Too Wicked to Wed

by Cheryl Holt

  The man standing before her wasn’t that same person. The fine garments had altered him into someone else entirely. He was . . . was . . .

  She couldn’t describe what he was, but she was unnerved by the transformation. Suddenly she didn’t know him at all, and she didn’t want him changing. In some silly, possessive, feminine manner, she’d begun to presume that he was hers, that he would always be with her at Mansfield Abbey, but she’d been deluding herself.

  He was destined for greatness, for London and the life that would be granted to him as he progressed into his father’s realm. He might continue to own Mansfield Abbey, but he would never be part of it. She almost felt as if he was fading into the distance, his magnificent future hovering just over the horizon and luring him away from her.

  “Good evening, Helen,” he greeted, acting like the most gallant gentleman in the land. “I apologize for being late. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”

  “It’s . . . it’s quite all right.”

  “What do you think?” He gestured to his outfit, and he laughed, trying to make light of the question, but he was more anxious than she’d ever witnessed him prior. He was dying to have her praise him, which was easy.

  “Very dashing, my dear captain.”

  “So that crusty old tailor knew his business?”

  “Yes, he definitely did.”

  “What a relief! I’d hate to have to speak with him about any mistakes.” He entered, his focus locked on Helen, as he said, “Peg, would you leave us for a few minutes? We’re not to be disturbed. I’ll notify you when we’re ready for supper to be served.”

  Peg huffed out, shutting the door too loudly, indicating her pique at receiving further evidence of Helen’s disreputable fall from grace. The maid would tattle to the staff as to why the meal had been delayed, and the gossip would be atrocious, but Helen didn’t care.

  His attention was fixed on the swell of her breasts, on the low-cut bodice of her dress. It was the only gown she had that was remotely stylish, and if she hadn’t been frantic to entice him, she wouldn’t have worn it. Apparently, she’d succeeded in her quest.

  He approached until they were toe-to-toe, until he towered over her, and she was dizzy with excitement. Desire sang in her veins, her blood throbbing with lust, and she couldn’t believe how fervently she wanted him.

  He’d released a veiled, hedonistic side of her character. She was eager to be his sexual pupil, to study and learn every delicious, erotic deed he’d like to teach.

  He reached out and traced a finger across her bosom. “Very nice,” he murmured. “Very, very nice.”

  The compliment oozed through bone and pore, making her feel sultry and beautiful. No man had ever looked at her and seen what he did, and she yearned to be the femme fatale he envisioned. If he’d been sneaking off, searching for romance from others, his nocturnal forays had to stop. She would be the one to whom he turned when his male ardor was running hot.

  “I’ve missed you,” she announced, and boldly she grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled him to her.

  “Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Too much.”

  This wasn’t the time to be prudish. Though he hadn’t mentioned his father again, his destiny was calling. When the Duke met Lucas Westmoreland, both men’s lives would be changed. After all, what father could fail to embrace such a son?

  He would be swept into the Duke’s world, would be welcomed and flaunted to friends and enemies alike. He would go, and he would never come back to her. She had only these few days or weeks till Fate spirited him away.

  She rose on tiptoe, seeking his kiss, and he obliged, dipping down to take her in his arms. He molded his lips to hers, demanding all that she was, all that she was supposed to be.

  She reveled, her view of herself rocked by her hunger for him. She wasn’t stuffy, boring Helen Mansfield but someone different, someone extraordinary, and she had the power to arouse him, to make him want her.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “You’ve been hiding from me. Why would you?”

  “I tried to stay away,” he claimed. “I tried so hard.”

  “You fool! Don’t you know how badly I want you? How badly I need you?”

  He nibbled down her nape, to her cleavage, and her body rippled with the urge to have his hands on her, to have his mouth on her.

  “I must be mad,” he contended. “The only topic I ponder is you—where you are and what you’re doing. You’ve bewitched me.”

  She was certain it was a lie, that in the hours when he was away he never contemplated her, but she’d act as if it was true, as if he meant every word.

  “I’ve got you under my spell,” she agreed, “and I intend to keep you there.”

  “You’ll be the death of me.”

  “I’ll make it quick and painless.”

  His naughty fingers crept into her dress, to her nipple, and he pinched and squeezed; then he tugged at the fabric, baring the soft mound so that his teeth and tongue could work their dastardly magic. She was draped over his arm, precariously balanced, but she wasn’t afraid of falling. He was so strong, so sure in his motions.

  There was a writing desk behind her, and he eased her onto it, the jar of pens scattering, the papers flying to the floor. She spread her legs and wrapped them around him, and she was amazed by how swiftly the encounter had descended to decadence.

  It was early evening, the sun not having set, the servants rattling around in the next room. Any one of them could walk in. A window was open behind her, the curtains flapping in the breeze, the gardener out in the yard, finishing his chores, yet she proceeded without hesitation.

  Lucas was drawing her skirt up her legs, caressing her knees, her thighs. Then . . . his fingers were inside her, stretching her, inflaming her. She was melting, wild for what was coming. He fussed with his trousers, the placard loose, and he centered himself, nudging in the crown, but he wouldn’t enter her.

  She was shameless, writhing against him, trying to force him to take her, but he wouldn’t.

  He bent down and sucked on her nipple, the stimulation scorching her until she was weak with lust.

  “Tell me you want this,” he commanded. “Tell me that you want me.”

  “How could you not know?”

  “Tell me that you’ll never be sorry.”

  “Never. I never will be.”

  “You’re mine, Helen. Mine forever.”

  It was another lie. She would never be his. He was like a stallion she’d seen once in a paddock, kicking and fighting to be free, but still, she gave him the vow he was eager to have.

  “I’m yours forever, Luke.”

  Her pledge seared through him like a brand, riveting him so thoroughly that she had to wonder if she hadn’t actually bound herself to him in some significant way. Perhaps she had. Perhaps he was more fond of her than she realized.

  How thrilling!

  “No going back, Helen.”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  With a brutal thrust, he penetrated her, his cock filling her to her womb. The incursion was so welcome, so . . . so . . . needed, that she was immediately pitched into the uncontrollable spiral of pleasure.

  She arched up and cried out, and in some vague portion of her mind she recognized that the servants had probably heard the primal wail, but she wasn’t concerned. She was a trollop who was so desperate for him and the ecstasy he rendered that she would stoop to any indiscretion so long as he was the one who instigated it.

  As her sheath tightened around him, he reached the end, too, spilling himself far inside, but she didn’t pause to worry about future consequences. She was too overwhelmed by the present, and could only surmise that if the staff had had any doubt as to what was occurring, his feral growl of satisfaction confirmed every low opinion that had recently been generated.

  He flexed again, again, each invasion intensifying the elation, delaying the conclusion.
Small jolts coursed through her, tiny tremors continuing until finally the surge was complete.

  He retreated from her and, looking all male, all vain, smug certainty, he preened.

  “I absolutely adore fucking you,” he whispered.

  She shivered. “What does that mean? That word?”

  “You know what it means.”

  He knelt down, and he leaned in and licked his tongue across her privates. She was shocked, but enthralled, too, her body jerking violently, seeking more. Always more. With him, she could never get enough.

  In a heartbeat, he had her aroused and ready to begin anew, but he shifted away and kissed a slow path to her mouth.

  “I love how you taste,” he said.

  “Do it again,” she begged.

  He chuckled. “All in good time, my little beauty.”

  “Is that a promise or a threat?”

  “Definitely a promise. What’s between us is about to grow raucous and rough, but I believe that it’ll be just your cup of tea.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Face it, Helen. Deep within, you harbor the passions of a harlot.”

  “I’m not that bad!”

  “Trust me on this: You’re an out-and-out slattern, but in my view, that’s not a defect.”

  He stood and straightened his clothes, and he urged her to her feet, but her knees were wobbly, so she kept her bottom balanced on the desk. As if she were a child, he arranged her dress, but her hair was half-down and impossible to repair. For a minute he wrestled with it; then he gave up.

  “There’s no hope for it.” He yanked the last combs away so that the lengthy mass swung down.

  “We have to go in to supper,” she protested. “I can’t have it mussed like this!”

  “I like it down. Leave it.”

  “But . . . but . . . what will the servants think?”

  “They’ll think I tumbled you on the writing desk in the front parlor. And they’ll be right!”

  “Aah! You’re a beast.”

  “You have no reputation remaining. You might as well flaunt your dissolution.” He gestured toward the dining room. “I’m starved. Let’s sample this feast you’ve spent the day preparing. I’m curious to learn whether your talents extend beyond the bedchamber.”

  “You’ve dined with me before. I didn’t hear you complaining.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “Liar. You devour my food like a hungry wolf. And since I like you a tad more than I used to, I plan to feed you even better.”

  “You like me, do you?”

  I love you! The imprudent sentiment swirled by so rapidly and with such vehemence that she scarcely refrained from blurting out the absurd confession.

  “Yes, I like you,” she admitted, “despite the fact that you’re unbearably arrogant.”

  “Arrogant?” He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “Let’s stop talking and start eating. I’m going to have you sit on my lap and serve me the choicest morsels. I often have concubines in Arabia do it for me, and I enjoy it very much.”

  “Am I to be your slave?”

  He considered, then grinned. “That’s a marvelous suggestion.”

  She glared, trying to appear annoyed, but he kissed her and caressed her breast.

  “I’m tired of avoiding you,” he said. “You’re an attraction I can’t fight, so I’ve decided to have my way with you whenever the mood strikes me.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. So after we finish our meal, I’m taking you to my room. To my bed. We’ll fornicate all night long.”

  Her pulse pounded with glee as images of the wild hours to come shot through her head. “Then why are we dawdling in here?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  He clasped her arm and led her to the table.

  14

  Helen dabbled with her mending, then paused to stare across the parlor at Sergeant Reilly. He sulked by the window, gazing out toward the hills where the road to London meandered north. He was so forlorn that it was painful to watch him.

  On the spur of the moment, the Captain had claimed pressing business in the city, and he’d left, dragging a reluctant Mr. Smith with him. He hadn’t said how soon he’d return, nor had Helen felt she had any right to ask. Still, she was miserable without him. The house was so quiet, devoid of the energy he’d brought to it, and she jumped at every sound, expecting him to come barreling through the door.

  She was so dependent on his presence. Her entire world revolved around him, and with him gone, she was wretched. His short absence painted an agonizing picture of what her life would be like once he went for good.

  She stuck her needle through the fabric, but she wasn’t paying attention, and she stuck herself.

  “Ow!” she complained.

  Reilly glanced over. “Have you poked yourself, again?”

  “Yes. With how clumsy I’ve become, perhaps I should give up sewing altogether.”

  “Let me finish it for you.”

  Reilly crossed to her and seized the cloth. Helen allowed him to have it; then she furtively spied on him as he settled himself, as he proved himself competent by taking tiny stitches. However, his concentration lasted but a minute or two; then he threw down the work and began to pace.

  Reilly made her so uncomfortable that she yearned to flee. Mr. Smith was like an elephant in the middle of the room, needing to be discussed but neither of them able to broach the subject.

  Helen decided to switch the direction of their contemplation. Reilly had traveled with Luke for ages, which provided Helen with an opportunity to probe for details about his background.

  “How long have you known Captain Westmoreland?” she inquired.

  “Years.”

  “I imagine it’s been exciting, sailing with him as you’ve done.”

  “On occasion.”

  Reilly ignored her, and the conversation lagged, the silence stretching to infinity.

  “Where is he from originally?”

  “England,” Reilly said as if Helen were a dolt. “Where would you suppose?”

  “I knew that,” Helen grumbled. “I meant where in England.”

  “London.”

  “Oh.”

  “Although his mother grew up here.”

  “Here? Here as in Mansfield Abbey?”

  “Yes,” Reilly confirmed. “You seem surprised.”

  “Very.”

  “I thought everybody had heard the stories.”

  “Not me.”

  “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it then.”

  Wasn’t that like lighting the rug on fire? Now that the information had been gleaned, how was she to deal with it? Particularly when the bearer of the tidings was taciturn as a grizzled old soldier?

  “Honestly, Sergeant,” Helen scolded, “you can’t drop a load like that, then swallow your tongue.”

  “If the Captain had wanted you to know, he’d have told you. It’s not my business.”

  Helen was close to shaking the recalcitrant fellow, but she didn’t. She’d spent enough time around both Reilly and Smith to grasp that they wouldn’t betray the Captain’s confidence. They were loyal to a fault, so she’d have to garner the rest of the tale from the exalted pirate himself, and ooh, when he returned, wouldn’t she have a few comments to convey?

  His own mother! At Mansfield Abbey! And he’d never uttered a word! So much for assuming they were friends! What could be so terrible that he wouldn’t share it?

  She was sure the mystery explained why he’d gambled with Archie. She was coming to know Westmoreland very well, and with him, nothing happened by chance. There was always a method to his madness. He’d wagered for a reason, and she felt cheated that he’d kept his motives a secret.

  Why couldn’t he trust her?

  She was so wrapped up in her furious rumination that she didn’t realize Reilly was speaking.
/>   “Pardon me, Sergeant. I was woolgathering.”

  “I said: Might I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “It might sound strange.” He was so despairing! “Promise you won’t laugh.”

  “I promise. What is it?”

  “Would you help me become a woman?”

  “A . . . a . . . woman?” Helen shifted uneasily. She’d been quite liberal minded about what she’d seen pass between Reilly and Smith—she hadn’t even revealed it to the Captain, though he seemed to be aware of their peculiar association—but this appeal was too much. “Such a thing isn’t possible, Sergeant Reilly. You’re a man. You should accept the fact and move on.”

  “I’m not a man!”

  “Sergeant—”

  “You don’t understand.” He walked over to her, and he jerked off his cap, his fingers yanking at the strip of leather that tied his hair. He riffled through it, spreading the curly tresses over his shoulders as Helen watched in horrified fascination.

  Either he was the prettiest man she’d ever met or . . . he wasn’t a man, at all.

  “You’re not a man,” Helen marveled.

  “No.”

  “How long have you been a woman?” she stupidly queried.

  “Since I was born, Miss Mansfield. I swear it.”

  “The Captain knows?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Mr. Smith?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well . . . good.”

  “I was beautiful once,” Mr.—that is, Miss—Reilly advised, “and I’m desperate to be that way again. So that Robert will . . . will . . .”

  “That’s Mr. Smith?”

  “I want him to view me differently.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  From the poor woman’s pathetic expression, she had to be deeply, miserably in love with Mr. Smith. Was that how Helen looked when she was mooning over Westmoreland? How humiliating!

  “I need to learn to dress like you,” Miss Reilly declared, “and I have to learn your fussy manners and your fancy habits. Could you teach me, Miss Mansfield? Before he comes back?”

  Helen couldn’t predict when Smith would show up, so she couldn’t guess how much time they had, but as she was rapidly discovering herself, being in love was a pitiful state. How could she refuse to assist? Besides, having Miss Reilly as a project would take Helen’s mind off the Captain and how despondent she was over his absence.