Her Wicked Ways

by Darcy Burke

  Her words enflamed him. He hardened inside of her. “I can promise that.”

  She looked around the bed, her hair abandoning the last of its pins in wild, gorgeous disarray. “Where’s the kerchief? Didn’t you have a plan for that?”

  Fox laughed, reveling in the love threatening to burst from his chest. “You’re quite shameless, did you know that?

  She looked up at him with a flirtatious quirk to her lips. “If I wasn’t, I’d never have met you.”

  His lips found hers in a fiery kiss while his hand found the makeshift mask. With surprising agility, Miranda plucked the fabric from his hand and pushed him over onto his back. “Actually, perhaps I’ll employ this. I’ve a mind to try what that woman was doing to that man at the brothel.”

  Lust poured through him, clarifying his emotions even more vividly. “As you wish, my lady.”

  She shook her head. “Oh no, that’s Mrs. Foxcroft. I’m no lady.”

  Fox grinned and gave himself over to her ministrations, profoundly grateful for her wicked, wicked ways.

  Epilogue

  March, 1817

  MIRANDA stood atop a ladder holding one edge of the gorgeous tapestries they’d regained from Lord Norris. Felicity Knott, who’d become a dear friend in the months since Miranda’s marriage to Fox, was on another ladder holding the other corner of the tapestry.

  “What the devil are you doing up there?” Fox demanded as he strode into the great hall at Bassett Manor.

  Miranda threw him an exasperated look before dropping the rod onto the hook Rob had affixed into the wall the week before. “What does it look like?”

  “Endangering your life,” he said, coming to stand at the base of her ladder.

  “Have you no care for Felicity’s life? She’s equally in peril.” Satisfied with her work, Miranda climbed down the ladder. When she was very near the bottom, Fox’s hands came around her waist and set her on the floor.

  He scowled down at her. “That was very foolish.” He shot a glance at Felicity. “Rob would agree if he’d seen you up there.”

  Felicity waved her hand. “Oh, piddle.”

  “Yes, piddle,” Miranda agreed. “It wasn’t foolish; it was necessary. I asked you to hang these last week.”

  Felicity tiptoed from the room wearing a wide grin.

  “I’ve been busy,” Fox said defensively.

  “You’re always busy.” Miranda brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder.

  “As if you’re ever idle.” His gaze swept the completely refurbished great hall, a project she’d attacked with vigor as soon as they’d married in October.

  “There’s plenty to do, as you know. Besides, you like me this way. If you hadn’t married me, only think of how atrocious this would still look.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Yes, I married you entirely for your decorating skills.” His hands brushed over her backside, giving lie to his words.

  “I knew it.” She pressed closer to him, thinking it might be nice to christen the settee that had just arrived from London two days ago.

  His hands caressed her back. “Stratham and Beatrice have returned.”

  After losing his seat in Parliament, Stratham had become a hermit. Beatrice had spent months laying a romantic siege until she’d ultimately won his heart. They’d married in February and had spent the last fortnight in Yorkshire on an extended wedding trip.

  “Lovely. We should invite them for dinner.”

  Fox arched a brow. Though he appreciated Stratham’s help in saving his neck, the two men still hadn’t formed a friendship as Miranda and Beatrice had.

  She laid a placating hand against her husband’s chest. “I’ll invite Rob and Felicity as well, that way you won’t have to put up with Stratham alone, all right? Besides, it’s good practice for when we go to London next month. You’re going to meet a lot of people you’d as soon never speak to.”

  Fox rolled his spectacular eyes. “Yes, and how delightful that sounds. It’s really no wonder you don’t miss it.”

  And she didn’t. To her mother’s complete and utter horror, Miranda hadn’t returned to London or Benfield or any of her father’s properties since marrying Fox. She’d only agreed to visit London in April to spend time with Jasper and their Aunt Louisa, who was keen to fund a finishing school for the girls at Stipple’s End. Miranda could scarcely wait to get started on the project.

  “I appreciate you coming with me,” she said, stroking the lapel of his new coat. He hadn’t wanted to spend a lot of money on a new wardrobe, but he’d indulged Miranda’s desire to see his exceptionally attractive form well-turned out. “I promise you’ll love my aunt. She’s nothing like her brother.”

  “She wants to provide a better future for our girls. She couldn’t possibly be like your father. Is there any chance we can avoid seeing him?”

  Miranda curled her hand around Fox’s neck. “No. But I guarantee he’ll want to keep our association to a minimum.” He’d begrudgingly attended their wedding at the church in Wootton Bassett, but they hadn’t seen him since.

  “Excellent.” He gave her a provocative look that sparked the copper centers of his eyes into a smolder. “I have to admit I’m looking forward to seeing you in your element.”

  She could almost feel his male pride. She felt the same way when she thought of the envious stares she’d get from other women in Town. Title or no, Fox was undeniably handsome, and when they saw how he danced…well, they’d gape at Miranda with green-eyed jealousy.

  She smiled up at him, so grateful for their fortune and their love. Not everyone had fared so well. Norris had suffered a fit of apoplexy in November and died. Cosgrove sat empty like a forgotten museum, waiting for his wayward heir—a distant cousin who’d traveled to some far off place—to claim his inheritance.

  Though Fox’s eyes had lit with desire, he stepped back. Miranda frowned as he went to the first of three sets of doors into the hall. He closed them and proceeded to the next set.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Ensuring some privacy.”

  “I see.” Her frown instantly curled upward, and she made her way toward the new settee. “Mr. Foxcroft, when did you become so wicked?”

  He finished securing the last door and strode toward her with seductive purpose. “It just so happens I had a very good teacher.” He wrapped his hand around her waist and drew her tight against his chest. “And I do believe it’s time for another lesson.”

  He lowered his lips to hers, and Miranda kissed him with thoroughly wicked intent.

  Also by Darcy Burke

  His Wicked Heart (spring 2012)

  To Seduce a Scoundrel (summer 2012)

  Read on for an excerpt of

  It’s hard to be respectable

  Jasper Sinclair, Earl of Saxton, made a bargain with his devil of a father to marry in one month’s time. But instead of shackling himself to an acceptable debutante, he indulges his baser needs. He joins a fighting club and pursues a delectable woman who may not be what she seems. Soon he finds himself battling addictions that threaten his already wicked heart.

  When you’d rather be wicked

  Orphaned seamstress Olivia West wants the chance to lead an honest, respectable life, but the arrogant Earl of Saxton launches a daunting campaign to make her his mistress. Destitute and desperate, she agrees to one night with the dangerous lord, hatching a scheme to take his money and keep her virtue. However, Jasper uncovers her deception and vows to claim what he's owed—not his money, her.

  Chapter One

  August, 1817, London

  JASPER Sinclair, twelfth Earl of Saxton, loosened his cravat as he awaited the arrival of his companion for the evening. He’d never visited this particular brothel, situated in a tiny court off the Haymarket, but a glimpse of its employees below stairs had been enough to encourage him to stay. It was difficult to find a bawdy house that wasn’t frequented by the upper echelon of Society whose offerings were worth his notice. And Jasper ought to
know. He’d made a hobby of locating just such jewels amongst the filth.

  He had high hopes for tonight. His body thrummed with pent-up energy he needed to release before facing his family at his mother’s bi-weekly tea tomorrow. He shoved away thoughts of that and focused on the matter at hand. Or rather the matter that would soon be in his hands. He stripped his coat off and threw it over the back of a chair.

  The room was functional enough, and a quick review of the bed revealed it to be clean, if not sumptuous. But Jasper didn’t require silks or velvets. Just a beautiful woman with skill and an unabashed desire to demonstrate it.

  The door clicked and Jasper’s blood heated. He was ready.

  He turned and his need evaporated. Christ, but she was the spitting image of Abigail, a woman he’d spent the last ten years striking from his memory. But now she came roaring back as if he’d met her—loved her—yesterday. His body chilled at the sight of this doppelganger, regret and self-loathing overtaking any sense of desire and commanding him to leave. Now.

  He went to the chair and plucked up his coat.

  “My lord?” the woman asked, her brow creasing gently. She sauntered toward him. “I’m Tilly. Let me take that.” She tried to pull the coat from his grip, but he held it fast.

  “No. I’m leaving. This isn’t adequate.”

  Tilly’s eyes widened briefly and then she gave a quick nod. “I see. I’m sure I can find us a different room. Something a bit richer, perhaps?”

  Jasper shoved his arms into his coat. “You misunderstand. It’s not the room. It’s you. You’re all wrong.” He pushed past her toward the door.

  She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong for a slender whore. “I’m sure I can be right. Give me a chance, my lord.” She rubbed her breasts against his sleeve.

  Jasper glanced down at her nearly exposed nipples. Images of Abigail, sweet and virtuous, rose in his mind. The memories were at total odds with the present scenario—a strumpet in a brothel. He threw off Tilly’s hold and made for the door.

  She followed him into the corridor. “My lord, you mustn’t leave.” Her tone took on a dark, desperate edge.

  Jasper reached into his waistcoat and extracted a few coins. He tossed them back to her. “Here, that should be more than generous for the scant few minutes I took of your time.”

  He stalked away from her and descended the stairs. The madam watched him as he crossed through the parlor, her eyes narrowing with concern. Jasper didn’t pause to speak with her.

  Outside, he withdrew his gloves from his coat pocket. He took a deep breath of sweltering night air and shoved the gloves right back into the pocket. Screw them.

  Eager to put tonight’s disappointment behind him, he took long strides toward the mouth of the L-shaped Coventry Court. His eye caught a couple near the corner of the court and the Haymarket. The man—a gigantic brute, really—towered over the woman. He wrapped his hand around her waist and drew her close against his chest. But she didn’t like it. She pushed at him and her hat went tumbling to the ground, revealing glossy auburn curls pinned atop her head.

  Jasper despised a bully, and as the son of the Duke of Holborn, he’d had a lot of experience with one. In several swift strides, he closed the gap between him and the woman being manhandled.

  “I said I’m not interested,” the woman said, trying, ineffectually, to extract herself from the man’s grasp.

  Jasper suppressed the need to smash the brute into the ground. He’d spent the past decade stifling his baser impulses, containing them to the appropriate time and place, but seeing that Abigail lookalike had his senses on overload. Still, he’d learned to master his control. He’d had to. Others got hurt when he didn’t. He curled his fingers into his palms. “She said no. Release her.”

  The brute swiveled his block-shaped head toward him. “And who the hell are you?”

  “Your better.” Jasper was glad he’d forsaken his gloves. He was ready for battle. Eager for it. “Release her now.”

  “Piss off.” With a dismissive nod, the brute returned his attention to the redhead.

  Unhindered rage poured through Jasper with the speed of a racing thoroughbred. Without censoring his actions, he reached out and wrapped his hand around the brute’s neck. “You’re not listening to me.” He squeezed his fingers into the man’s skin, felt tendons straining against his palm. “Let. Her. Go.”

  “My lord?” March, Jasper’s footman, who’d been stationed just outside the court, awaiting his employer’s pleasure, had silently approached.

  The brute’s eyes widened, and he abruptly released the woman. “I beg your pardon, my lord.” He bowed his head and looked at the ground, which was a bit difficult given Jasper’s grip on his neck.

  Jasper didn’t let go. “If you come near her again, I’ll know. And you’ll pay for it. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Aye,” the brute croaked.

  Jasper slowly pried his fingers from the man’s flesh, disappointed he hadn’t put up more of a fight. With a deep, calming inhalation, he stepped back and straightened his coat. The brute stepped around March and exited the court.

  “March,” Jasper said, inclining his head toward the Haymarket, where his coach was parked. He footman nodded and took himself off.

  Jasper turned to the woman. She stared up at him with wide-eyed shock. Captivating green-eyed shock. Or perhaps wonder.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Her voice quavered and she bent to retrieve her hat.

  Jasper beat her to it. He fingered the thick felt, thinking it would feel terribly heavy on a sultry night like this. Why was she wearing it? He looked at her face and simply stared. She was exquisite. The street lamp splashed across her fine-boned features, sculpting the patrician nose, full lips, and saucily dimpled chin. She wore a heavy cloak, which had to be stifling in this heat, but he could tell from the slender curve of her neck and the narrow bones of her delicate wrist that she possessed an alluring figure. She was what he’d been hoping for. What he needed tonight.

  “Your hat,” he offered. “Though I daresay you might not want to put it back on. It’s rather hot.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. I’m nearly home anyway. I only wear it to disguise myself. Not that it worked this evening.” Her hand shook as she accepted the hat from him.

  “You’ve had quite a scare. Let me see you home.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary, my lord.” She turned and walked into the court.

  He wasn’t going to let her go that quickly. He caught up to her in a few long strides. “Where do you live?” The court held a half-dozen ramshackle buildings, the nicest of which was the brothel. Was she one of their doves? If so, he’d take her upstairs in a trice. And maybe offer her a long-term arrangement. She was that beautiful.

  “Just there.” She pointed toward the brothel.

  This was too convenient. His night wasn’t ruined after all. “May I come upstairs with you?”

  She paused just before the brothel and shot him a horrified look. “No.”

  Ah, perhaps she was overset after her encounter. “Tomorrow night, perhaps.”

  “No.” She quickened her pace. Past the brothel.

  What the hell?

  Jasper kept up with her, determined to break through her cool exterior. “I thought you said you lived there?” He gestured back toward the brothel.

  She said nothing, and continued walking toward the end of the court.

  He snagged her elbow. “Stop, please.”

  She turned abruptly and glanced down at where his hand was wrapped around her arm. “Unhand me. You’re no better than that other man. Worse maybe, since you were so quick to choke him.” Her gaze was direct, but dark. He couldn’t tell if she was afraid. Christ, he didn’t want her to be afraid.

  Jasper froze. Images of fights at Eton and Oxford flashed in his brain. “I’m not a violent person.” Anymore. “And I’d certainly never attack a woman.” Ever. In fact, several of those rows had been in defense of
a woman. He let her go.

  She arched a brow and he wondered if she believed him. “That’s relieving. I live here.” She pointed to the shabby building they’d stopped in front of, a four-story hovel with missing shutters, crumbling brick, and a dilapidated roof.

  He couldn’t keep his lip from curling. She lived in this sty? “You can’t.”

  “I can and I do.” She lifted her chin, giving him a glimpse of a woman who deserved far better than her current station. Which was?

  He took in the pair of slatterns standing in front of the boarding house. They were of far lower quality than the women in the brothel next door. But it seemed the entire court was rife with prostitution. There was only one way to determine her occupation. “Why won’t you let me make an appointment with you? If not tonight or tomorrow, tell me when.”

  Now her lip curled. “I’m not available. Now, good night.”

  She turned just as a man emerged from the boarding house.

  “Miss West,” he greeted, stepping forward. His gaze lifted toward Jasper, but he quickly returned his attention to Miss West. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, Mr. Beatty, thank you. This gentleman,” she indicated Jasper with a wave of her hand, “rescued me from a rather forward bloke and insisted on seeing me home.”

  Mr. Beatty stepped around her and offered his hand in greeting. Jasper shook his hand, more than a little surprised—and impressed—at the man’s nerve.

  “Thank you for assisting Miss West. It’s a shame she has to walk home at this hour from the theatre. I’d offer my escort, but I’m afraid I’m rather busy with my daughter.” The lines around his eyes and mouth creased with worry, making him seem older than his probably thirty years. He turned to Miss West. “I’m sure I can find someone trustworthy to see you home while you’re filling in on the stage.”