As Wicked as You Want: Forever Ours Book 1

by Nia Farrell

  “Yes. Of course.” I put a hand over the pinch in my stomach and hoped to God it was so. I owed him so much already. If he missed the convention proceedings because of me, I wouldn’t put it past him to assign penance, and feel justified in so doing.

  He shrugged into his frockcoat, grabbed his walking stick and hat, and reached for the door. “I do not know how long things will take,” he said. “In case I am delayed, shall I arrange for your supper as well?”

  “If you please, have a small basket of fresh fruit sent with lunch. It will tide me over if you’re held up, and if you’re here, it will keep until tomorrow.” He challenged me with a look, which I rejected with the most winsome smile that I could muster without seeming flirtatious. “My needs are simple, Edward. I am no hothouse flower that needs pampered to thrive. Surely you know that. I’d never have survived three years in the infantry, if that were the case.”

  He looked at me for a telling moment, then nodded. “Of course. I shall see to it, then. You have a wrapper, yes?” I nodded. He almost smiled. “Decent enough covering for answering the door. Make certain who is there before you open it, lest some delegate or reporter has gotten off on the wrong floor.”

  “Yes, Edward.” How meek I could sound when I made the effort. He seemed pacified, for the moment at least, and left in fairly good humor. I tamed my hair, donned my wrapper, found the book I’d been reading, and waited for breakfast to arrive.

  Two pirates later, there was a knock on the door. A young man in uniform had his hands so full with the overloaded tray, I wondered how he’d managed it. “Over there.” I directed him to the table. Anticipating need, I had cleared the space, stacking Edward’s newspapers and setting them in his empty chair.

  My steward—I didn’t know what else to call him—spread out a veritable feast that included a serving bowl of fresh peaches, apples, and two bananas, that exotic delicacy that had made Daniel sick as a dog the first time he’d eaten them. Never having seen them, not knowing any better, he’d consumed several in their entirety, peelings and all. The mere sight of one was enough to turn his stomach.

  Damn it. There were those blasted tears again.

  My young steward shifted on his feet, discomfited.

  “Allergies,” I said, swiping at my eyes with one hand while dismissively waving the other. “This will be fine, thank you.”

  He shifted again, eyeing me expectantly.

  When I realized that he was waiting for a tip, my heart sank to my stomach, adding to the pinch. I had no money of my own. Traveling with Edward, there was no need. Except there was a need, and I had no way to meet it, unless….

  “Stay there,” I ordered, and flew to my art box. Something finished would be quicker, but I owed him more than that. Flipping to a blank page, I already had the basic strokes done before I reached the table. I added details to his cap, sketched his hair, and captured the smile that he cracked once he’d seen what I was doing.

  I signed it Lane Davenport and freed it from my pad. “I’m sorry. I have no coin. Will you accept this as a gratuity?”

  “Will I?” The boy was positively radiant, so brightly did he beam at me. “Yes, Miss! Thank you, Miss!”

  For a moment, I considered making an offer that, on second thought, would not have been wise. Offering caricatures or simple portraits in exchange for meal delivery was one thing. Bartering for laundry services and such was an entirely different matter. The bathroom was well stocked with soap. All I needed was a place to hang my hand washed items to dry and I’d be set.

  I wondered if Edward had any rope.

  “One thing,” I said. “Whoever delivers lunch, would you please see to it that they bring a length of cording or thin rope? Fifteen feet or so should do.” Inspired now, I told him that we were sailing to Europe. “I want to practice my knots. Show that brother of mine a thing or two.”

  My imagination was running wild, but I sounded innocent enough, his smile was back. “Yes, Miss. I’ll see to it, Miss.”

  “Thank you…what is your name?”

  “William, Miss.”

  “Thank you, William. That will be all for now.”

  He scurried away with his treasure and instructions, and I closed the door. Alone at last.

  Ah, food. Exactly what I’d ordered. Bacon crisped to perfection. A large bowl of oatmeal, garnished with a topping that included finely chopped nuts of some kind, and a bowl of fresh, sliced peaches—one of the joys of summer. There was a small carafe of milk, a tiny pitcher of sweet cream, and a cup of coffee that was still too hot to drink. I’d just as soon have had a glass of cider, but Edward would have no way of knowing that, any more that I knew his culinary preferences. There was so much we did not know about each other, yet rather than mourn the fact, I embraced it, welcomed it, placing my hope in a future that was unfolding before me.

  Of course, I wanted it to be with him. I thought. I still had questions, of course, and my general insecurities. Could he love me? Could I make him happy? If I failed to satisfy his baser needs, could I turn a blind eye while he found someone who would…even if staying together meant sharing him with another person? A mistress? An eromenos? If he did not favor pederasty with one of his students, perhaps a mature man—someone more his equal, in intellect and strength?

  Daniel.

  I shook myself. God. I was going to drive myself insane with all of the what ifs crawling under my skin.

  I finished breakfast and soaked my worries away in a long, languid bath, deliciously decadent with fragrant oil that left my skin smelling like jasmine. Continuing the theme, I stayed nude, thumbing my nose at the heat and at convention. No one looking at the sketch I started would know how I looked doing it, except…

  I drew Edward’s phallus. More specifically, I sketched his large hand wrapped around his erection, fisting himself into oblivion. The longer I worked and the more details I added (and my visual memory was as perfect as a wet plate photograph), the more swollen my nether lips became and the emptier I felt inside. I needed Edward to fill me—with his tongue, his fingers, his manhood…whatever he was willing to give. Short of carving a marble phallus to use for self-pleasure, nothing else would work, I feared. At least, I hadn’t yet managed it to any degree of success.

  Finished, I turned the page and drew his hand, fingers pinching the tip of my breast. Another turn, and I drew the long, hair-dusted lines of his legs from mid-thigh down to his beautiful feet. If he was my Achilles, I feared that he was my Achilles’s heel, the weakness that could lay me low. No other man had ever held the power to destroy me. I’d seen to it. Had kept them at arm’s length. Held them at bay. Had let no one close enough to touch my body, let alone my heart, and here I was, begging to be deflowered by a man more interested in inserting himself where things were supposed to exit. Ironic, indeed, but I found little humor in it.

  Perhaps I should practice.

  Perhaps I should not.

  Not won.

  I settled for a book instead.

  Chapter Twelve

  Three pirates later, I was answering the door in my wrapper, the short length of my hair tucked into a net. Thomas was my server this time. I drew him as he set my lunch on the table and presented him the caricature, which seemed to please him greatly. He had a girlfriend, he said, and planned to present it to his dear heart. He was studying the remains of my breakfast and trying to figure how to carry them both when I asked him about the rope.

  He blushed, cheeks pinking with embarrassment. “Sorry, Miss. I nearly forgot.”

  He opened his jacket and revealed the coils of twisted jute that he’d wrapped around his waist to hide from sight, like a spymaster’s trick. If it wasn’t fifteen feet, it was close, and thin enough that it should do nicely for hanging laundry to dry.

  Whatever Edward had ordered for me smelled delicious. I took the rope, suggested Thomas slip the portrait flat under his vest, sent him off with this morning’s tray, and sat down to enjoy my midday meal. Knowing my proclivity for fru
it, Edward had ordered a pitcher of lemonade. In this heat, it tasted like heaven to me. The chicken breast was tender, moist, and well-seasoned. The asparagus was a surprise at this time of year, but was a perfect complement to the chilled tomato salad that I saved for last, eating it like a dessert when its meaning was just as sweet.

  Edward remembered. He’d seen how much I enjoyed it on the train, and he’d given this to me…the morning’s fruit, the lemonade, my tomatoes. If I hadn’t already fallen for him, his thoughtfulness today would have clenched it.

  It was just as well that he was gone, lest I be tempted to show my appreciation. Instead I made myself useful and strung the rope in the bathroom, washing my clothes and hanging them to dry. I considered doing Edward’s as well, but going through his things without permission seemed both impertinent and disrespectful. To take such liberties would give him an excuse to punish me. Considering his nature, it was actually a very bad idea. No, I would wait to speak to him, to see if that was something he would be willing for me to do—an exchange of sorts, for everything he had done and continued to do for me.

  The heat rose as the day progressed, nearly reaching the highs that we had been suffering through. Still beastly hot, I spent a great deal of the afternoon in bed, stretched out naked on fine linen sheets, either with a book or pencil and sketch pad in my hands. At some point I dozed (not surprising, considering how poorly I rested at night). When I returned to consciousness, the sun had set and I was starving. Well, not starving, but I was ravenous enough that I finished off most of the fruit, leaving one of each type for Edward, should he wish to share with me.

  The waning gibbous moon was yet fat enough to lend a goodly amount of light. I made use of it to take down the dried laundry, folding it as I went. When I’d finished, I set the stack atop my trunk. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with it. The rope, however, needed to come down. I was struggling with the second knot when Edward let himself in.

  “I’m here!” I called from the bathroom and returned to cursing the knot that I’d tied. I finally managed to work it loose, then realized I had not dressed. “And I have no clothes. My wrapper is draped on the chair, if you would be so good as to fetch it for me, Edward?”

  I cracked open the door and started coiling the rope, making loops over the notch of my thumb and the back of my elbow. I was tying it off when a single finger slid inside with my wrapper hooked on its tip. “Thank you, Edward,” I said politely, though I’d have preferred that he ignore me and let me stay as I was, naked as Eve before her fall.

  “You are welcome.”

  I thought he sounded odd. Perhaps he was just tired; he’d had a big day, after all, and I was eager to hear about it. But when I emerged from the bathroom with my bundled rope, I was doomed to disappointment.

  Edward had been drinking, that much was clear, from the waft of alcohol that clung to him like a harlot’s perfume. He reeked of that, too. I bit my tongue and said nothing. I had told him to meet his needs as he wished. I just never thought it would be this soon.

  Fighting tears for the umpteenth time that day, I crossed the room to my trunk and laid the rope beside the clothes that I’d washed and folded. “And how was your day?” I asked, forcing a smile to hide how much my pride was stung.

  “Splendid!” he chirped. “I secured passage for us aboard the Bellona and still arrived at Tammany Hall in time to hear them set the platform. I watched the balloting, then followed the delegates to the Manhattan Club, and from thence to Chase’s headquarters here. Here!” he said, gesturing towards the hallway door. “Can you believe it? If Mrs. Sprague and her campaigners have their way, her father will be nominated tomorrow. But they shall need support. Momentum is building for Seymour. He has already been voted in as chairman. Right now, Pendleton is his closest competition. And what the hell is that?”

  Odd, but he didn’t sound inebriated. Neither did he have the satiated look of a man who’d just had sex.

  “Rope.” I said, silently scolding myself for jumping to conclusions. “I laundered some of my things today. I can do yours tomorrow, if you’ll set them out for me.”

  “The hotel has service for that. Next time, let me know, and I shall see to it.”

  “I’m sorry, but I must point out that I have no money, for laundry or for tips.”

  Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a clip of folded bills and a palmful of coins and left enough on the table, I could eat for a month. “For incidentals. You must let me know when you need more.” His gaze went to my lunch tray by the door, still waiting to be taken away. “Was everything to your satisfaction? Was it enough?”

  My stomach chose that moment to complain about the lack of supper.

  He snapped to attention and dropped his gaze to the hand that I had pressed against my front, as if to muffle the rumbling. “You are hungry.”

  “Yes,” I admitted. There was no point trying to hide or diminish the fact. “I misjudged. I thought the fruit would tide me over, but I could use something more. A chunk of cheese, perhaps, if a cold harbor is all that is available this time of night.”

  Edward smiled curiously, his eyes alight with mischief. “I know where there is food. Get dressed, Lane.”

  A short time later, I was back in the world of men, being dragged behind Edward into the den of Democratic politics, a suite of rooms that Mrs. Sprague—Salmon Chase’s daughter—had booked in our hotel to serve as his campaign headquarters.

  Kate Chase Sprague had grown up with politics. Her father was Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, and President Lincoln had attended her wedding to the boy governor of Rhode Island. Said husband was not here, but was oddly elsewhere with their young son, while his wife moved like a queen among men, using her powers of persuasion to woo votes for her widowed father. If he somehow managed to secure his party’s nomination…if Chase could face Grant and win the election…his daughter would serve as our next First Lady.

  I hated her.

  Kate Sprague was beautiful. Bright. Articulate. As versed in politics as any man in this room, and Edward was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. It didn’t help that they’d spent the day together in the spectator’s gallery—Edward, because he was English, and Mrs. Sprague, because she was female. Women did not have the vote. Women were not allowed on the convention floor.

  Well, fuck that.

  Not the vote part, the Edward Wainwright and Kate Chase Sprague part. I could see it now. When the convention reconvened tomorrow morning at ten, they would be there in the gallery, discussing points in the platform or analyzing the candidates or, worse, remembering Lincoln. Edward was quite the fan, and she’d not just met the martyred President, she had known him. When it came to stories, I could not compete.

  Neither could I be myself. Tonight I was Daniel O’Flaherty, since Lane Davenport was a wanted man. Adopting a slight brogue, I pretended a fondness for drink and a tolerance for female attention. There was a small clutch of them, all heavily perfumed in this July heat, who perched themselves in one corner, waiting for what, I had a pretty good guess. I was rather surprised that Mrs. Sprague would turn such a blind eye to their offerings, but then she seemed to have eyes for Edward. As choices went, he was probably the safest in this room…hell, in this city…for a night of hot, hard fornication. Educated, well-born, a man of means, and a gentlemen who could be trusted to not kiss and tell. Here today and soon gone, likely never to return. No complications. No personal or political backlash. He was safe enough, she might be tempted. And so might he, unless I could dissuade.

  I stayed by his side and feigned interest in conversations that revolved around platforms and agendas and politicians. The only one I cared a fig to hear about was Nathan Bedford Forrest and what he was up to these days. Most of the men in my unit harbored a deep-seated enmity after the massacre of the colored troops at Fort Pillow, and the anti-black Democratic platform surely reflected his influence and others of his ilk, who did not believe that all men were created equal, let alone all people.
Freed men would have the vote long before women of any race were allowed.

  I said as much to Mrs. Sprague, who seemed startled by the passion in my words. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re here without your husband, working in this male arena. I assumed you were a suffragette.”

  She lifted a graceful hand to her throat and cleared it with the delicacy of a royal. “No. No. I am happy to offer my support and lend what aid I can, but I see no need for more than one vote per household. Surely that seems a recipe for strife. And though my husband is not here, my cousin is. I’m certain that Morgan would like to meet you.”

  What?

  No sooner had she said it, and I thought it, but said cousin was headed my way like a steamship with the boilers near bursting and full sails set. Edward placed a hand upon my shoulder, whether proprietary or simply protective, it mattered not to me. It was enough just to be close to him in a room full of strangers, to feel his touch, and solid grip of the hand that held me, pulling me close enough that when I inhaled, I smelled only him.

  Morgan Chase reminded me of the New Moneys. What the forty-year-old widower wished for, I could not say. Judging from Edward’s demeanor and perfectly polite but clipped responses, I would guess it was me. From the way he eyed Edward, I had the distinct impression that I was his second choice.

  I supposed I should be grateful. Clearly, Kate had warned him away from the one of us, at least.

  “Excuse us, please.” I interrupted and turned to Edward when the widower began offering more personal information than I was comfortable hearing. “You promised food, Sir. Lead the way.”

  Edward maneuvered us through the pack and stood guard dog while I grazed, keeping the wolves at bay. “How much longer?” I asked, brushing crumbs from my fingertips and wiping them on the seat of my pants. “I wouldn’t put it past half these men to sneak a feel and I did not wear my codpiece.”