seeing us.”

  He offered his arm. Whether she realized it or not, Diane was learning some things about deception, and abo
ut survival. Perhaps he was aiding her a little, after all.

  Diane lifted up on one elbow, reaching out with her free hand to brush a strand of rich, mahogany hair from the temple of the man sleeping beside her. How odd, that the worst fortnight of her life had been immediately followed by the best fortnight of her life. And the only thing to differentiate the two portions was Oliver Warren.

  He likely saw a similarity between them—two English aristocrats, trapped in Vienna because of a lack of funds. Her interpretation was rather different, but at the moment all that mattered was the fact that she was no longer alone. And she’d begun to realize that she’d been alone not since Frederick’s death, but since her marriage to him. The price, she supposed, for marrying according to the dictates of a contract rather than her heart.

  It wasn’t just the frequent, toe-curling sex. Oliver spoke to her, and listened to her when she talked about nonsense. Even when she talked, endlessly, about Frederick and her current woes. She could barely stand hearing it herself, and yet there he was, a warm, solid, enticing presence that had appeared just when she’d been ready to give up hope.

  Even though she knew it was childish, something worthy of a young girl who still believed in faerie magic and dandelion wishes, in the night like this, with his hand wrapped into the material of her night rail, she couldn’t help wondering. Was this—he—her reward? Her…compensation for doing what was expected of her, for standing by Frederick even when she would much rather have fled? Had she passed some sort of test, and now she was worthy of being loved? Of falling in love?

  Love. Such a small word, and yet the key to opening vast expanses of the world. The things no one could touch, but everyone craved. Long eyelashes fluttered and opened, gray eyes almost black in the filtered moonlight focusing on her.

  “Hello,” he muttered, a faint smile touching his sensuous mouth.

  “Hello.”

  “Is something amiss?”

  “No. I was merely pondering.” She lowered her head onto the cushion of her arm. “If we simply ran away from Vienna, what would the penalty be?”

  His low chuckle rumbled into her chest. “I doubt any debts accrued in Austria would follow us to England. There is the problem of English debts, however.”

  “Yes, but Spain is very pleasant this time of year, isn’t it? I just received a letter from my dear friend Jenny. She’s been living in Spain for the past few months.” The fact that she’d received any news at all of Genevieve Martine after five years of silence seemed significant. The timing of it only added to the feeling that she’d somehow managed to step into the sunlight after two years of clouds and rain.

  Oliver rolled onto his side, propping up his head in a mirror to her own position. “Would you flee to Spain with me, Diane?”

  “I would flee anywhere with you, I think. As long as I could burn any black clothing I own.”

  “But you look so delicious in black. I don’t think you have any idea how much power a woman in black holds over any man. Especially when she looks as exquisite you do.” Leaning forward, he kissed her softly and slowly. “Of course you look equally enticing out of any clothes at all.”

  “Is that why you’re still here?” she asked when she could breathe again, deciding belatedly that questioning miracles was a very bad idea. “Sex?”

  “Hm. A lovely young woman, a fellow countryman in a foreign country, someone who doesn’t look down on me for being the scoundrel that I am, someone who laughs at my jests. And I can’t forget that when faced with odds that would crush most people, she’s found a way both to survive and to begin thinking beyond tomorrow.” He lifted an eyebrow. “So yes, it’s solely the sex.”

  “I was crushed,” she whispered, gripping his fingers. “You saved me.” Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed, and she stretched, then kissed him again. “I think I’ll put on a kettle for some awful tea.”

  The moment she left the room, shutting the door behind her, Oliver sat up. Christ. He’d saved her? Him? The idiot who didn’t have two coins to rub together, and who couldn’t manage to be polite to his uncle for long enough to remain in the man’s will? Who’d by insisting on being a scoundrel had denied himself inheriting a marquisdom and enough blunt to purchase a small country?

  What the devil was he doing? Yes, he admired her fortitude, and the way that even as completely unprepared for the harsh realities of life as she was, she still somehow found the strength to continue on. He appreciated her body and and her humor, and he loved her angry, hopeful passion.

  A sharp chill stabbed into his chest. Love? So what did that mean? Did he love her? Was he going to shackle himself to her for the rest of his life while they fled from country to country racking up debts they could never pay? Drinking that damned, weak tea every morning and…and what? Marry her?

  He was six-and-twenty. He still had oats to sow and wagering to do, games to play, women to seduce. If he stayed with Diane now, when they’d talking about…about living together and a future together, he would never be able to leave.

  “Shit,” he muttered, grabbing his trousers and yanking them on.

  She didn’t need him. She was discovering ways to make do. He’d showed her some of them. And she had more chance of succeeding as a pretty young widow than as a scandalous female flitting about Europe with the likes of him. His boots were beneath the bed, and he sank down to carefully retrieve them and silently pull them on.

  It had only been a damned fortnight. He didn’t have to alter the entire remainder of his life because of a bloody fortnight, however pleasant and pleasurable it had been. She expected too much. And he had obligations. His uncle had no other heirs. If the fat fool dropped dead without altering his will, the properties and title and wealth of the Haybury marquisdom would revert to the Crown. That was nonsense.

  He found his shirt and his jacket and shrugged into them, then cracked open the bedchamber door. Diane knelt in front of the old, worn fireplace, setting that blasted dented kettle over the small fire. And she was humming.

  Swearing silently, he shut the door against the abrupt desire to simply stay there and listen to her, watch her be happy. It wouldn’t last. He’d do something stupid, or he’d decide to go out to a club and wager and lose, and she would decide he wasn’t what she needed, after all. The only difference between them was the fact that he already knew he was wrong for her.

  The window overlooking the neighboring grocer opened silently, and he swung over the ledge and jumped onto the building’s lower roof. She would realize what he already knew, and better that he not be there when that happened. Better for them both if he simply disappeared.

  She would manage. In fact, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if four or five or six years from now she reappeared in London, a wealthy husband and two or three children in tow. She would be happy, and he would be happy, and they would laugh about their two weeks in Vienna. A few tears now, perhaps, in exchange for a much better life. Diane Benchley would thank him for it, the next time they met. He was certain of that. Damned certain.

  Want to find out what happens next? Check out this excerpt from

  A BEGINNER’S GUIDE TO RAKES

  By Suzanne Enoch

  Available in print and e-book editions from St. Martin’s Paperbacks!

  Chapter One

  Very few things in the world could make Oliver Warren, the Marquis of Haybury, flinch. He could count these things on one hand, in fact. The yowling of small children. The squeak of rusted metal. And the mention of that name.

  Stilling, he looked up, the stack of coins between his fingers forgotten. “What did you say?”

  To his left James Appleton nodded. “I thought the Benchleys would have found a way to keep the manor, it being in the family for so long. But it’s the widow opening up old Adam House. Just arrived last night, from what I heard. At any rate, it’s the first time in better than three years that anyone’s lived there.”

  Oliver placed his wager on the three of spades, keeping his ey
es on the game as the dealer turned over a four, a nine, and the queen of hearts. “Hm,” he said, deciding vague interest would be the expected response to this particular gossip. “Lady Cameron. She’s been on the Continent, hasn’t she? What’s her name? Marianne?”

  “Diane,” Appleton corrected, finally noticing that he’d lost the wager he’d just placed on the four of spades. “Blast it all. I heard Vienna or Amsterdam or some such. I suppose with Frederick dead for more than two years now, she decided she missed London.”

  “That seems likely.” A flash of long, raven black hair and startling green eyes crossed Oliver’s mind before he shoved the image away again. Damn, damn, damn. He sent a glance at the man seated to his left. “London must be dull as dirt indeed, Appleton,” he drawled, “if the most intriguing bit of gossip you can find is that a widow is settling back into her late husband’s town house.”

  Across the table Lord Beaumont laughed. “You’ve hit on the Season’s failing, Haybury. No good gossip. I don’t think we’ve had a scandal since January, and that one doesn’t even count because no one was in Town to enjoy it.” The earl lifted his glass. “Here’s hoping for some bloody entertainment soon.”

  Oliver drank to that. Anything that kept him from having to hear damned Diane Benchley’s name on everyone’s lips for the next six weeks had his vote. “Are you finished with wagering for the evening, Appleton?” he pursued. “We could fetch you an embroidery hoop, if you prefer to continue your tongue wagging.”

  Appleton’s cheeks and throat flushed a ruddy red. “I merely thought it interesting,” he protested. “The former Earl of Cameron and his wife flee London just ahead of the dunners, and now she comes back alone in a half dozen of the grandest black coaches anyone could let—and in the middle of the night.”

  “Perhaps she found herself a Prussian duke,” the fourth of their party, Jonathan Sutcliffe, Lord Manderlin, finally put in. “She always was a pretty thing, as I recall.” He patted Oliver’s shoulder. “You weren’t in London back then, were you? In fact, didn’t you spend some time in Vienna?”