Too Wicked to Wed

by Cheryl Holt

  “I’m comfortable right where I am.”

  At his response, she couldn’t sit, either. He was so tall, and if she seated herself, it would exacerbate their disparities. He was already too conceited by half, and she couldn’t have him feeling even more superior.

  She walked over but kept several feet of space between them. “I’m begging you to restore my brother’s property to him.”

  “No.”

  “Captain Westmoreland—”

  “Since we’re about to be lovers, you might as well call me Lucas. Or Luke. Whichever you prefer is fine by me.”

  “I’ll do no such thing, and we’re not about to be lovers.”

  “How badly are you wanting to save your home?”

  “Very badly.”

  “Then call me Luke.”

  She sighed with frustration. “You’re the most exasperating individual I’ve ever met.”

  “So I’ve been told—on many occasions.”

  He studied her, his torrid gaze leisurely journeying from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. As if he’d prodded her with a hot poker, she sizzled and burned in every spot where he lingered. Her lips were tingly and moist, her breasts heavy and full, the nipples alert and rubbing her corset.

  “You’re prettier than I thought you’d be. Too skinny, but pretty.”

  “Really, Captain, you mustn’t—”

  “Come here.” He extended his hand, expecting her to blithely take it.

  “No.”

  “Are you scared of me?”

  “Of you?” She laughed, but it sounded feeble. “Why would I be?”

  “Maybe because I eat small children for my supper? Or because I ravage women wherever I go?”

  As he mentioned some of the shocking tales that were circulating, she detected that he was amused by the gossip. On discovering that he could joke about himself, she calmed, and as she did, she experienced the most bizarre awareness. Of him as a man. Of him as a friend. She seemed to know everything about him, and she had no clue as to why she would, but it was an interesting and welcome insight, and she hoped she could use it to further her cause.

  He wasn’t the ogre others painted him to be. While indisputably a criminal, with a penchant for mischief and trouble, he was very smart, and he could be fair and compassionate. She could feel it to the marrow of her bones.

  “I don’t believe any of that folderol.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, though I think you enjoy having the stories spread.”

  “Why would I?”

  “It keeps everyone terrified of you.”

  He chuckled. “Touché, Miss Mansfield.”

  A relaxed silence ensued, where they evaluated each other; then he repeated, “Come here.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re up to no good.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, and whatever you’re planning, I’ll have no part of it.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Yes.”

  He moved from his perch on the desk and narrowed the distance between them. He was so near that his boots dipped under the hem of her skirt. She could feel his heat; she could smell the soap with which he’d bathed, could see a nick under his chin where he’d cut himself shaving. She was so overwhelmed—by his size, by his charisma and allure—that she was dizzy, and it was all she could do to keep from reaching out to him in order to steady herself.

  “You shouldn’t have bet with my brother,” she scolded.

  “He bet with me. I didn’t start it.”

  “Then at the end, when all was lost, you shouldn’t have wagered over me.”

  “He offered you; it was none of my doing. I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

  “He might have proposed the deed, but you were wicked to agree. Have you no honor remaining inside you?”

  “Not a shred,” he confessed, and he shrugged. “The little braggart dug his own hole. He didn’t even need a shovel. I was simply an innocent bystander, but after the rants and insults I had to endure, if you suppose I’ll ignore his debt, you’re mad.”

  “You males and your blasted pride.”

  “My pride is enormous. I don’t deny it. So I won’t back down, and I demand payment. It matters not to me what compensation you choose to render. You can have your property, or you can have your chastity, but you can’t have both.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit embarrassed at what you’ve done?”

  “I’m a man,” he stated, as if that explained the mysteries of the universe. “I was presented with the opportunity to have a beautiful, eager woman warm my bed for a month. Why would I refuse?”

  “Because it’s wrong! Because—despite what my idiotic brother might have claimed—I’m not willing!”

  “You’re more willing than you care to admit.”

  “How can you say that? I’m a spinster, so I have no notion of what it is you wish from me. How could I want it to happen?”

  “You’re desperate to keep your home, so ultimately, you’ll be amenable. It has naught to do with what might pass between us, though I’m certain you’ll like it much more than you suspect.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m a skilled lover. I can make it wonderful for you.”

  “You’re correct: Your pride is enormous. Your head is so swelled with vanity that I’m surprised you can fit it through the door.”

  “I’ve never been humble.”

  “I can tell.”

  He leaned in, his torso connecting with hers, and she could feel him all the way down. Chest, tummy, thighs, they were forged fast, and his proximity rattled her. Her skin prickled; her heart pounded. Every sense came alive with a renewed energy, and she was confounded by her reaction. She didn’t want to like him, but her anatomy had other ideas.

  She could scarcely resist wrapping her arms around him and pulling him even nearer. Was she insane? Even in her sheltered condition, she recognized that she desired him. How could that be? He was her enemy, her nemesis. She shouldn’t be intrigued, yet there was a powerful voice in her mind, inciting her to try all sorts of conduct that she oughtn’t. The urgings were so diabolical that she could barely keep from clasping her hands over her ears to drown out the racket.

  What if . . . what if . . .

  The question goaded her. What if she submitted? She could let him attempt whatever he wanted. They were alone, and no one would ever know. She’d heard women whispering about the endeavor and some of them enjoyed it, so it couldn’t be that awful. She could yield, then return to Mansfield, safe in the knowledge that she’d done a noble thing, that she’d sacrificed herself for the greater good.

  He broke into her tormented reverie. “What’s it to be, Miss Mansfield?”

  She stared into his weathered, attractive face, debating, considering, ruing, and finally, she murmured, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Why would you be sorry?”

  “I want to help my brother, but it would go against everything I believe and everything I’ve been taught.”

  “Are you sure this should be your decision?”

  “Very sure.”

  “All right, then. I’ll be by next week to take possession.”

  “Next week!”

  “Yes. Inform your brother that I’ll expect him to vacate the premises before I arrive.”

  “But next week!”

  “You were supposed to have come to me two months ago, so you’re already very late. Your brother kept begging for more time so you could prepare yourself. I’ve been gracious enough to grant him every extension, but my patience is exhausted. I’m weary of both of you. Please go.”

  “It’s my home,” she pathetically mentioned.

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” she bitterly inquired. “Do you really?”

  “I’ve learned—more than anyone—what it means to lose all.”

  There wasn’t a hint of sympathy in his gaze, a
nd to her horror, tears welled into her eyes. She’d been so confident that she could reason with him, and earlier, she’d sensed a kindred spirit. How could she have been so wrong?

  “Why are you doing this to us?”

  “Your brother did it, Miss Mansfield. Not me.”

  “But you don’t have to follow through.”

  “I want to, I guess.”

  “But why?”

  When no answer was forthcoming, a few tears overflowed and splashed down her cheeks. She swiped them away.

  “Crying never affects me,” he callously advised, “so it’s a waste of energy. It won’t fix anything.”

  “Maybe not, but it will definitely make me feel better.”

  He laughed, and she wanted to hit him, so she spun away. Struggling for calm, she gulped huge breaths, while trying to figure out how to exit with some amount of aplomb, yet she couldn’t force her feet toward the door. Once she walked out, any chance she had to sway him would be over. She’d have to proceed to Mansfield and pack her bags, and the prospect was so grim that she couldn’t hurry the moment along.

  “Did you ever hear talk,” he startled her by querying, “about a Miss Mary Lucas, who was a ward of your father’s?”

  “Over the years, my father had many wards. I couldn’t begin to list them all.” She peered over her shoulder, hating him for how handsome he was, for how unflappable and in control. “Why would you ask about him anyway? He’s been dead for over a decade. What link has he with any of this?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “You’re too young, then,” he mused. “You wouldn’t have known her.”

  Her father had had many despicable traits, including vice and thievery. He’d been a spendthrift, who’d constantly scrambled for funds, and he’d often fostered orphans so he could pilfer their inheritances. It was a contemptible legacy—not that she’d confess as much to Captain Westmoreland, but it sounded as if he had a grievance against her father on behalf of this Mary Lucas, who, from the name, might be one of his relatives. She sighed. How could she rectify a transgression that had happened before she was born?

  “Is there anything I could say that would change your mind?”

  “Yes.”

  Hope sparked eternal. “What?”

  “Tell me that you’re ready to go upstairs.” He arched a brow. “Tell me and mean it.”

  “You’re obsessed with my ruination.”

  “Not obsessed. Just determined to collect what’s due me.”

  “No, you’re obsessed, when I have no notion why.” It was pointless to continue imploring, and she trudged out. “I pray your ownership of Mansfield brings you the happiness you so obviously crave, but were I you, I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Oh, I’m plenty happy, Miss Mansfield. I don’t need Mansfield Abbey to make me more so. Farewell. Thank you for stopping by. It’s been extremely amusing.”

  She’d been dismissed, and he immediately forgot about her. He went to a table that was covered with bottles of liquor, and he picked up one and commenced imbibing without benefit of a glass. She watched him, the amber liquid swilling down his throat, his rumination miles away from her petty troubles.

  At being snubbed she was furious, and she dawdled, studying him. She was much more curious than she should have been as to what was milling about in his autocratic, devious, twisted head. Coming up for air, he paused, and glanced in her direction.

  “Are you still here?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I thought you’d gone.”

  “To where?”

  “To wherever rich, frilly females like you go in the day.”

  The remark rankled, pricking at her temper and civility. Frantic for leniency, for mercy, she’d debased herself before him, had let him embarrass her in front of his paramours, and she was seething.

  “Oh yes,” she retorted, “since I’m so wealthy and indolent, I’m off to Mansfield Abbey. No, wait! I can’t go there. It doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

  “It never did. It was your brother’s.”

  “It was mine—in my heart and my soul.”

  “And now it’s mine. Isn’t it interesting how a few minutes can alter everything?”

  She stewed, wondering how to get through to him, how to make him listen. Could any plea influence him? He stared, cold as a fish, clearly wishing she’d depart and quit pestering him.

  She pictured him with her brother, the two of them chuckling merrily as they gambled and drank. Why should they be allowed to inflict so much misery on so many? Why should they have the prerogative to decide what would occur?

  Suddenly the pressures of her life were crushing her. She was tired of being clever and pragmatic, the one who fixed every mess, who cleaned up after every catastrophe.

  Age thirty was approaching fast, and what had she to show for her time on earth? No husband, no children, no home of her own, and no possibility of any of those things ever becoming reality. She was alone and always would be. She had no possessions other than a few shabby, unflattering dresses, no cash to spend on herself. Why . . . if she’d wanted to run away and start over, she hadn’t the wherewithal to go!

  All she had was Mansfield Abbey. It was her world that was being destroyed. Not theirs. The two wastrels weren’t concerned about Mansfield. She was their pawn in a fight she didn’t understand, but with the security of Mansfield her paramount objective, what else mattered?

  Archie had demolished whatever good name they’d had, so her reputation was in shreds. Her chastity—protected for twenty-five years for some obscure future spouse—would never be needed. She could never wed, for she could never be shed of Archie. She didn’t dare leave him to his own devices, didn’t dare walk away from Mansfield and give him free rein. Without her mitigating presence, there was no predicting what disasters he’d instigate.

  If Westmoreland took Mansfield Abbey, where would she go? What would she do? Her existence was so tied to the place that should she be obliged to abandon it, she might simply cease to be.

  A flicker of resolve ignited, then blazed into a burning inferno. She wouldn’t lose Mansfield. She couldn’t. Not when it was within her power to save it.

  “I’ll do it,” she muttered, almost before she realized she’d spoken aloud.

  “You’ll do what?”

  “I’ll grace your bed for a month. I don’t think any woman has ever died from performing the marital act, so it can’t be too repulsive.”

  “Repulsive?”

  “Yes. I’m sure I have the stomach to force myself through it.”

  “Well, that stellar attitude certainly makes me want to lie down with you.” As if her declaration were the funniest ever, he laughed and laughed, and when he’d regained control, he said, “Sorry, but I’ve had a change of heart. After meeting you, I’d rather eat hot coals than sleep with you. You can slink back to the country. In fact, if it will hurry you along, I’ll have Mr. Smith escort you.”

  “Oh no, you don’t, Captain Westmoreland.” She stomped over, her determination hardening with each stride, and she poked a finger in his chest. “A deal is a deal. You demanded this result; you pushed for it. I’m here, and you’ll have me—and you’ll be glad about it!”

  He assessed her as if she’d gone mad. “Glad is it?”

  “Stark-raving, gleefully, unbearably delighted. I guarantee it.”

  “Do you now?”

  She was feeling a tad insane. “Yes, so direct me to your bedchamber. You have a bedchamber in this monstrosity of a house, don’t you?”

  “Oh aye, I have a very grand one.”

  “Then take me to it. The sooner we commence this charade, the quicker I can be rid of you.”

  She strutted into the hall, not tarrying to learn if he’d follow, but he did.

  3

  In here.”

  Luke shoved open the door to his suite, and he studied Miss Mansfield’s delectable bottom as she sauntered in ahead of him.

  She rea
lly was pretty, though she’d tried her darnedest to hide her best attributes. Her body was slender but shapely, so she was tempting and lush in all the ways a man enjoyed. She had the biggest, most expressive hazel eyes, and the most fabulous brunette hair, but with it pulled into a neat bun, and a dress that covered her from chin to toe, she could have been a stern schoolteacher or grumpy governess.

  He pitied her for her lack of feminine wiles. She’d come to him hoping to entice, hoping to persuade, and she’d worn brown! How could she think to titillate when she looked so drab?

  He liked his women buxom and blond, flashy and sophisticated. His debauched tastes were a sad indicator of how long and how frequently he’d fraternized with whores. He couldn’t recall having ever fornicated with a virgin, especially one of Miss Mansfield’s lofty social status. The notion of having intimate relations with her, of instructing her as to what she should do with her hands and her mouth, was extremely disconcerting.

  With his recent acclaim, every hussy in London was flocking to his stoop. They were eager to consort with him, and he’d been seriously entertained, so he was busy. The last thing he needed was to fuss with a silly, frightened shrew who had a sharp tongue and domineering manner.

  He loathed the Mansfield family. Three decades earlier, his mother, Mary Lucas, had been a ward of the late, despicable Mr. Mansfield. He’d done such a poor job of seeing to her welfare that she’d often been without adequate supervision. While scant more than a girl, she’d been seduced by the infamous Duke of Roswell, Harold Westmoreland.

  When she wound up pregnant, Mansfield had tossed her out without a penny. She’d managed to survive until Luke was five, but she’d never been a strong person, and their dire circumstances had quickly exhausted her.

  She’d gone to her grave pining away for the Duke, Luke’s disgraceful father, even though the Duke had never given her a single farthing or acknowledged his baby son. Her imprudent affection had taught Luke a hard lesson: Love was foolish. It only brought grief and devastation.

  Over the years, he’d made his own way in the world. He’d grown up on the streets of London as a successful and notorious criminal, and he’d served an eternity in the penal colonies in Australia—from which he’d escaped after many desperate attempts. Through gambling and vice, he now owned a fast sailing ship, and he was rapidly becoming a wealthy man with no recognition or assistance from his aristocratic sire.