Any Wicked Thing (24 page)

How could she still be shy with him after all that they had shared? He decided Freddie couldn't talk about fucking, but could perform like the most skillful whore at Mrs. Brown's Pantheon of Pleasure, the most notorious house in all of London. Fine. He'd prefer fucking to conversation any day.

She rolled as requested, spreading her legs for him. She was becoming intuitive. Shameless, too, as forward in her demands as he was, as long as she didn't have to say them aloud. But her body did the talking as she inched closer to him. He suckled a breast as he found the hard knot of her lust, and he brought her off with a series of short, quick strokes. Her keening nearly ruptured his eardrum.

“Some woman orgasm from anal stimulation. I hope you will eventually.”

She swallowed. “I was very close.”

God, but she was beautiful, damp and rumpled and breathless. He fingered the crease on her cheek. Could he persuade her to insert his anal toy into herself to play? Into him? He had never asked that of a woman, a niggling fear of rejection always within reach. But he had a few weeks to awake Freddie to his every desire. She'd come far in two days, but he could bring her further.

“It must be midnight by now,” she said, throwing cold reality on his fantasies. “I'm going back to my room.”

He didn't argue. He preferred to sleep alone, although when Freddie left, he placed his hand on the warm spot she had vacated and closed his eyes. The bedsheet was a poor substitute for the silken skin he craved.

H
er day. And Frederica didn't dare trust herself to see him. Poor Alice had balanced the breakfast tray all the way up to her room once she'd begged off getting up, claiming to be ill.

And she was, in a fashion. Ill from longing to throw herself on top of Sebastian until she didn't know where she stopped and he began. Ill from realizing she would let him do absolutely anything to her. With her. How many days had it taken for him to break her defenses down? A paltry few, and she was putty to any wicked proposal.

It was another unusually beautiful spring day so far, but Frederica was determined to stay abed. This meant no cleaning, no writing, certainly no naked sword fighting. No sex of any kind, wherever Sebastian's clever cock, tongue or fingers could fit. Last night had taught her the folly of thinking she was simply a detached observer in a sexual experiment. She had seen Sebastian's face afterward, knew that such methods would not be limited to a single incident.

And she did not want them to be.

She had not found the attention to be abhorrent. He had prepared her well and taken great care. She'd felt like a spun-sugar egg, cosseted in yards of satin and cotton batting. She'd belonged to him utterly, even if he was going to leave her without a backward glance.

She sat up against pillows and crunched into some toast spread with blackberry jam. Oh, she could not lie up here all day like a lump. It wasn't in her nature to let her duties slide because she wanted to cower under the covers and hide from Sebastian. There must be a thousand things to do. All of them would require getting out of bed.

Unless she sent for Sebastian.

Which she would not do.

She didn't have to. There was a knock at the door, and he opened it, not waiting for an invitation. Typical. He remained in the doorway, a picture of perfect sin, clean, brushed, his country clothes impeccable.

“Good morning, Freddie.
Miss Wells
today, but somehow I keep forgetting. I heard you were not well.”

She swallowed the bite of toast with difficulty. How like him to throw out her formal name now, when they had been so completely, ruinously informal for days. “Mm.”

“I was worried. I trust you are suffering no ill effects from last night?”

She felt the heat of her flush tingle across her cheeks. “No.”

His relief was unmistakable. “May I come in?”

No
. She hesitated. Could she suddenly develop some communicable disease that she could frighten him away with? Measles or mumps? She'd had both as a child, and as she recalled, he had given them to her on separate holidays from school. Chicken pox, too. She should have dreaded his rare returns home, but instead she'd lived for them. “If you must. I hope you don't catch what I have.”

He crossed the room. Instead of sitting on a chair, he plunked himself on the bed and held his hand to her forehead. “You have no fever. And you don't look sick. You look—luscious.”

“Don't be ridiculous!” she retorted, ridiculously flattered. She must look a mess. Her hair hung in a tangled ponytail—her hands had shaken too much last night to braid it.

“Are you going to eat that other piece of toast on the tray?”

Frederica realized she still had one sticky slice in her hand. “No. Go ahead.” It was unfair that he could pack away so much food and look so fit. Her every mouthful was visible on her hips and bottom. Just thinking about that area after last night brought a fresh blush to her cheeks.

Sebastian made quick work of the remains of her breakfast and licked his fingers. Odious man.

“I've come for today's instructions. Mrs. Holloway has already apologized to me in advance if you stick to your plan to have me peel vegetables. The old girl tells me she'll lie and say I did them.”

“She's a traitor! You've wormed your way into everyone's good graces in no time.”

“Except Warren's. And yours, of course. It's my natural charm. I cannot help it.”

Frederica itched to throw the butter knife at him. She stuck her tongue out at him instead. He must know how he affected her. His charm was every bit as potent with her as his legion of conquests.

“Tsk tsk. That pink tongue. Don't tempt me again in so provocative a manner. I may forget myself. So, what's it to be, mistress? I am yours to command.”

Go away. Stay and make love to me.
No, it was simply fucking. Love had nothing to do with it. “I—I have nothing for you to do, except keep out of my way. I'm going to get up.”

“Freddie, don't push yourself if you're unwell. We can manage somehow without you, vegetables and all.”

“I'm not sick, not really. I was just tired. Out of sorts.” And a coward. Sebastian was unavoidable—no matter how large the castle was, she could not escape him.

“Well, that's good news. May I help you get dressed?”

“Fat chance of that. Knowing you, you'd throw my clothes out the window.”

He grinned. “What an excellent idea. Imagine a life with no stays or stockings or petticoats.”

“I'd have to live somewhere considerably warmer than Yorkshire.”

“I recommend lodging on the Mediterranean Sea. Greece was lovely. But it's a fine day right here at the moment. Warren's old bones have not predicted anything different yet. Can I interest you in another walk?”

She snorted. Even if it was her day, she didn't trust him to stick to the rules. “I hardly think a walk is what you have in mind. I'd prefer to be alone today, thank you.”

“A man can hope.” He stood up, brushing crumbs from his inexpressibles. “If you don't require me for anything, I believe I'll ride out and explore the countryside. Visit in the village. Atlas needs a work-out, and so do I.”

“It's rather a far ride, and not much when you get there. If you blink, you'll pass it right by. And I should warn you, the pub was closed long ago. In fact, not a lot of it is still standing. Someone came for the bricks to build a new house.”

“I'll get Mrs. Holloway to pack me a lunch. You're
sure
I can't keep you company?”

“Perfectly.”

Sebastian stopped at the doorway. “Will you join me for dinner?”

Could she last the day without falling into his arms? There was only one way to find out. “No.”

“See you at midnight, then.” He had the audacity to blow her a kiss before he left.

Frederica tossed the covers aside and scrambled out of bed. She would lock herself in the library with the safety of her ink and pens, write until it was too dark to see and she was too tired to think. But she doubted she'd be successful in driving Sebastian from her mind.

T
he world was verdant and relentlessly rocky from Sebastian's seat on his gelding Atlas. If stones were a crop, he'd be a rich man. He kept to the well-worn track, too grassy to be called a proper road yet the only way to the nearest village without risking his horse's footing. The worst of the sinkholes seemed behind him, but Sebastian was alert to any danger. In the days of serfs there must have been considerable traffic to the castle, but in its present state, Goddard Castle discouraged visitors. The most recent traveler on it—leaving—had been Mrs. Carroll, and Sebastian wondered when the dunning letter would arrive from her.

Atlas had served him well on the journey north. Sebastian had taken his time for his animal's sake and his own, staying in cheap, out-of-the-way hostelries, reluctant to deal with Freddie. Now he was reluctant to leave. Freddie had been a picture this morning, all tousled curls and innocent white night rail. He knew what the curls felt like between his fingers and what the night rail concealed—Freddie's ripe, gold-dappled body, a body he had the privilege to explore and revere. Last night had been unbelievable, more gratifying than he could have ever dreamed.

But this morning, he had sickened her. She'd hidden away from him in her room, too afraid or disgusted to face him. So he had gone to her, to face the inevitable. He was now inclined to think she'd just been embarrassed that she had permitted herself to be used in such a way. Her reserve had returned, her tart tongue newly sharpened. He'd have his work cut out for him tonight, as she had adamantly dismissed him for the day.

Perhaps if he explained—

No. He'd have to face his past, share his soul with her. And that he could not do, not now, not ever.

A sad cluster of buildings appeared in the distance. A few short days ago, Sebastian had passed through, giving his surroundings very little attention. He'd been morose, focused on the four towers of Goddard Castle looming on the hill. Freddie had said the village was all but deserted, but he would introduce himself to his neighbors and see if he could induce some female to hire on as chambermaid. And if by some miracle there was a pretty hat to be found in a store, he would buy it for Freddie.

As he rode into the village, a small Norman chapel sat at the end of a narrow lane to his right, its windows shuttered with thick boards. Sebastian turned Atlas into the churchyard and dismounted, tethering him at the lych-gate. Many of the ancient headstones had broken and fallen flat on the unmowed grass, but the Archibald plot with its intact monument was prominent. Sebastian walked between the rows, reading the lichen-encrusted tablets. A little way from the centerpiece of the cemetery was his own father's marker, standing out like a debutante in the middle of bent, gray-haired dowagers. The grass here was trimmed, the simple marble stone clean, its writing clear. Someone had planted a clump of rosemary, probably Freddie. Her father had been interred a few yards away, with his own rosemary for remembrance.

The seventh Duke of Roxbury was buried far from the family seat in Dorset, far from his wife, far from generations of Goddards. Sebastian had neglected to ask Freddie about his father's funeral. She must have taken care of everything herself, no doubt following the duke's wishes. Sebastian had definitely been unavailable to attend.

Did Freddie visit regularly, or did she send one of the men from the castle to tend to their fathers' graves? She was loyal, more of a dutiful child to Phillip Goddard than he ever was. She worked to carry on his legacy, had made peace with the man who had once rudely said she was unsuitable to marry his son. Sebastian's father had come to rely on Freddie. In the letters that infrequently caught Sebastian in his travels, his father had urged him to come home and wed her after all.