Wicked Becomes You

by Meredith Duran

  “The wicked places! The Bal Bullier, the Moulin Rouge, the places where ladies dance the cancan all night—”

  He choked. “Italy, Gwen. I suggest you go there. Ever so much more fun. Pesto, Rome, the Medicis—who can resist? You can purchase a fine poison ring, propose a swap with the viscount.”

  “But he cannot have gotten to Italy yet,” she said patiently. “Paris will be his first stop if he’s going anywhere on the Continent. And I already explained that I must get the ring back.”

  “And I told you I’d get it back for you,” he said with a hint of sharpness. “So don’t worry your pretty little head.”

  “My head is not little and I’m not particularly concerned. Where did you pick up all this dreadful slang, Alex? You should really have a care around Americans!”

  He shook his head as if to clear it. “Right. Gwen, as I said—we’ll discuss it later. For now, do go rest.”

  It was the smile with which he concluded these remarks that punctured her patience. That smile did not sit naturally on his lips. It was conciliating. Coddling.

  He did not believe a word of what she was saying.

  Well, she knew a quick way to prove her intentions. Suffragettes and actresses had tested the method. He was going to mock her, no doubt, but at least he would have to take her seriously afterward. “Wait,” she said as he pulled open the door.

  He sighed and turned back. “For God’s sake. What?”

  She took a deep breath. She could do this. Why not? “You promised to do me a favor, earlier.”

  “I am not taking you to Paris,” he said flatly. “I am not your bloody chaperone.”

  “No! That wasn’t what I meant to ask.”

  Closing the door again, he put his hands into his pockets and waited, although the impatient tap of his boot suggested he would not give her long. “Fire away.”

  She was tall for a woman, but as she eyed his mouth, it seemed unwise to leave things to chance. “Perhaps you should sit, first.”

  He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, then moved to the nearest chair. Taking a seat, he said somberly, “I am braced.”

  She ignored the sarcasm, nodded once, lifted her skirts, and marched toward him.

  His brows lifted a fraction.

  She smiled.

  At two paces’ distance, he tilted his head.

  “Stay still,” she warned.

  When her skirts hit his knee, his eyes narrowed and he looked as though he would speak. She planted her hands on his upper arms and pressed her mouth to his.

  Well. He was made of lean muscle, all right; beneath her hands, his biceps contracted into stone. His lips were warm and motionless. He smelled of soap, very clean, barely a trace of sweat. He’d recently taken a bath, she supposed. Or: he’d recently lowered this long body of his into a bathtub, completely naked.

  The thought did something awful and lovely to the pit of her stomach. Her hands slid of their own accord up to his shoulders, and she pressed her mouth harder to his. See a man naked. Good Lord: did she actually intend to add that to her list?

  Very softly, his breath hot on her mouth, he spoke. “Gwen. You’re hysterical.”

  Her cheeks burning, she pulled back. He sat perfectly still, his blue eyes locked onto hers, his expression impenetrable. What thick, dark eyelashes he had. She wanted to touch them, out of gratitude or wonder: for some reason, he was not laughing at her. “No,” she said, “as I told you, I am done with convention. Also, I am pursuing a question in the scientific fashion. I can’t believe every man kisses like a terrier.”

  His nostrils flared. “And?”

  She stepped back. “Well, you didn’t slobber. In no way was it canine.”

  He came suddenly to his feet, forcing her to look up at him. “Not canine,” he repeated in grim tones. “Gwen. You need to rest now.”

  No wonder he hadn’t laughed. He really thought her in the grip of some madness. “I feel quite alert. Besides, actions speak louder than words, so please consider my kiss to be proof—”

  He made a queer noise, something between a scoff and a grunt. “That was hardly a kiss.”

  “—proof that I’m quite done with behaving myself.” And done with male judgment, too! The whole smug species could toss themselves out a window. “So please don’t waste your time on that silly list, for I won’t marry even if you put a gun to my head—a policy that I think you, of all people, should understand.” Her sore vanity compelled her to add, “And if that wasn’t a proper kiss, it’s not my fault, is it? One would think a man of your reputation might know it requires a bit of effort on your part!”

  His lips parted. Finally, for the first time in the ignoble history of their acquaintance, she’d surprised him! Or were his feelings hurt?

  What an odd and fascinating idea. It made her feel generous. “Don’t worry about it,” she added. “I’m sure you can do much better than that. Even without proper notice, you rank on par with Trent.”

  She turned away, but his strong grip on her elbow pulled her back. “I beg your pardon?”

  Why—now his vanity was pricked! The laugh that escaped her was born of sheer astonishment. Alex Ramsey, the jaded sophisticate—how easy he was to rile in this matter! “I said you rank on par with Trent. And far above Pennington! And I’m sure—” His thumb stroked down her forearm, and her voice faltered. Had that been deliberate? “I’m sure other men will rank below you, too, if it makes you feel any better.”

  “Oh, much better,” he said sarcastically, and tugged her toward him. His free hand cupped and lifted her chin, and he laid his lips against hers.

  Amazement immobilized her. This was a brilliant triumph! Goading Alex into kissing her after he’d tried to play the brother! She’d never imagined she might have a talent for seduction, but for her first day as an unconventional woman, she was doing splendidly! As far as his performance, he was not doing too badly, either. His mouth was stroking over hers, which felt unobjectionable. Now his teeth caught hold of her upper lip, which, in fact, seemed very much like what a terrier would do—

  His tongue followed his teeth. It traced a hot path along the seam of her mouth. Her stomach fell away. She shut her eyes. Oh. He was tasting her, his lips molding hers lightly, persuasively. She cupped his cheek and found it hot, slightly rough beneath the stroke of her thumb. His hand pressed her waist, drawing her into his body, his chest hot against hers; she drew a startled breath and his tongue slipped inside her mouth.

  Strange parts of her startled awake—her nape, her belly, the place between her legs. He tasted of Aunt Elma’s tea; she would never drink a cup so casually again. Her fingers found the soft abundance of his hair, winding into it and tightening. Such things she could do, now that she’d stopped worrying! She leaned against him, giving him all her weight, so much larger he was. On her toes, she rubbed against him. He made some muffled sound, and his mouth slipped to her neck. The light scrape of his teeth was followed by a soft, hot sucking; she felt herself dissolving like sugar into tea.

  He turned her by the waist, his hands urging her downward. A seat cushion pressed against her bottom. Goodness, he was . . . kneeling down over her, his hands braced on either side of the chair, his mouth moving up her neck, returning now to her mouth. Her languor took a twist into something sharper and more demanding; she tightened her grip on him and opened her mouth again, hoping, perhaps, that his tongue—

  He pulled out of her reach so abruptly that her open hands lingered in the air a moment before falling to her lap.

  “There,” he said curtly. “That should satisfy your curiosity.”

  Dazed, she peered up at him. The stony set of his jaw puzzled her. He’d enjoyed the kiss, hadn’t he? His chest was rising and falling rather rapidly. In all the novels she’d read, that was the hallmark of passion, and her own shortened breath seemed to confirm it.

  Maybe he felt as though he’d betrayed her brother. Yes, that made sense. “I’m sorry,” she said hesitantly. “I baited you, I admit it.
Surely Richard will know this was my fault.”

  For a moment, he said nothing. And then, on a fierce exhalation, he said through his teeth, “Go back to bed, Gwen. You’re out of your cheery little mind.”

  Turning on his heel, he strode for the door and slammed out.

  Goodness! She’d never seen Alex lose his temper before.

  Then again, she had never kissed a rake.

  A smile formed under her hand. “O brave new world,” she murmured, and came to her feet. With or without companionship, she had a ticket to book for Paris.

  Chapter Five

  “You waste my time!” Bruneau yelled.

  Somebody in the corner laughed. “Fais gaffe à toi!” Watch yourself.

  In all fairness, Alex thought, Bruneau had solid cause for complaint. They’d been circling each other for a good three minutes, right arms braced over their chests, elbows angled out to create a shield of muscle and bone. In proper form, Bruneau held his other arm high behind his head, aiding his balance as he kept his weight on his back foot in preparation to kick. But his arm was beginning to shake. Apparently he was not accustomed to opponents who proved loath to engage.

  Then again, few men who practiced savate loathed fighting as much as Alex did.

  He took a deep breath of the hot, sweat-soaked air in the salle d’armes. When in Paris, he never permitted himself to miss the opportunity to train here. Had never done it in this state, though. Five days now, and not more than ten hours’ rest between them. He knew whom to blame.

  He broke form, offering Bruneau a deliberate invitation.

  Bruneau made an abortive lunge. It was transparently a ploy, and Alex did not flinch.

  “Bloody boy,” the man growled in gutter French. “I do not come to play!”

  He might have saved his breath; Alex hadn’t responded to a taunt since his first year at Rugby. That year, Richard’s background had made him, and any of his friends, a target for bullies. Richard had fought like a wildcat and raged against Alex’s reserve. Why don’t you fight back? Didn’t your brother teach you? They say he could thrash George Steadman himself!

  In reply, Alex had offered shrugs. Explaining had felt too complicated. He’d not known, then, how to fight without being angry—and the anger and the physical exertion combined would have defeated his lungs before the older boys could even raise a hand to him. Between wheezing and passing out, or learning to endure the pain, he’d chosen the latter.

  The second year, of course, things had changed.

  Alex shifted direction, circling counterclockwise now. The way one fought revealed one’s character, and yesterday morning, he’d seen Bruneau destroy three men in record time. The man was hot-tempered, confident, and impatient—not to fight, but to win. Victory was his sole purpose. In that regard, he was not dissimilar from Alex. If one was able to win, there was no point in fighting to lose.

  The difference, then, lay in their approaches. For Bruneau, the effort of securing victory seemed like an irritating delay. Alex, on the other hand, was inclined to discount a victory that did not require a bit of hard work. One fought to prove oneself to one’s opponent, and a fight too quickly concluded often left the defeated party confused about the reasons for his defeat. He might be inclined to blame himself rather than to give credit solely to the man who had beaten him.

  Alex sprang forward, just to see Bruneau jump. Recovering, Bruneau struck out his foot, but Alex had already skipped backward.

  “Pathetic,” Bruneau sneered.

  “Mm.” The other men in the salle had withdrawn to the walls to watch now, and their murmurs formed a distant, irrelevant background to the tremendous thunder of his heart. He was not going to lose this match. Bruneau had begun his training while still a boy, testing himself in the roughest lanes of the Latin Quarter; he also stood an inch taller, and savate favored the long-limbed.

  Alex had his own advantage, however. He bloody loathed fighting. Nine years he had been coming to this studio, and each time, when he crossed the threshold, he still fought the urge to vomit, just as he had that first year at Rugby whenever he’d seen Reginald Milton coming round the corner. Nothing like fear to sharpen a man’s reflexes. For useful effect, even anger could not rival it.

  “Are you a coward?” Bruneau sneered.

  Alex grinned. “Yes,” he said.

  This remark snapped Bruneau’s patience. He sprang forward. Alex dodged the foot flashing past his head and spun to return the kick. Bruneau blocked it with a blow to his shin. As Alex fell back, grunting, the man whirled. His reverse kick smashed into Alex’s chest.

  More sleep would have helped, here. Damn you, Gwen.

  He tried to shove her from his mind. For a week now, her memory had proved harder to shake than an African parasite—one of those worms, say, that rendered men blind.

  He let the impact carry him, staggering a pace before he managed to regain his balance. As he pivoted, he found Bruneau’s fist heading toward his face. Mistake. Alex blocked the punch and slammed his elbow into Bruneau’s throat. The man lurched backward, wheezing.

  Wouldn’t Gerry be proud. He always insisted that when it came to fists, Englishmen knew no rivals.

  Bruneau recovered more quickly than the average giant. As he threw out his rear foot, Alex took a backward leap, saving his kneecap but sacrificing his balance. Here, as always in moments where defeat became a distinct possibility, he experienced a momentary clarity, an accord between body and mind that seemed to stop time itself. No choice but to fall. Didn’t mean he was down for good. He surrendered to gravity but managed to stagger just long enough for Bruneau to get the idea and come after him. Then he let himself plummet like a stone. His palms slammed into the floor.

  Bruneau’s comprehension flashed across his bulbous face a split second before Alex swept out his foot and hooked the man’s ankles. The Parisian toppled backward. His head cracked against the floor.

  For some curious reason, Parisians always assumed that Englishmen didn’t know that trick.

  Alex shoved himself to his feet. God above, he felt good. It was a far finer start to the morning than coffee. He made a bow to acknowledge the applause, then stepped up to Bruneau, who was blinking muzzily at the ceiling. “All right?” he asked.

  The man sat up, shook his head, then offered Alex a bleary smile. “You try that again,” he said, “and I will be waiting for it.”

  “Tomorrow, then?” He seized Bruneau’s hand and hauled him to his feet. Or perhaps now, he almost added, for all at once, as adrenaline ebbed, an awareness of the larger world pressed in on him again: the salon with its swords strapped into crosses against the wall; the clatter of carts and the screams of street vendors filtering in through the single-paned windows; the irritating telegram from Belinda that had been delivered to his hotel suite this morning.

  GWEN TO PARIS WITH ELMA STOP FEAR SHE SEEKS VISCOUNT STOP ELMA OBLIVIOUS STOP PLEASE REASON WITH HER STOP

  This development was beyond irritating. Rightfully Gwen should be opening wedding gifts right now. Penning her thank-you notes. Alex had imagined receiving such a note from her. He’d looked forward to it. It would be the moment, he’d decided, that would mark the conclusion of his obligation to Richard.

  Instead, she had popped up in Paris, a turn of events that unleashed some irrational foreboding in him. Foreboding. It was the lowest and most pathetic order of worry, based on nothing more solid than a twinge in the gut. A cousin to indigestion. But there was no other word for the feeling encroaching upon him. Rightly Gwen belonged to the same lot of obligations that included his sisters and nieces—an easily managed group, requiring only gifts at the holidays, notes on birthdays, and the occasional postcard (preferably something with a horse or kitten: so Caroline’s littlest had recently informed him). She should not be in Paris. He should not be in Paris. He did not need to be checking on her, or playing his brother’s keeper. If Gerard had sold the lands to Rollo Barrington, let Rollo Barrington have his joy of them. Where Alex nee
ded to be was in Lima, uncovering the plans that Monsanto was hatching.

  But no. He was half a world away, tracking down a man named Rollo, for God’s sake, and plagued by a bunch of lunatics in the process. Gerry refused to account for his behavior. Nothing in Pennington’s background suggested that he could afford to flee such a sum of money. And Gwen—well, Jesus Christ. If she thought he kissed about as well as Trent, she’d suffered a serious blow to the brain, somewhere.

  Bruneau delivered the obligatory slap to his back. (And now Gwen had him daydreaming, Alex realized with disgust.) Dutifully, he pounded the man in return. The Frenchman retreated a pace and uttered some respectful remark.

  Properly it fell now to Alex to suggest a drink at the bar across the street, where they would trade stories of good fights and unfair opponents, and exchange jibes that would add spice to their rematch tomorrow. He would have been glad to buy a round—except, God damn it, he now had to track down not only Barrington but also one naïve heiress and her featherbrained chaperone.

  He cursed the invention of the telegram.

  All the life in the world teemed on the boulevards, jostling beneath tree limbs laden with lilacs. On the green benches that lined the pavement, dandies lounged in white coats with fur collars, their long mustaches framing cigarettes that they smoked with frowning care. Smartly dressed ladies hopped fearlessly from omnibuses, and servants shuffled past with their various charges—nannies escorting little boys in velvet knickerbockers and cuffs of Belgian lace; maids dragged by tonsured poodles, which lunged at the olive peddlers and made the girls selling fresh carnations shriek and jump away. Every lamppost in view was plastered with colorful playbills, and the boy at the newspaper kiosk cried the headlines continuously, with a voice long since grown hoarse.

  Gwen sat beneath the striped awning of a charming little café, sipping a glass of wine and marveling. Twice before she had visited Paris, but she remembered none of this. Previously, her mornings had been swallowed by the dark corridors of the Louvre, her afternoons suffocated in the satin boudoirs of Laferriàre, Redferns, and Worth. Yesterday Elma had insisted they waste the evening in some dark little box at the Opera. But the truth of Paris was not to be found indoors. It was here, parading by for her enjoyment as the gentleman at the next table drank his curaçao and spared her not so much as a single look. The waiter had offered her absinthe, even!