Wicked Captive

by Carole Mortimer

  Jocey waited to speak again until she was alone in the dining room with her guardian. “I do not understand. I merely thought to amuse you with the knowledge two of your friends appear to be paying court to the Germaine sisters.”

  Jericho rose abruptly from the table, then walked over to look down to where a fire crackled merrily in the marble fireplace. “I somehow doubt that.”

  “Really?” Jocey frowned her puzzlement. “What other reason could they have for showing Priscilla and Prudence such marked attention?”

  As far as Jericho was concerned, the past hour had been nothing but an exercise in self-torture. He had spent every excruciating second of it fighting the increasing desire he felt to throw up his ward’s skirts, pull down her drawers, and fuck her over the most convenient piece of furniture. Possibly the dining table they were sitting at.

  A desire that was wholly unacceptable. Not because he considered her too young. Jocey had not been a child at the start of his guardianship of her, and most young ladies in Society of one and twenty were already married with a babe or two in the nursery.

  No, it was not Jocey’s age that troubled him, but who and what she was.

  She was one of the young and single marriage-inclined women of Society he avoided like the plague.

  Who and what she might be.

  A traitor to her country and her Regent.

  Jericho should not, in all conscience, even be imagining fucking either the single woman of Society or the traitor.

  He studied her now through narrowed lids. Was Jocey the traitor? Her actions in London, in visiting the Germaine sisters, two other women suspected of treason, certainly seemed suspect. The Sinners had been in pursuit of their quarry for three months now, quite long enough for the guilty woman to have become suspicious of their motives in singling out certain ladies in Society.

  But was Jocey’s visit to the Germaine twins while she was in London, in the knowledge Romney and Worthington might be there too, enough upon which to damn her as being guilty of a crime as heinous as treason?

  Jericho did not believe so.

  He needed more.

  More information.

  More proof.

  From Jocey herself?

  If she was the traitor, then it was doubtful she would tell him the truth if he asked.

  How, then, did he go about getting her to tell him that truth?

  “Have I said or done something else to offend you, my lord?” she now broached tentatively.

  Jericho straightened. “Tell me, have you always been called Jocey as opposed to your full name?”

  She frowned her puzzlement at this change of subject. “My lord?”

  He shrugged. “Jocey is the name for a young girl still in the nursery. Jocelyn is that of a grown woman. Are you a girl or a woman grown?”

  Jocey bristled at the marquis even needing to ask her such a question when she had been doing everything within her power since her arrival this afternoon to ensure Jericho saw her as a desirable woman. Efforts he had earlier made it clear he heartily disapproved of. Men really were the most contrary of creatures. Jericho in particular, it seemed.

  She maintained her dignity as she answered him evenly. “You may call me Jocelyn, if you wish.”

  His eyes narrowed to dark slits. “How many other gentlemen have you given that same permission, I wonder?”

  Dignity be damned! “Why do I have the feeling that you are not going to approve of anything I do or say this evening either,” she accused irritably.

  Dark brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

  Jocey was far too annoyed to heed the warning in the marquis’s cold expression. “You have not approved of anything I have said or done since my arrival.”

  “Perhaps that is because, as I have already stated, your behavior has been unacceptable as a young lady of Society.”

  “Why has it?” Jocey stood with a noisy scrape of the chair legs on the wooden floor. “What have I done that is so wrong except wear the latest fashion and greet my guardian warmly after not having seen him for almost six months?”

  A nerve pulsed in his tightly clenched jaw. “You will not take that defiant tone with me.”

  She huffed in a breath. “You are allowed to criticize and complain about me, but I am not allowed to defend myself?”

  His mouth thinned. “Not when it borders on rudeness toward me, no.”

  Her chin tilted at a defiant angle, all her earlier good intentions completely forgotten. “You are the one who has been nothing but rude to me from the moment I arrived at Wessex Manor.”

  Jericho knew the criticism was merited. He had been alternately rude and dictatorial to Jocey since her arrival this afternoon.

  Because after that absence of six months, he found her far too beautiful.

  Too desirable.

  Too much the lady he could never allow himself to ever become physically involved with.

  Too much his ward.

  Even if he could break his iron-clad rule and allow himself to enter into an arrangement with a woman of Society, he could never forget Jocey—Jocelyn—was his own ward and an unmarried lady.

  He breathed slowly in an effort to retain control of his raging libido. “If that is truly the case, then I apologize.” He bowed stiffly. “Now, if you will excuse me? I do not require anything more to eat, and I have some work in my study in need of my attention.” He strode across the room.

  “Jericho!”

  He came to an abrupt halt before turning slowly, lids lowered to hide his surprised gaze. Jocey had occasionally addressed him as Jericho in the past, but never with that imperious and yet somehow pleading tone.

  Her delicate throat moved as she swallowed before speaking. “Can we not be friends again?”

  Friends? Had they ever been that to each other?

  Jocey had been in need of attention and affection after her years under his father’s disinterested guardianship, and Jericho had done his best to provide her with both. Mainly by bringing Cousin Gwendoline into his household as Jocey’s companion and chaperone. He had even troubled himself to introduce her to the Prince Regent and then into Society, and afterward escorted her to the occasional ball or soiree. But he did not believe the two of them had ever known each other well enough to have become friends.

  Jericho knew now, from his earlier physical response to her and the continuous painful throbbing of his cock this evening, that he could never think of Jocelyn as merely a friend. In his experience, friends did not want to fuck you while you screamed their name over and over again until you were hoarse.

  As he now wished to do to Jocey—Jocelyn.

  “I already have more than enough friends.” He ignored the tears glistening on her lashes as he continued out of the room.

  Chapter 4

  “But where will you go, lamb?” Lady Gwendoline frowned her concern as she watched Jocey throwing clothes willy-nilly into the open trunk, and only recently unpacked, she had dragged through from the dressing room into her bedchamber.

  “Anywhere that is far away from Jericho Black!” Jocey did not so much as falter in the haphazard packing she had commenced the moment she arrived upstairs after Jericho had left the dining room so abruptly.

  The slamming of her bedchamber door upon her return had brought Lady Gwendoline rushing down the hallway from her own bedchamber in a state of anxiety. That lady was obviously dressed for bed, wearing a thick robe over her nightgown and her gray hair twirled and secured in curls about her head.

  “He is without doubt the most obnoxious, unbearable connard.” Jocey took great pleasure in using the French word for bastard that she had learned from her French cousins, and which she was sure Lady Gwendoline could not translate. “The most arrogant, unreasonable, cold man”—she threw another item of clothing into the trunk with each word she spoke, her cheeks red from the forceful exertion—“it has ever been my misfortune to meet.”

  “But—”

  “He is even odder than his father!�
�

  “Indeed?”

  Jocey swung sharply to look at the doorway of her bedchamber at the sound of that single, softly spoken word.

  Soft but deadly, she decided after a single glance at Jericho’s harsh and cold expression.

  His glittering sapphire gaze remained fixed upon Jocey. “Leave us, Cousin Gwendoline.”

  “But—”

  “Now, if you please.” His voice remained polite but was no less implacable because of it.

  Jocey gave Lady Gwendoline a tiny nod of confirmation as that self-conscious lady gave her an anxious glance before reluctantly rising to her feet.

  A flustered Lady Gwendoline crossed to the doorway, the marquis stepping aside to allow that lady’s departure before softly closing the door behind her.

  Jocey’s chin rose in challenge. “Are you satisfied now that you have bullied and upset Lady Gwendoline too?”

  His mouth twisted as he strolled farther into the bedchamber, the candlelight making his hair appear even darker than it was. “I do not consider politely requesting she leave us to be in the least bullying or upsetting.” His narrowed gaze fixed on the half-packed open trunk. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

  Jocey, unlike Lady Gwendoline, was not fooled for a moment by the mildness of his tone. “I have decided it would be better if I were to spend the winter months at the home of my true guardian.” She threw several more items of clothing into the trunk, knowing she had not decided on any such thing until Jericho arrived in her bedchamber. Until then, she had only known she must get away from here and him.

  Dark brows rose. “Indeed?”

  “Yes, indeed,” she returned forcefully.

  He eyed her mockingly. “Then I suggest you unpack again, because I am your true guardian.”

  Jocey stilled. “You are?”

  The marquis nodded. “My solicitors and I decided several weeks ago, and a doctor has examined my father and agrees with us, that the duke is no longer compos mentis enough to deal with the estate’s affairs. He is still the duke, of course, but all other matters have now passed to me.”

  “Including me,” she acknowledged heavily.

  “Including you,” Jericho drawled.

  Jocey felt completely deflated as she sat heavily on the side of the bed. “So we are stuck with each other until I marry.”

  His jaw tightened. “I understood from our conversation earlier today that is not a possibility at the moment.”

  “No.” She stared down at the green-and-blue Aubusson carpet.

  Jericho winced at Jocey’s—Jocelyn’s—air of defeat, knowing he was the cause of it.

  He had done as he’d said earlier and retreated to his study, but the loud slamming of a door minutes later had caused him to come upstairs in search of the reason for it. Jocelyn’s bedchamber door had been open, allowing him to hear the words she had spoken against him and the names she had called him, as he strode down the hallway. Standing in the open doorway of her bedchamber, watching as she threw several of her gowns and other belongings into a trunk in a high temper, had confirmed, even though her door was now open, she had almost certainly been the one to slam the door earlier.

  Her comments regarding him had been less than flattering to listen to, if wholly deserved. Except possibly the last. “So you consider me to be odder than my father?”

  She gave him a guilty glance before looking down again. “Only in as much as I do not understand the change in your attitude toward me.”

  Jericho wished that change did not exist either. But there was no denying he had to harden his emotions toward her if he was to carry out his investigation of her being suspected of treason.

  Unfortunately, it was not only his emotions that had hardened.

  His rebellious cock was once again making it more and more impossible for him to treat her like the child, Jocey, and ignore his growing and dangerous attraction toward the woman, Jocelyn.

  If he knew the latter to be true, then what was he now doing alone with her late at night in her bedchamber?

  Perhaps because of his father’s often erratic behavior, Jericho had grown more and more cautious in his own behavior as the years passed. To always take the time to consider his actions and their consequences before implementing them.

  His physical response toward Jocelyn was wholly without caution or consideration; it merely was.

  But it was still an attraction he did not have to act upon.

  An attraction he definitely should not act upon.

  His legs took no heed of that warning as Jericho strode silently to the bedside to sit beside Jocelyn, allowing him to once again breathe in her perfume of pine and apples. To admire the creamy perfection of her face. The vulnerable arch of her throat. To realize that her hands were once again bare, revealing those long and delicate fingers. Fingers Jericho could still, all too easily it seemed, imagine wrapped about his cock as they caressed and pumped him to completion.

  “My birth was completely legitimate, I assure you,” he murmured softly.

  Color brightened her cheeks. “You overheard that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You speak French?”

  His mouth twisted. “The gutter type, at least.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip. “I apologize. It was very rude of me to call you names which you are obviously unworthy of. I was angry and… That is no excuse.” She sighed deeply.

  He drew in a ragged breath. “Perhaps we should begin this visit afresh in the morning?”

  Jocey glanced at the man now seated beside her, glancing away again as she knew herself to be completely aware of the seductive warmth of Jericho’s body and his insidious and masculine musk.

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I would like that very much.” She would prefer to totally forget the past unpleasant twelve hours, when she and Jericho seemed to be at such odds with each other. Most especially the names he had heard her call him just minutes ago.

  He nodded. “Then that is what we shall do.”

  A warm hand cupped and raised her chin so that Jocey now found herself staring straight into the blue eyes only inches away from her own. Unreadable eyes, but ones that mesmerized nonetheless, making it impossible for Jocey to look away as Jericho’s face began to lower toward hers. His sculpted lips were slightly parted, as if he were about to claim her lips with his own.

  At the last possible moment, he pulled sharply away before abruptly releasing her and rising to his feet. He towered over her as he looked down the long length of his nose. “It is time you were abed. I will see you in the morning.” He turned and left as abruptly as he had arrived.

  Leaving Jocey in a state of what she believed to be excited arousal.

  Certainly her breasts ached, the tips hard and tingling. Between her thighs was warm, damp, and felt slightly swollen.

  Had Jericho been about to kiss her, or had she imagined—longed for it to be so?

  Admittedly, it seemed highly unlikely considering their previous disagreement, but for a few brief seconds, it had certainly seemed as if Jericho had moved closer toward her. So close, Jocey had felt the warmth of his breath wafting over her lips and been able to see the dilation of his pupils until the blue had almost disappeared.

  What would it be like to be kissed by a man such as Jericho?

  Exciting.

  Overwhelming.

  Delicious.

  Jocey rose abruptly to her feet, wondering how she could possibly be expected to sleep when her body was filled with such excitement and longing.

  For Jericho.

  A Jericho who said they were to begin this visit anew in the morning.

  Jocey could hardly wait for that new day to begin.

  “With your permission, I thought you might dispense with a groom this morning, and I will accompany you on your ride instead?”

  Jocey’s heart gave a jolt of dismay as she turned from checking the fastenings of the saddle on her chestnut mare to look at Jericho stan
ding in the stable yard behind her. He was dressed for riding too: a tall black hat upon his head, a dark blue jacket and pale gray waistcoat that fit him like a glove, his riding pantaloons of a pale gray, and well-polished brown-topped black Hessians.

  Her alarm wasn’t due to the idea of Jericho accompanying her—she liked that idea immensely—but because she’d had no intention of taking a groom or anyone else with her.

  Once safely away from Wessex Manor, Jocey had intended removing the skirt of her dark gray riding habit and riding astride her mount dressed only in the fitted military-style bodice and black leather riding pantaloons. She’d had the riding habit designed and made, along with the pantaloons, before she left Paris.

  Clothing she knew Jericho must and would consider scandalous attire for his ward to wear as she rode unaccompanied about the countryside.

  She bit back her disappointment in Jericho having foiled her plans so effectively in favor of the excitement of having him accompany her. “Of course.” She gave a bright smile.

  He nodded. “It will take but a moment for my horse to be saddled, if you do not mind waiting?”

  “Not in the least,” she assured him, wishing Jericho would stop lingering and go into the stables. She needed time to mount her horse and arrange her skirts in such a way the marquis would not realize her saddle was not designed for riding side-saddle.

  As if to convey approval of their outing, the sun came out from behind the clouds.

  As had been Jocey’s hope last night, it was going to be a good day.

  A very good day indeed.

  Chapter 5

  The marquis was, as Jocey had already known, an expert horseman. Even so, she could not help but admire him as she rode a short distance behind his black stallion. Jericho seemed to be as one with the horse, bent low over its mane as they galloped across the meadow.

  He finally reined in his mount beneath a big oak tree that stood on the edge of a dense copse, dismounting as he waited for Jocey to join him.

  Seconds later, she untied and drew off her bonnet as they stood side by side to gaze out across the magnificent view of woods, farmland, and farm buildings.