A Wicked Kind of Husband

by Mia Vincy

  “As you wish,” he said. “Now I have work to do. Lots and lots of work.”

  When Joshua learned from Newell that Cassandra was staying in that night, he joined them at dinner for the first time. Isaac entertained them all with tales of re-learning to ride, Lucy entertained them with tales of shopping with the duchess, and Emily told tales of the theater. Cassandra said little, sitting at the other end of the table from him, with a gentle smile that slipped when their eyes met.

  After dinner, he went back to work, ignoring the look Cassandra gave him. But their music and laughter invaded his study, cheerfully disrupting his peace. That must be what it was like at Warwickshire. What was the place called?

  Sunne Park. Stupid name.

  Long after their noise had stopped, he went to his bedchamber and undressed. He pulled on his dressing gown, under the baleful glare of Cassandra’s cat. The cat had taken to sleeping in his bed, as he had taken to sleeping with Cassandra. And now he would do it again: Go through that door to where she awaited him, hold her, love her, forget himself in her, until his whole world narrowed down to her and the way they made each other feel.

  He did it because he wanted to be with her. She did it because she wanted children. And once she had what she wanted, she would leave.

  He tumbled onto the settee, not moving even when Cassandra rapped on the door and came in, wearing her stupid bed jacket with its ugly bow.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Just thinking.”

  “I do that. Staring at the fire, thinking. I’ve learned it does not help at all.”

  He grunted. She waited.

  “Shall I leave you?” she finally asked.

  “No.”

  By the time he thought to retract the word, she was already seated at his side.

  “Will you tell me what’s wrong?” she said. “You’ve been quiet all evening.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Are you coming to bed?”

  “I might…”

  He waved a hand at his own bed. Her smile faltered.

  “You’re tired of me?”

  “No. No. I just…”

  He just wanted to spite her, petty, selfish bastard that he was. No reason to be confused. It was all very simple: They were enjoying each other for now, and then they would go back to their normal lives. Him amid the noise and industry of Birmingham; her amid the noise and warmth of family.

  She tucked her feet up under her, pressed against him, and curled her fingers in his hair. He had become too used to her.

  “I forgot to thank you earlier,” she said. “For intervening with the duchess. Although she is unhappy about it.”

  “Treyford is unhappy with your intervention too. He still wants nothing to do with us. All your amiability cannot fix that. He will never change, and he thinks you are annoying.”

  “I don’t much care what Lord Treyford thinks, to be honest.”

  “Mrs. DeWitt! I am shocked!”

  She eyed him defiantly. “You were right and I was wrong. I am disgusted at the way he and Lady Treyford have not said a word in your defense. You are a hundred thousand times better than he is, and he can claim no credit for that at all.”

  He couldn’t help grinning. “I say, Mrs. DeWitt. I think you might be starting to like me.”

  “I still want to throttle you half the time.”

  “All part of my charm.”

  The noise she made—a little snort like one of the pigs she was so fond of—was adorable. He did not tell her this, and congratulated himself on his restraint. He also did not tell her how beautiful she was, or how he longed to bask in her joy, or how the world was lovelier with her in it.

  “The duchess will bring Lucy out at her ball,” she said, more quietly. “And if Lucy behaves herself, she can stay with her for the Season. That will be the problem of Lucy solved for now.”

  “And in a few more days, after I secure my alibis, the problem of Bolderwood will be solved too,” he said. “Then it will all be over.”

  “Yes. It will all be over.”

  He found nothing to say to that, so nothing was what he said. She shifted, spread her hand over his chest as though seeking comfort, and rested her head on his shoulder. Even like that, she enveloped him. Even more so when she leaned into him, slid her lips over his jaw and down his throat, and he knew it had been futile to think he could stay away.

  And why should he, anyway? Just this little touch made him ready for her. His cock was more than happy to service her, to give her all the seed she wanted. That should be enough. It was enough. He wanted nothing more from her anyway.

  He closed his eyes, let his head fall back, let his world narrow down to her explorative caresses, the press of her softness against him. Her very essence seemed to coil about him like a warm, fragrant mist. She parted his robe, letting in the evening air then chasing it away with her touch, as she feathered an exquisite trail downward until her hand bumped against his erection.

  “Won’t you tell me why you’re upset?” she whispered.

  “I’m not upset.”

  “My dear, sensitive husband.”

  “Sensitive?” Outrage had him opening his eyes, trying to ignore her teasing hand. “I am not sensitive. I am never sensitive. I am strong and tough and fierce and…Oh.” The wondrous woman curled her fingers firmly around his shaft. “And hard,” he finished on a rough breath.

  “Very hard. And very sensitive.” Her grip was both firm and gentle, her eyes watchful. “Do you like it when I do that?”

  “Now you’re teasing me.”

  She held on tight, stroked up his length, did it again.

  “Oh dear. Do you not like to be teased?” Her eyes glinted mischievously. “Shall I stop?”

  He laughed, all breathy and groaning, which made her laugh too. She shifted onto her knees beside him, never letting him go, and he turned his face to her as helplessly as a sunflower to the sun. She kissed him, slow and sensuous, tugging his lower lip between hers, flicking him with her tongue.

  “You should visit me at Sunne Park,” she whispered against his mouth.

  Through the fog of his desire, he thought: Yes, and then he thought, Why does she want me there?

  “What for?” he managed to say.

  “I’d like you to see it. It’s a beautiful old house, and the gardens are spectacular. It’s not even a day from Birmingham. You could bring some work. You can have Papa’s study. I’ll show you my secret arbor.”

  “I’ve seen your secret ’arbor,” he said. “I dock my boat there every night.”

  She squeezed him and he yelped, but grinned anyway. His whole body was grinning.

  “I could still throttle you,” she warned.

  “I’m almost looking forward to it.”

  But this—this was even better. He closed his eyes, soaking up the sensations, her hand stroking his cock, her mouth nipping at his jawline and sliding down his throat. Then down his chest, his ribcage working overtime as his body demanded more air, her tongue flicking over his nipples, her hair teasing him, her nose bumping him, her mouth gliding down, down, toward his belly.

  He fought with himself, and did not know if he had won or lost when he opened his eyes and caught her face in his hands.

  “Cassandra, love, you don’t have to. I was teasing.”

  Her playful smile stirred his blood to a new level of heat. “But I do owe you.”

  No, not as a debt. It had to be freely given or not at all. She only wanted babies; this did not make babies. He needed her to want it for herself. If she wanted it for herself, then she wouldn’t want to leave.

  “You told me you like it,” she said.

  She freed her head from his hand and returned her mouth to his skin, murmuring at him between kisses that he was helpless to stop.

  “You do it for me, and it feels good, and I want to make you feel good. And you won’t tell me why you’re upset, so I must find another way to make you feel better, because
when I’m upset, you make me feel better, and I like that we do that for each other.”

  Yes, yes, but…He could not bear for her to feel obliged.

  “Besides, I’m curious,” she added. “I want to try it and it has taken me this long to work up the courage. So frankly, it would be churlish of you to refuse me now.”

  She won. He surrendered.

  “I wouldn’t want to be churlish,” he said. “My wife is teaching me to be polite, you know.”

  “And my husband is teaching me to be wicked.”

  Threading his fingers in her hair, he watched through heavy-lidded eyes as she took him in her mouth. She experimented first, with nibbles and licks and kisses that would kill him. He heard his own breathing, ragged and shallow through his tight, tortured chest.

  “I don’t know…” She looked up at him. “Tell me what to do. If you don’t tell me, I won’t know.”

  Somehow, he managed to wrap her hand around the shaft and tell her how to take him, and soon she found what he liked. Oh, sweet mercy, that felt good. Because she was sensitive too, and she cared about getting it right, and that was her, wasn’t it? Seeing people, caring about them, and giving, always bloody giving, always wanting to right the world. He should stop her but he liked her taking care of him, and he was selfish enough to believe that she enjoyed it, because he enjoyed taking care of her, and she liked that they did that for each other and he liked it too, and he couldn’t think, he only knew that this felt splendid and she was his wife and he must not come in her mouth, but oh sweet mercy her mouth was wonderful, and she was wonderful and—

  She released him. Cold air hit his wet cock. He bit back a scream.

  Freeing his fingers from her hair, he fought for breath and patience. He opened his eyes to see her bathed in firelight and breathing raggedly too.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, all on a breath.

  “Yes. I’m…It’s quite…That is…Don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  She laughed and he cradled her cheek and marveled at her soft eyes and plump lips.

  “Say you’ll visit me at Sunne Park.”

  “You keep doing this to me, I’ll promise you the world.”

  “I didn’t ask for the world.”

  She lowered her head but it was no use. She had already defeated him.

  Ignoring her confused protests, he pulled her up and shoved up her annoying nightwear. Once she understood, she eagerly straddled him and guided him inside her, sinking down on him with a high-pitched moan that almost broke him.

  She buried her face in his neck and he gripped her buttocks, thrust his hips, wanting to savor her but needing to be deep inside her, deeper, deeper, desperate now, fearing that he could never be deep enough. He willed himself not to lose control, not yet, but then she put her lips to his ear and whispered, “I love the feel of you inside me,” and he did lose control, coming hard with a shudder that shook them both.

  Yet she had no shudder of her own.

  He wrapped his arms around her, their bodies breathing together. He felt marvelous and guilty.

  “You didn’t come,” he said.

  “So I win.”

  He laughed and breathed her in. “I am as weak as a kitten now, but when I get my strength back, I will carry you to that bed and pleasure you mercilessly, and then we’ll see who wins.”

  Chapter 21

  Of the seven alleged “trysts” with Lady Bolderwood, Joshua could recall his whereabouts for five. So he, Sir Gordon, and Isaac tramped across London, getting sworn, verified statements from the people he had been with at the time: A trio of scientists—A pair of bankers—Head of the girls’ orphanage—Head of the boys’ orphanage—Mrs. O’Dea.

  Hardly an odyssey, but this was London at its busiest, and by the third day, they were still only on the fourth call.

  “This will be the final nail in Bolderwood’s coffin,” Sir Gordon said as they approached the heavy doors of the boys’ home. Sir Gordon had been excellent throughout: another good suggestion from Cassandra.

  Sir Gordon lifted the door knocker and rapped sharply.

  “We’ve dismantled Bolderwood’s case so effectively that I expect the court will refuse even to hear it,” he said. “By next week, this will be over.”

  By next week, it would all be over. The court case. The Duchess of Sherbourne’s ball. Joshua’s stay in London. His relationship with Cassandra.

  Then life would go back to normal. It had been so thoroughly disrupted that Joshua hardly recalled what normal looked like. He’d done almost no work recently, but Das seemed to be managing everything in his stead and said the other secretaries were making decisions without him too. Perhaps he would visit Cassandra after all. Sunne Park was almost on the way to Birmingham. He could travel with her and Emily, stay there a few days, admire her roses, meet her pigs, and be on his way.

  The door swung open to reveal Mr. Clopstow, who ran the home, blinking earnestly in his black suit. Clopstow’s mouth fell open at the sight of Joshua, and he pulled his chin back into his neck.

  “I fear you did not receive our note, Mr. DeWitt,” said Clopstow. “This is not a good time to visit.”

  “Too bad if my visit is inconvenient,” Joshua said. “Get out the guestbook so Sir Gordon can verify my presence here on…whatever day it was. Sir Gordon has the details.” He looked past him, into the dark hallway. “Where is young Martin? I’d like a chat with him. I’ve not been at the warehouse for a week.”

  Clopstow blinked some more. “Sir, we intended to inform you of the details once it had passed.”

  A cold breeze slithered out of the hallway and under his coat. “Once what had passed?”

  “I’m sorry to say, sir, that Martin was one of the boys who died.”

  The chill spread over his shoulders, stiffening his neck, disrupting his pulse. “Died? What do you mean, died? I saw him a week ago. He was perfectly healthy. How do perfectly healthy little boys go about dying?”

  A hand landed on his shoulder. Isaac. He jerked away. He was not upset. He had a valid point. Of course, Clopstow could make a valid point too, which was that perfectly healthy little boys did go about dying on a daily basis. It was their chief design flaw.

  “There was an outbreak of fever, in the neighborhood,” Clopstow blathered on, wringing his hands. “And with all the boys here…”

  Martin. Bright-eyed Martin, with his red cowlick and clever mind. Martin, who observed seagulls to learn how they flew. Who studied Italian so he could read DaVinci. Who designed his own kite and cried tears of joy when Joshua took him to see a hot air balloon.

  Martin couldn’t be dead. He was going to invent a flying machine. Now who would invent a flying machine?

  “How many?” His voice sounded hoarse. Dust from the house, perhaps. So much dust. In their lungs, their little-boy lungs.

  “Six died, sir. The worst has passed, we believe.”

  Six little boys, just up and died, all unnoticed. What the blazes was the point of it all, anyway? At least Clopstow didn’t feed him all that claptrap that people fed him when Samuel died. Not that this was the same. Samuel was his son and these were orphans to whom he gave training and jobs. He wasn’t grieving for them, not personally, because he wasn’t attached to them, not personally, because only a fool would get attached to little boys who would just up and die.

  “What kind of bloody incompetence led to that?” He welcomed the anger, for it chased away his chill. “Thought you were competent and decent, Clopstow, but you’re a blinking muttonheaded nincompoop, to let half a dozen children die.”

  “Sir, we did what we could.”

  “Clearly not enough.”

  He spun and marched away from that blasted door, that blasted house. He glanced back to see Sir Gordon enter the home with Clopstow, while Isaac came after him and leaned on his cane while Joshua paced.

  It wasn’t easy to pace. April was doing a good impression of November today and his boots sank into
thick, cold mud. A band of ragged children raced by, calling good-natured gibes at each other as if they weren’t half-starved and half-frozen and halfway to being dead too.

  “It never gets easy, does it?” Isaac said quietly. “I was eleven when I lost my first friend in a battle, and the other one to illness a few months after that. I didn’t have a lot of friends.”

  “I don’t know what you’re blathering on about,” Joshua snapped. “And you should cut your hair.”

  “You got attached to the boy.”

  “Did you fall off a horse and get a blow to the head?” He had to stop. He needed someone to stop him. Cassandra would stop him. “I did not get attached,” he said, through clenched teeth.

  “Good. Because if you were attached, you might have been grieving and upset.”

  “I’m not grieving and I’m not upset. I’m angry because of their bleeding incompetence. They should have been able to prevent it. Why can we not bloody well prevent it?”

  He kicked the wall. Pain shot through his toe. Stupid wall. Stupid boots. Stupid boys who went around dying. Stupid him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  His jaw ached. His toe throbbed. His stomach churned. If only Cassandra were here. She would not stop the pain but she would make it easier to bear.

  Cassandra, who might be with child even now.

  He slumped against the wall, watched a peddler push his barrow through the mud.

  What the blazes had he been doing, bedding her? Night after night, he’d made love to her, carefully avoiding telling himself what that meant. And if he did think of it, he thought, it doesn’t always happen, or the damage is done, or it means nothing to me, I’m going back to Birmingham.

  What clever tricks he played on his own mind.

  And now his mind had its revenge and played tricks on him. It showed him a picture of Cassandra, with a swollen belly and beatific smile. Of Cassandra, glowing with love, a pink, squalling baby in her arms.

  Of Samuel. His little body cold and still and unnaturally white. For hours, Joshua had watched over him, his own body growing still and cold too, but never still or cold enough.