Practically Wicked (Haverston Family Trilogy #3)

by Alissa Johnson

There was only Max, kissing her.

  Slowly, however, the kiss changed. The tingling feeling Anna had grew into an ache, making her restless. Suddenly, only kissing Max was no longer enough. She wanted so much more.

  She pressed closer to him, and let her fingers slide up his neck to slip into his hair. Max shivered once and began to move. His hands roamed over her possessively, down her arms, across her waist, up her back. His mouth broke away from hers to travel across her jaw, nip lightly at her ear.

  Anna’s heard her own ragged gasp, then a long sigh as Max trailed kisses down the sensitive skin of her neck.

  This, she thought vaguely, this explained in a way even the most detailed lectures could not, why there were so many fallen women in the world.

  Eager for the taste of him again, she urged his face back to hers and captured his mouth for a kiss that wasn’t quite so sweet now. It was determined, even desperate, a searing battle of tongue and lips that Anna hoped would go on forever—

  Max pulled away with a ragged breath. “Enough.”

  Anna shook her head. It wasn’t enough. She wanted so much more. Everything she could have from him, all the things she shouldn’t take. Her hands slipped down between them to dig into the soft fabric of his coat, pulling him back. “Come inside,” she whispered.

  His hands caught hers and trapped them against his chest. “I didn’t come here for that.”

  “I know.” That made the invitation all the easier. “Come inside, anyway.”

  The invitation, it would seem, was all he needed. His arms banded around her again, his mouth came down to move strongly over hers. And once more, Anna’s world narrowed down to her and Max and the passion that built between them.

  She would never be able to fully remember how they went from standing on the balcony, to standing inside, nor how it was that she was able to divest him of his boots, coat, and waistcoat, or when it was, exactly, that he’d pulled the pins from her hair and undid the buttons of her gown.

  A part of her knew what they were doing was wrong. Well, all of her knew it was wrong, but there was only that one small voice in the back of her head that was still audible over the roar of blood in her ears.

  It wasn’t terribly difficult to silence it. This was just like the kiss in the nursery, only more, she reasoned. There would be no other gentleman callers for her. No other passionate kisses in the moonlight. There would be no other Max. And so she would have this one experience. She would take advantage of him this one night. She would take the risk for herself.

  She tried to hurry things along by stepping out of her shoes, helping him divest her of her gown and stockings.

  She heard him whisper, “Slow down, sweet,” but she shook her head and urged him toward the bed.

  Probably, it was not the done thing for a woman to be so aggressive. No doubt it was not expected of most virgins. But to hell with expectations. She wanted Max, and she wanted him now, before either of them could change their minds.

  Max bent, slipped his arm beneath Anna’s knees, and hauled her off her feet.

  God, he did like the weight of her in his arms.

  He laid her on the bed, slipped out of his shirt, and tormented himself by slowly lifting Anna’s chemisel over her head, exposing the heated skin beneath inch by inch.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered and drew his hands over her slowly, purposefully, in direct contrast to Anna’s frantic movements and his own raging instinct to take as much as he could as quickly as possible.

  He needed to slow them both down. Particularly her. Anna’s hands were everywhere, brushing down his back, up his arms. Inquisitive fingers speared through his hair, explored his chest. It was more enthusiasm than technique. And it was devastating. Everything about the woman destroyed him.

  The enormity of his want for Anna was something he’d never experienced with another woman. No fine lady, innocent miss, merry widow, or experienced courtesan had ever tempted him the way she tempted him. But if they kept up at their current pace, it would be over too soon for the both of them.

  He caught her wrists, pinning them gently against the mattress, and took her mouth in a slow and gentle kiss meant to settle them both.

  This was Anna. This was the woman of his dreams, the object of his fantasies, the woman he would make his wife. He wanted to make the night last, if not forever, at least long enough to leave no doubt in her mind what it meant to him, how important it was for him to please her. How much she was needed.

  Which was not going to happen in a ten-minute romp atop the counterpane.

  Anna arched beneath him, tugging her arms. “Let me go.”

  “I will.” He bit gently on her bottom lip. “Wait.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me,” he whispered, knowing it was no small thing he asked of her. “Please.”

  When she sighed and relaxed beneath him, he kissed her again, softly, then set out to earn that trust. He explored every inch of her body, tasting and touching, looking for anything that pleased her, everything that made her gasp and shiver.

  He brushed his palm along the sides of her breasts, watched her arch her back and shudder. He bent his head to flick his tongue across a taut nipple and listened to her sweet moan, felt her fingers dig into his shoulders.

  Slowly, steadily he built the heat between them, removing the last barriers of clothing and inhibitions until there was only the slide of skin on skin, and she was twisting with need beneath him.

  “Max.”

  His name spilling from her lips was more than he could take. Now, he thought, dragging her legs up to wrap around his hips. With a groan of his own, he pressed forward into the wet heat of her, moving past resistance with a long, steady push. His hands dug into the sheets as the sharp pleasure of being inside her washed over him in waves.

  It felt like heaven.

  Less so, evidently, for Anna. She gave a short cry of pain and went utterly still, except for her hand, which delivered an open-palmed slap to the side of his head.

  He scarcely felt it, but he was keenly aware of her obvious discomfort. Bloody hell, he should have taken more care.

  Desperate to soothe, he sought a way to apologize, to make things right again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, love. I should have . . .” He wasn’t all that sure what he should have done differently. He’d never bedded a virgin before. “I should have warned you. Told you what to expect.”

  She blew out a small, jagged breath, then reached up to stroke his hair. “It’s all right. It will pass.”

  “I—”If he’d been capable of it, he would have laughed. The woman was comforting him. Because of course she’d known what to expect. She was the daughter of Mrs. Wrayburn. The experience was new, and this particular part of it was unpleasant for her, but none of it came as a surprise.

  Anna brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “I’m sorry I hit you. I didn’t mean . . . Have I ruined this?”

  “No, love.” He bent his head, brushed his lips across her brow. “No.”

  “Kiss me again?” she whispered.

  “Sweetheart, you don’t need to ask.” He settled with his lips just a breath away from hers. “Take what you want.”

  In that moment, Max was willing to offer anything she wanted, anything she cared to demand or take for herself.

  As Anna cupped his face in her hands and brought his mouth to meet hers, Max sent up a small but heartfelt prayer that what she would ultimately want was him. All of him. The good, the wicked, the gentleman, and the scoundrel.

  God knew, he wanted every part of her in return. But he would start with this, he thought—the long, soft lines of her, the feel of her under him, around him, and the delicious relief of sensing her begin to relax.

  He moved tentatively, gauging her reaction to a nicety—her indrawn breath, the flutter of lashes, the short sigh of pleasure. Emboldened, he set a slow and gentle pace and watched the blush of desire return to her cheeks.

  When he was certain, absolutely certain th
at there was only pleasure for her, he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the wild ecstasy of moving inside her. There was only Anna, warm, beautiful, incredible Anna, and the overwhelming sight of her lost to passion and searching for its peak.

  Her gasps turned to cries, those cries grew higher in pitch. And when at last she came apart in his arms, Max wrapped them around her tighter, buried his face against her neck, and gave into his own pleasure.

  Chapter 26

  Anna woke alone, turned her face into the soft beam of sunlight filtering around the drapes, and smiled. Max had left before dawn, waking her with a soft kiss on the forehead and a whispered something in her ear she couldn’t make out but was quite certainly lovely. Pity he’d not been able to stay and whisper it to her again when she was fully awake.

  With a sigh, she rolled out of bed and began to wash and dress, noticing a number of unfamiliar aches and pains. She was just finishing pinning up her hair when her eyes fell on the leather satchel her mother had given her, lying atop the vanity. Anna fingered the leather strap, considering. She could burn the letters now, and probably should out of respect to the late Lady Engsly.

  But before she could do that . . . Anna picked up the satchel and upended its contents onto the vanity. She wanted to know what else might be in those letters.

  She picked one at random, but a rap at the door pulled her attention away before she could so much as open the letter.

  “Come in,” she called, assuming it was a maid.

  It was Max who appeared in her doorway. “You really ought to ask who it is first. What if there were other guests in the house?”

  “Max, what—”She hurried across the room, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him inside, shutting the door behind her. “What are you doing? What if someone saw—?”

  “If there was someone about to see, I’d not have knocked.” He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Come here,” he demanded with a smile a moment before he took her mouth in a short, but tremendously sweet kiss. Pulling back, he touched his lips to the tip of her nose. “I’ve been wanting that since I left.”

  Anna felt heat rise to her cheeks, and wished her education on carnal matters had included some hint on what a woman was to say to a gentleman after all else was done.

  “Good morning,” she tried. It was better than nothing.

  Fortunately, Max seemed to like it well enough. His hazel eyes danced with humor and affection. “Good morning. I thought . . .” He trailed off and scowled when he saw what she was holding, then noticed the mess on the vanity. “Are you reading those?”

  “I was about to. I thought they might contain information of interest. Perhaps my birthday?”

  His gaze snapped to hers when she mentioned her birthday and the scowl immediately disappeared. “Right. Yes, of course.” He held out his hand, waggled his finger. “Give it here. I’ll read them for you.”

  “What, all of them?”

  “No, five, and then I’m sure I’ve better things to do.”

  Anna rolled her eyes, bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “We can read them together. But not here. If a maid or one of the Haverstons were to come . . .”

  “The library, then. Five minutes.”

  He didn’t give her the chance to argue. He planted another quick kiss on her lips, then released her and sauntered out of the room.

  Anna didn’t give him a chance to be diverted by business. Immediately after his departure, she gathered up the letters into the satchel, waited for a count of thirty, and then ten more, so as not to seem too eager, then made her way to the library, where she discovered Max was already waiting.

  How lovely.

  They settled on opposites of the settee, spread the letters out on the cushions between them, and slowly began to make their way through the pile. Anna couldn’t help but notice how cozy it felt, sitting across from Max quietly going through papers while a soft breeze ruffled the drapes of the open windows. Well, cozy until one gave a thought to what those papers were, and why she was compelled to go through them. Then it became a bit odd, a little disheartening, and—

  “You’re nine-and-twenty.”

  “What?” Anna’s gaze shot to Max’s. A jolt of excitement sent her heart to racing. “You found it? You’re certain?”

  He certainly looked certain, and tremendously pleased with himself. “Only your age so far, but it’s a start. Listen to this . . . ‘My dearest Engsly, it is with a full heart that I announce the birth of our daughter, Anna Rees.’ ” His eyes scanned a little further down the page, then he sent her an apologetic look. “She doesn’t mention a specific birthdate, I’m afraid, but the letter was sent only a few weeks after my own birthday.”

  “May I . . . ?” She held out her hand, took the multi-paged letter and read the pertinent passage. “I’m nine-and-twenty. That will take some becoming used to.”

  “It’s not so very great an adjustment. You’ll become accustomed to the ear trumpet in no time.”

  “You’re an arse.”

  “On occasion, when I think it will make you smile.”

  “No,” she said, smoothly. “Not just then.” She scanned the remainder of the letter while he laughed, her eyes flying over the next page, and then the last. “I’ve lost more than a year of my life. How odd. I feel as if . . .” She trailed off as her eyes landed on a particular passage in the letter. “There’s a date . . . Good heavens, this letter was sent well after my birth.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a birthdate. An actual date of birth, and it was weeks before she wrote this letter.” She turned the pages over, double-checking the date at the start of the letter before returning her attention to the remainder of the letter’s contents. They weren’t particularly enlightening. “My mother apologizes to the marquess for her tardiness in writing, makes excuses—illness and what have you. Wonder what she stood to gain by waiting? I suppose . . .” Her head snapped up as a certain realization dawned on her. “Good Lord. I’m older than you.”

  “No, you’re not,” Max argued, sounding suspiciously defensive. He took the letter from her and looked it over. “Huh. So you are.”

  Anna craned her neck a little and stared, a little bemused, at the letter. In a matter of weeks, she would turn thirty and he would still be nine-and-twenty. How very odd.

  “I’m nearly two months older than you,” she murmured and looked up in the long silence that followed to discover Max’s expression was one of mild disgruntlement. “You don’t like that.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “Well, you’ll grow accustomed.” She ran her tongue over her teeth and smirked. “We’ll find you a set of short pants while we’re out for my ear trumpet.”

  He glared at her. “Very clever.”

  “I rather thought so.” She blinked at his scowl. “It doesn’t truly bother you, does it?” She should have considered the possibility before making a jest of it. She’d heard men could become sensitive over the silliest things.

  He chuckled softly, and Anna had the impression it was mostly at himself. “No, sweetheart. I’m happy for you. You’ve a birthday.”

  “I do, don’t I?” She stared at the letter, ridiculously happy with it. After all these years, she finally had a birthday to call her own. “I can’t wait to tell Mrs. Culpepper of it.” In fact . . . She lifted apologetic eyes to Max. “Would you mind terribly—?”

  “Go write your friend,” he invited, standing to help her put the other letters back in the satchel. “I’ve business to occupy myself with for a time.”

  She didn’t need a second. With a grin, she grabbed the satchel, her proof of a birthdate, and was out the door.

  Max didn’t have a single bit of business to see to that morning, but saying he did was much better than saying he didn’t, which implied he had nothing to do but wait about until Anna was done with her business.

  In short, he lied to save his pride.

  And now he was stuck looking f
or something to do so he might keep that pride. Which was why he went looking for Lucien in his study, and why he didn’t mind, particularly, when Lucien said, “I was just about to go looking for you,” without looking as if he much wanted to see him.

  Apparently, word about the picnic had only just reached the study. Pleased with the timing, Max took his usual seat without across the desk. He’d clear up any misunderstandings, correct any misinformation Lucien had received, and by the time he was done, Anna would likely be as well.

  “I imagine this about last night?” he began. “Allow me to—”

  Lucien, evidently not in the mood for allowances, slammed a hand on his desk. “You took Anna out of this house, at midnight, without my permission. What the devil were you thinking?”

  “It wasn’t quite that late,” Max returned and felt a flicker of annoyance. “And I don’t need your permission, and neither does she.”

  “Damn it, man, I thought your presence here might help ease her transition from your world into mine, not entice her back into the ways of the demimonde.”

  “I’m not enticing her back into anything.” Just toward himself, Max amended silently. “We had an army of staff present. There was nothing—”

  “She needed a proper chaperone.”

  The annoyance was growing into outright irritation. An army of anything qualified as a proper chaperone. “What, exactly, is your point of contention? That I didn’t ask her to bring along Lilly and Winnefred?”

  “Yes. Or myself or Gideon. Someone else should have been there. That is the only way your little outing would have approached acceptable. I’ve fine staff, Max, you know that—”

  “The finest,” he agreed easily.

  “But they’re human. They’ll talk. A midnight picnic was not an appropriate outing for a young, unmarried lady.”

  “Anna is a woman grown, not a silly miss taking her first bows. Why don’t we allow her to decide what is appropriate for her and—”

  “No one person sets the standards for good behavior.”

  “That’s for good society to do?” Max scoffed and shook his head. “She is the illegitimate daughter of a courtesan, raised in a home one small step removed being a fully-fledged brothel. The ton will never accept her as one of their own. You know that.”