Too Wicked to Wed

by Cheryl Holt

  He’d never met the Duke and didn’t want to meet him. Luke’s Christian name—William—was a Westmoreland family name, one conferred on sons throughout the centuries. Luke rarely used it, preferring his mother’s surname of Lucas, instead. He considered the choice to be a snub of his father and all that the affluent, pretentious man represented.

  With the Navy rescue Luke had effected, with his being feted at every turn and even publicly praised by the Prince Regent, there were rumors that the Duke was finally interested in an introduction, but Luke detested the vile libertine and planned to reject any overture.

  Luke’s dislike of the Mansfields was no less potent. He had a score to settle with them, a desire to seek justice on his mother’s behalf. The objective had driven him forever, had provided resolve and solace during tortures and incarcerations.

  When he’d won Mansfield Abbey from Archie Mansfield, he’d been delighted. When the brother had offered up the sister, Luke had been even more thrilled. What could be more appropriate than to have a precious Mansfield daughter ruined by a Westmoreland as Luke’s own mother had been?

  He’d thought he could force the issue, but he couldn’t. He’d expected Helen Mansfield to be an exact copy of the father, of the brother, but she wasn’t, and Luke felt sorry for her. She seemed to be a very sincere individual—a tad bossy, to be sure—but with a sibling like Archie Mansfield who wouldn’t be difficult? She’d been ensnared in her brother’s folly, and Luke wouldn’t ravage her because of it.

  He had a few scruples—not many, but a few—and she had weighty problems winging in her direction. She didn’t need the added complication of a sexual frolic with a disreputable pirate.

  Nor did the pirate relish the trouble and bother that would ensue should he keep her for the next thirty days. She assumed that she was resigned to forfeiting her chastity, but she never would. Not for him, anyway. He wanted her gone, but she was a proud woman, and pride was something about which he knew quite a bit. He would send her home, feeling redeemed in her quest to save her estate.

  She frowned at the empty space. “Why don’t you have any furniture?”

  The comment irked him. His mother had been the daughter of a baronet, his father a duke. Luke secretly yearned to behave as if he were at ease in their realm so that he could more swiftly advance into their society, and his lack of refinement was so annoying. He had money to obtain the necessary items, but he had no idea what those items should be.

  “I’m renting the place temporarily,” he lied, “and I haven’t had the opportunity to shop.”

  “If I’m to spend a month here, you must make arrangements for my comfort.”

  “Such as?”

  “For starters, you must hire a lady’s maid for me. And I’ll have to have cupboards and dressers in which to keep my things. Clothing has to be delivered.”

  “By all means, Your Majesty, I’ll see to it right away. But I intend for you to be completely occupied.” His appreciative male gaze roamed down her torso. “You won’t need anything to wear.”

  “Of course I’ll need clothes, you oaf! As opposed to the slatterns with whom you typically fraternize, I am a gentlewoman.”

  “But I am not a gentleman. I like my feminine companions to be naked.”

  She whipped away. “Have you a bed upon which to sleep?”

  “In the adjoining chamber, but we won’t be sleeping.”

  He nodded toward it, and she stomped over. She was putting on a very bold front, and he was humored by her displays of bravado. He was curious as to how far she’d wander down the carnal road before she panicked and called a halt.

  She stopped in the threshold, her eyes wide. His bed was massive and ornate, with a carved headboard, thick quilts, and a plush mattress. It was the sole thing in the entire room and covered most of the floor.

  “For pity’s sake,” she groused, “it’s fit for a king.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “I’ll need a ladder to climb onto it.” She glared over at him. “You’ve taken time to purchase one piece of furniture, and that is what you buy?”

  “None of my paramours has complained.”

  He wasn’t about to explain his past, the hovels and icy stairwells as a child or the dank, slimy cells as an adult. Sweet dreams, when he could find them, were a must. He had the resources to slumber in luxury, and he indulged to the limit.

  He pushed her inside, and he followed, tugging at the curtains and lighting the lamp. She watched, the silence growing awkward, the tension so extreme that he could nearly taste it.

  “What . . . what now?” she inquired as he crossed to her.

  “Now, we begin.”

  “With what?”

  “With you keeping your part of the bargain.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  He was charmed by her confession. “I’ll show you.”

  He untied her cloak, and as he drew it away, he noticed that his hands were shaking. He was a bundle of nerves! How extraordinary! How hilarious!

  “Turn around,” he commanded.

  “Why?”

  “I want your hair down.”

  “My hair?”

  “Yes. I like it flowing down your back.”

  “Must you?”

  “I’m afraid I insist.”

  She pondered refusal; then she spun and held herself very still as he yanked at the pins and combs. The tresses swished down in a brunette wave that hung to her waist. It was a rich mahogany, shot through with strands of auburn and gold, and she stiffened as he riffled his fingers through it.

  He was excited to be touching her so intimately, and his level of enjoyment disturbed him. The wrongness of his conduct, the excess, was exhilarating, and he pulled away, not liking the sensations she engendered.

  He fluffed the lengthy mass over her shoulders, as he grumbled, “Much better.”

  “Are we going to lie down?”

  “Eventually.” He rotated her so that she was facing him.

  “Will it hurt?”

  “Will what hurt?”

  “What you’re about to do to me.”

  “No.” He smiled. “Why would you think it would?”

  “I heard some women talking once. They said . . . well . . .”

  “They were mistaken,” he fibbed, not seeing any reason to confirm her fears. He wasn’t about to breach any maidenheads, so she didn’t need to know the true details. “It will be very pleasant.”

  She licked her bottom lip, the guileless move making his cock shift and stir. Without warning, and to his utter shock, a fine erection was forming. Apparently, he desired her more than he’d realized, and considering how avidly he’d been romping in recent days, how could he have any unsated lust remaining?

  He was no better than a rutting dog!

  Just like your father! a voice scolded, but he ignored it.

  “May I ask you a question?” she queried.

  “I’m not sure I’ll answer, but try me.”

  “If we’re not married, how can we . . . we . . .”

  She blushed. Naughty discussion was beyond her, and her hesitancy emphasized how contemptibly he was acting. He’d lost his virginity at age thirteen, as a boy running errands for whores in a brothel. For most of his life, his lovers had been the crude, coarse women of port towns and taverns. Lately, with his spreading celebrity, the caliber of his partners had risen, but they’d always been mature, experienced females who knew what they wanted and how to go about getting it.

  Miss Mansfield was like a fresh breeze on a hot summer afternoon. Who was he to shatter her innocence?

  “How can we what?”

  “Well, men and women do things that are . . .” She groaned with frustration. “Oh, I can’t describe what they do, but I thought you had to be husband and wife to do it!”

  Had he ever been that young? That naïve? His upbringing had been so different from hers. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t understood the facts of adult behavior, and t
hough he was only thirty, compared to her he felt a hundred and thirty.

  “Haven’t you ever seen two lovers kissing after a dance or at a fair?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Have you ever been kissed?”

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  She glanced away, embarrassed at having to admit her spinsterish status. In her world, maidens didn’t cavort with gentlemen unless marriage was the goal. They didn’t sneak around in parlors, seeking passion. Still, she was very pretty. She should have had a dozen swains.

  Why hadn’t any man dared? How marvelous that he would be the first!

  “Shut your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to surprise you.”

  “How?”

  “Just do it, Miss Mansfield.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “Which is very wise, but do it anyway.”

  She stared at him, then complied, her lashes fluttering down. He stepped in, his trousers brushing her skirt. Sparks ignited, their surroundings crackling with an energy that greatly disconcerted him.

  He was so jaded and cynical, while she was so pure and unsullied, and he wanted to grab her and hold her until some of her decency and wholesomeness rubbed off.

  Shaking off the odd impressions, he rested his hands on her shoulders; then he leaned down and kissed her. In the history of kisses, it wasn’t much about which to brag. He didn’t clasp her body to his own, didn’t maul or grope her, but the interlude was stunning and fulfilling in a fashion he hadn’t encountered prior. Her lips were soft and moist, her breath sweet and warm, and he tarried, relishing the dear moment.

  He enjoyed kissing and did quite a lot of it, but it was always a swift and brief prologue to the main event. Why dawdle when the ultimate bliss was so near? Yet, with Miss Mansfield, he had no intention of pursuing a squalid ending, so he could revel in the embrace without racing to the conclusion.

  He lingered much too long, and he had to force himself to break it off. Scowling, flustered, he scrutinized her, wondering what he’d set in motion. He’d never be satisfied with a single kiss, not when he craved so much more.

  “Can I open my eyes now?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She peered up at him with a new and keen interest. “That was very nice.”

  “Yes, it was.” Numerous comments were possible, but what emerged was, “I want to do it again.”

  Without waiting to hear if she did, too, he wrapped his arms around her, and there was nothing chaste or restrained about his advance. He was overcome by a wild, reckless urge to have her. Luckily, she was as swept up, as frantic, as he, and she participated with an equal fervor.

  He teased and taunted, moaning with pleasure as he dipped his tongue inside. A strange fever was driving him, a need he’d never felt before, and he couldn’t seem to get close enough to her. He lifted her, carrying her backward until she was trapped against a bedpost. He moved between her legs, her thighs balanced on his own, her skirt rucked up.

  At the salacious positioning his phallus was ecstatic. He flexed, his hips matching the rhythm of his tongue. He kissed her forever; he couldn’t stop. His fingers found her breast, kneading and fondling the plump mound, the action increasing his ardor.

  He kept on until he was so aroused that he worried he’d spill himself in his pants like a callow boy. He was so titillated that he couldn’t predict what he might do. A loud voice inside his head was spurring him to finish—despite her wishes—to take her and be done with it, and he was startled by its ferocity.

  He never lost control with a woman, was never overwhelmed by lust, so he couldn’t figure out what was occurring. He viewed sex solely as a corporeal alleviation, usually as a business deal, too—with money paid for services rendered—yet she’d incited him to madness.

  She had the good sense to pull away, and her hesitation yanked him to sanity. He nibbled across her cheek, her nape. He should have released her and slid away, but she fit perfectly in his arms, and he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.

  “Please, Captain,” she begged.

  “It’s all right,” he soothed.

  “This is all happening too fast,” she said. “I need to catch my breath.”

  “Of course.” He was kicking himself for acting like such a beast. She had to be reeling, as confused by their amazing bond as he was himself. He’d had almost two decades to adapt to the spiral of desire, while she’d had no opportunity, at all.

  He shouldn’t have rushed her. If he’d been more patient, they could have continued until . . .

  He didn’t complete the reflection, for he refused to ponder where his enthusiasm might have led them. She provoked him in ways he’d never imagined, had unlocked an old reservoir of yearning that he’d assumed he’d buried ages ago.

  She was dangerous to his equilibrium, and he had to get rid of her before he did something stupid, something irrevocable. He straightened and slackened his grip, gliding her down his body till her feet touched the floor.

  “There’s a connection between us, isn’t there?” she ventured. “That’s . . . unique?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are we feeling it?”

  “It’s a mystery. Some people are just suited, as others aren’t and never will be. There’s no explanation.”

  “But I don’t even like you, so how could that be?”

  He chuckled. “Perhaps you like me a bit more than you realize.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m positive I loathe you.”

  He bent down and kissed her again, a simple brush of his lips to hers. Briefly she allowed the contact; then she turned away.

  “I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I thought I could, but it would be so wrong.”

  “It’s not wrong, Helen.” A deranged, insatiable part of him wanted her to stay, wanted her to give him all the things she’d promised.

  “It is,” she insisted. “It’s so much more physical than I envisioned.”

  “We have a special attachment. We shouldn’t walk away from it.”

  What was he saying? Was he crazy? He had to shut his idiotic mouth! At once! His goal was for her to huff out in a snit, and he couldn’t have his unruly cock guiding his words.

  “I can’t.”

  She was embarrassed and staring down at the rug. The sight of her—so rumpled and adorable, disheveled from his attentions—tugged at deep, unfamiliar emotions that had him desperate to keep and protect her.

  He was eager to coax her out of her decision and her drawers, to cajole and beguile until she relented. He could, too. He was a master at seduction, and she was a lonely, isolated female. With hardly any effort, he could woo her into doing what she oughtn’t, but it would be detestable to coerce her into a relationship that would leave her devastated in the end.

  She had no business being swept into his sordid life.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” he felt duty bound to mention.

  “I know.”

  “I’ll seize the estate.”

  “I understand.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  She started to cry in earnest, pretty tears dripping down her cheeks, but she did nothing to hide them. It seemed as if her heart was breaking, and his dormant conscience shifted uneasily. He reached out and swiped them away, and the feel of those salty drops on his fingertips was nearly his undoing. He almost yielded, almost told her he wouldn’t go through with it, and he managed to bite down the offer before he uttered it.

  How had she captivated him? Why had he let her?

  “Don’t be sad,” he entreated.

  “But I’ve failed everyone.”

  “No, you haven’t. It wasn’t your job to rescue them.”

  “It’s always been my job,” she bleakly replied. “That’s all I do is take care of everybody else. I’m so tired of it.”

  “Then maybe it’s time they took responsibility for themselves,�
�� he gently advised. “You needn’t shoulder it all.”

  “So many will be lost without me.” She slumped with resignation. “I recognize that I have no right, but might I ask you a favor?”

  “I can’t guarantee I’ll grant it.”

  “Will you permit my servants to stay on? Some of their families have been at Mansfield for generations. I hate to have them suffer because of my brother.”

  It was a fair request, and he’d need help with the property. “I’ll have Mr. Smith interview them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Their remaining will depend on if they can work for me, if they can be loyal. I’m renowned as a brutal taskmaster.”

  “You’re not as vicious as you pretend to be.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No.”

  He smiled, thrilled that she had such a heightened opinion of his character. What would it be like to live up to her expectations? For a flickering instant, he was disappointed that he’d never have the chance to find out.

  “Good-bye, Helen.”

  “Good-bye, Captain Westmoreland.”

  Neither of them could bear to separate. The encounter had been too enchanted, and though the coming weeks would bring fighting and enmity, for the moment they dawdled like a pair of half-wits, assessing, remembering, cataloguing features. He linked their fingers, squeezing tight to reassure and console; then he dipped down for one last kiss. She joined in, groaning with pleasure and despair, and she pressed her face against his chest.

  As if he was precious to her, as if she was afraid to let him go, she cradled him to her as he stroked his hands up and down her back. Then, without another word, she stepped away and ran, not stopping to so much as grab her cloak.

  He stood in the quiet house, listening as her fleet strides carried her down the stairs and out the front door. For the longest while, he tarried, wondering . . . if she’d had a parting comment . . . what it might have been.

  4

  I couldn’t go through with it,” Helen explained for the hundredth time. She was weary of the entire argument. “I’m sorry.”