Just Wicked Enough (9 page)

His brow creased to the point it looked almost painful. “I can’t speak to your popularity, but you’re equally as attractive as she.”

She averted her gaze, not trying to be coy or flirtatious, but unable to stop herself from saying, “You’re simply being kind.”

“Have you failed to notice that being kind is not in my repertoire of usual behavior?”

She peered over at him. Why was he so insistent on not appearing kindly? Had he once been rebuffed? Was there less chance of disappointment if he kept the distance between them?

“Does your mother live at your country estate?” she asked.

“No.”

She forced herself not to growl at his succinctness. “Where does she live?”

“The edge of London.”

“You told my mother yours wasn’t in London.”

“She’s not
in
London. She’s at its edge.”

“That’s hardly a significant distinction.”

“Still, it is a distinction.”

“Should we have not visited her before we left?”

“She prefers her solitude.”

“Because of her illness?”

“Do you ride?” he asked quite suddenly, as though the inquiry had unexpectedly popped into his head. And she realized he didn’t wish to discuss his mother, that it was a painful topic. Not that she blamed him, nor would she push the subject. She could only imagine how difficult it would be to have an ailing parent.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“I have a gentle mare at the estate. Perhaps you’ll take a fancy to her.”

“How did you manage to keep your horses?”

“By placing myself in further debt. I sold off all except those I couldn’t bear to part with.”

“You’d not struck me as a man who would be sentimental toward animals.”

“Sentiment did not play into my decision. I kept the best of the lot. They provided the means by which to transport myself from one place to another.”

And yet, she knew he’d paid for extra care to be given to his horse last night. And she’d seen him patting and talking to it earlier. Why did he insist on portraying himself as so uncaring?

“Tell me about your estate,” she said.

“You’ll see it soon enough.”

“If you won’t discuss yourself, your estate, or the arts, what should we discuss? The dreary weather?”

“I’d rather discuss you.”

She should have known better than to feel a measure of pleasure and satisfaction at his choice of topics.

Because in the next instant, he gave her a devastatingly handsome and seductive smile and asked, “What’s your favorite color?”

She couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing. Perhaps she should simply tell him and be done with it. Apparently he wasn’t going to take interest in anything else until his curiosity was satisfied in that regard. And she couldn’t deny that it did please her that he was so thoroughly interested.

But in the end, she decided not to make things easy for him, because she was rather enjoying the pursuit, and she was beginning to suspect he was much more skilled at it than he let on.

“W
elcome to Raybourne.”

It was nearly dark when they finally arrived. Kate was grateful they’d had the opportunity to change clothes at the first tavern they spotted in the first village they encountered. She’d graciously allowed that Falconridge was more than welcome to ride his horse, but he’d chosen instead to journey in the coach with her. Whether he’d made his decision as a means to please her or himself no longer mattered. She’d used the time to acquaint him with her family and her youth. She knew she had a gift for telling a story, no doubt a natural extension of her spending a good deal of time reading. He’d actually seemed interested in her tales of Jenny and Jeremy’s mischief, or perhaps by concentrating on her words, he discovered he no longer felt a need to leap out of the coach. What a complicated man her husband was turning out to be.

“What is it with the British inclination to give their residences names?” she asked now, standing on the cobbled drive, wishing they’d arrived while adequate light remained instead of when the shadows gave an ominous gloom to the place. Torches had been lit along the drive and at the top of the steps, obviously held in place there with sconces, like some sort of medieval dwelling.

“We have too many residences. How else are we to keep them straight?”

She glanced at her husband. “I mean, do you even know who Raybourne was?”

“The builder.” He arched a brow. “And I believe the lover of the first marchioness. If legend is to be believed.”

Because he sounded as though he did believe it and, more, found it a romantic notion, she felt compelled to say, “I don’t condone married people taking lovers. I’ll warn you now that I’ll cut off more than your funds if you ever do.”

A heavy silence stretched between them.

“Are you threatening me with bodily injury?” he fairly purred, almost in a challenge.

“I’m simply stating my position on the practice of taking lovers.” She hated that even the thought of him with another woman caused such unexplained jealousy. She sighed. “Let’s not ruin what had turned into a rather pleasant afternoon by belaboring the point. Besides, I’m very anxious to see your home.”

“I’m not sure this monstrosity qualifies as a home. That word creates the image of something far quainter. It’s difficult to tell in the dimming light, but the gardens have been let go.”

“And here I was hoping they’d been designed on purpose to resemble a jungle.”

He chuckled. “Are you attempting to make the best of an unfortunate situation?”

“Surely, not everything has been let go.”

“Unfortunately, for the most part, yes. I had no need to keep up appearances here as no one visits me at this residence. The staff is too small to adequately see to it and most of the residence has been closed off as it’s never used. There seemed little point in suffering through the expense of keeping it maintained.”

“I suppose we’ll change all that now.”

“If it pleases you.” He extended his elbow. “Allow me the honor of introducing you to your new
home
.”

He escorted her up the stone steps. No footman stood at attention to open the door. As a matter of fact, the servants they had brought lingered by the coaches as though they’d been given orders to wait until the marquess ensured all was in order.

As he opened the door, Kate caught sight of flickering shadows beyond the huge archway. He led her inside where candles on exquisite chandeliers provided dim lighting for the entryway.

She knew it had been ten years since electric lights had begun being used in various buildings throughout London. She’d also heard of a lord who’d installed a private electric generating plant at his own country estate. It had been quite costly, and while she doubted her husband had ever been in a position to indulge in modern conveniences, she couldn’t deny that she was disappointed at the prospect of living by candlelight.

“Am I to assume you have neither electric nor gas lighting here?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, your assumption is correct.”

“Am I also correct in deducing that each sentence you utter from this moment on is going to begin with
unfortunately
?”

He grinned at her. Not his usual seductive grin, but a smile with which she was more comfortable. “Unfortunately.”

He held her gaze, and she realized that he belonged here, in what at first glance she could only describe as a palace. Huge, cavernous, and yet she could tell that it exhibited exquisite craftsmanship. The walls visible to her housed enormous paintings, some she recognized as being created by the hand of masters. Porcelain, gold, and silver figurines and statuettes lent their beauty to welcoming guests. Obviously, at one time, this family possessed wealth that rivaled that of her own. How difficult it must have been to have fallen from such great heights.

She heard light footsteps coming from a hallway and a man who looked as though he may have served the first marquess appeared.

“My lord.”

“Lady Falconridge, allow me to introduce Gresham. He’s been the estate’s butler for some years,” her husband said.

Since the turn of the century by the looks of him, Kate thought. Gresham bowed. “My lady, ’tis an honor to be at your ser vice.”

“Thank you, Gresham. I’m quite pleased to be here.”

“If it pleases you, I’ll assemble the staff for introductions and then see that dinner is made ready.”

Kate nodded. “It would please me very much.”

It didn’t take long to be introduced to the half dozen staff members. Afterward, Falconridge suggested taking Kate on a tour of the main rooms, while the newer servants were bringing in their luggage and preparing their bedchambers.

Falconridge escorted her into the great hall, an enormous room with paneled walls and elaborate molding along and over the ceiling.

“This room has changed little since fifteen eighty,” Falconridge said.

“The craftsmanship is exquisite.” Kate couldn’t help but be impressed, walking through the room, admiring the intricate detail. Someone had put a great deal of love into the workmanship. She looked over her shoulder at Falconridge. “Is this Raybourne’s work?”

“Indeed.”

“His care with the construction was his gift to the first marchioness,” she mused.

“His influence is difficult to overlook.”

“He must have known the marchioness very well to have been so confident that he could please her with his creation.”

“I suspect he knew her favorite color.”

Kate smiled. “I suspect he did.”

They dined in the small dining room, rather than the larger one or the state one, which was used when royalty visited. The smaller room was much more intimate, with a table that sat only six, and while Kate sat at one end and her husband at the other, they weren’t nearly as far apart here as they’d been in London.

Kate sliced into her baked chicken. “I assume these are portraits of your family.”

Falconridge lifted his goblet and took a sip of wine. “Above the fireplace is the first marchioness, painted shortly after she was married.”

Kate studied the fair-haired woman. “She wasn’t very old.”

“I would have to check in the family Bible, but I believe she’d just seen her fifteenth year.”

“She wasn’t far removed from being a child.”

“Over my shoulder is the first marquess, his portrait also done shortly after they were married.”

Kate stared at the picture, then looked at her husband, who seemed to be studying her, waiting for her reaction. “You mean the old man?”

Falconridge swirled the wine in his glass as though he were suddenly very pleased by something. “Fifty years her senior.”

“Oh, my Lord. Why would she marry someone so much older?”

“Two reasons. She wished to be a marchioness…and her mother wished her to be a marchioness. So you have something in common with her.”

Kate found herself empathizing with a girl she didn’t know.

“Raybourne was not so old,” Falconridge continued. “There are some in the family who believe my ancestor hired Raybourne specifically to provide entertainment for his young wife. The first marquess had his heir and his spare…and it is said he loved his wife and wished nothing more than for her to be happy. In that regard, he and I are much alike.”

“You don’t love me.”

“No, but I wish nothing more than for you to be happy. Following dinner, I shall share with you a room that will please you beyond measure.”

“Oh, my word,” Kate said softly.

Michael was pleased by her reaction. His mother had once been a voracious reader, much like Kate. This room had been her favorite, the place where the family gathered in the evenings when they were in residence. “The Red Library. Obviously it takes its name from the coloring on the walls.”

Laughing Kate looked over at him. “Not only do you give your residence a name, but you also name the rooms?”

He shrugged. “When there are so many, how else can you determine where to meet?”

“You could just say, ‘Meet me in the library.’”

“We have three libraries here.”

She faced him completely. “Three? Why didn’t you show them to me earlier?”

“The other two are farther back, closed up, and need a good bit of dusting I suspect. You’ll no doubt want to make them habitable as soon as possible.”

“How many books?”

“The total within all three libraries comes close to two thousand.”

“This is absolutely wonderful.” She glanced around. “But we must get proper lighting in this house.”

“Unfortunately, plumbing as well. Water is still carried upstairs.”

“It’s almost archaic, isn’t it?”

He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “Unfortunately.”

“I don’t really feel it’s unfortunate.”

“Don’t you?”

“No. I”—she lifted her shoulders as though suddenly uncomfortable with what she was about to say. She touched a figurine on a table, ran her finger along the back of a chair. “There’s so much that needs to be done that it gives me a purpose. Until I married you, the only purpose in my life was to be a good daughter. I mean, I noticed wall coverings and draperies that need to be replaced and I know I have the means to replace them, to make a difference.”

“Is that how you want to be remembered? For wall coverings and drapery selections?”

“I want to be remembered for making a difference. Making improvements to your residences is a start.”

Her voice had become clipped. Dammit. He’d somehow managed to hurt her feelings.

“And what of you? What do you want to be remembered for?” she asked tartly.

He slowly shook his head. “I just want to be remembered.”

C
hartreuse.

What the devil did that color look like? Michael sat before the fireplace in the sitting area of his bedchamber, studying the damned list that the seamstress had given him. He’d felt a tad guilty implying that he was considering purchasing a gown when his soul purpose in entering her shop had been to acquire a list of colors. The very last thing his wife needed was another gown.

It had begun raining again, and a chill permeated the air. Perfect weather for snuggling up against a warm body beneath a layer of blankets, although he wasn’t certain why he thought that. He’d never snuggled and certainly not beneath a suffocating layer of blankets. Yet, he couldn’t deny that the steady drumbeat of water slashing against the pane, the sporadic lightning, occasional thunder…it all begged for intimacy.

He just had to determine her favorite color. The hell of it was, there were so damned many. A good many of which he’d never heard of before. Lord, but she’d set him an impossible task. Her clothing was no indication as she’d not yet worn something the same color.

Perhaps her favorite color was something mundane, like brown. No, he couldn’t envision that. Not a woman who smelled as enticing as she did. Even now, hours after arriving at his ancestral home, her sweet scent surrounded him.

Her nearness had made the journey in the coach bearable. She was well-read, intelligent, interesting. He’d never considered that a woman was useful for much more than overseeing the household, serving as a decoration for one’s arm, and providing a willing body upon which a man could sate his lust. But Kate was more than that. As her discussion with Giddens had demonstrated, she had a keen understanding of figures. Michael could envision her managing a bank, informing investors, holding her own during any disagreements. She was unlike any woman he’d encountered before. She had a backbone of steel, and yet, she possessed an inner softness.

Throughout the day and evening, it had flickered toward him, every now and then. A gentle smile, a kind word, a dream revealed. Then she’d rein it all back in as though he were undeserving. He’d not yet earned the trust for sharing intimacies. For revealing everything about her that had begun to intrigue him.

Not that he could blame her. He’d hardly shared anything with her.

They were strangers, and until recently, he’d thought it would be enough for him. Certainly, he’d never carried on a conversation with his mistress. Her sole purpose had been to provide him with pleasure.

Yet he couldn’t deny that riding in the coach with Kate had been…dare he acknowledge it?

Pleasurable.

In a way he’d never before experienced.

She was a mystery, and he found himself wanting to unlock the puzzle of Kate.

He flicked the corner of the paper. Perhaps he should simply write each color on a scrap of paper, put them all in his hat, and draw them out one at a time. He’d no doubt have as much of a chance discerning her favorite color by doing that as he was by studying the list. Whatever color chartreuse was, it sounded Kate-ish.

Not simple. Not easily deciphered. A mystery. Yes, that was the color he’d spring on her tonight. If nothing else, he’d be giving notice he’d deduced that the plain colors—red, blue, green, yellow—would hold no fascination for her. Perhaps that would be enough to win her over.

He could always hope. Then he could put this courtship business aside and concentrate on persuading her that their plans for the future should include a good deal more than wall coverings and draperies. He could reveal his plans, his hopes without fear that she’d immediately seek an annulment.

But first things first. Cementing their arrangement.

He set the paper on the table beside the sofa and stood. He tightened the sash on his dressing gown, combed his fingers through his hair. Why did he feel as though he were on the brink of battle? Because she had defined their relationship as one of opponents. He wanted what she would not grant willingly without concessions.

So be it.

Chartreuse.

He rapped on the door separating their bedchambers. When he heard nothing, he opened the door, peered inside. The bed had been turned down. Inviting. Incredibly inviting. He walked farther into the room, expecting to see her sitting on the chaise longue she’d had the servants move into the room earlier. But its only occupant was her book.

He wasn’t a man who normally worried over things, and yet, he knew it was easy enough for someone to become lost in this monstrous house. It had happened to his mother often enough. And Kate was not yet familiar with the maze of corridors.

As he turned, he caught sight of the door to the bathing room. It stood ajar. But surely it was too late for a bath. Yet he could see light flickering from within the room.

Yes, she was probably in there. Preparing for bed. He should stand here and wait. Or perhaps leave.

Instead he found himself walking toward temptation. He had the right. She was his wife.

But as he gazed into the room, as he watched his wife, with the flames of several candles creating wavering light, he couldn’t help but think it might have been better not to know exactly what she was denying him.

She’d piled her hair on top of her head. Not in some sort of stylish coiffure. But in a manner that more closely resembled the untidiness of a bird’s nest, and yet it was so incredibly enticing. Damp, springy tendrils fell along her neck, around her face.

Not that he was looking directly at her face. Her back was to him, as she stood in the copper hip tub. And what a lovely back it was. Her backside was well-rounded, and it was all he could do not to groan as she bent over and soaked a cloth in the water circling her calves. Straightening, she dropped her head back, lifted her arms, and created a waterfall that rained down over her sleek body. His gaze shifted to the mirror and he watched as the droplets rolled along her curves, slid into her valleys, only to tumble back down into the water. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, as though she were in ecstasy, and he wondered if she were imagining a lover’s hands caressing her glistening skin where the drops continued to fall.

She opened her eyes. They widened slightly, no doubt at his reflection now clearly visible in the mirror, and he wondered when he’d moved farther into the room.

He knew women who might have screamed at the unexpected appearance of a man in the mirror before them, who might have scrambled to cover themselves. But she did little more than meet his gaze, her hands clutching the wet cloth between her breasts, pushing them up, reshaping them as he longed to. It was obvious her breath had quickened.

She was magnificent standing there, defying him, challenging him. Proud in her stance. Un-afraid.

Everything within him tightened to the point of pain. Everything within him yearned to reach out, to touch her, to take her within his arms.

He didn’t know if he’d ever wanted any woman as much as he wanted her at that precise moment. He didn’t want to be the first to look away, but if he didn’t, he would take her. There, in the bathing chamber. Tonight. That very moment.

He spun on his heel and stormed from the room, before he did something that would cause him to lose all he’d given up his pride to obtain.

Kate sank into the tub, trembling uncontrollably. She’d never in her life been witness to such…hunger. It had thrilled, excited, and terrified her all at once.

She’d fully expected him to charge across the room, take her in his arms, and ravish her unmercifully. The most frightening aspect of all was that she doubted she would have protested.

Dear Lord, to think he could stir her desires with only a heated look. No, it was more than a look. It was as though he’d captured her, as though he’d held her hostage. She’d been able to do little more than remain standing and allow him to have his fill of her.

She buried her face in her hands, but it did no good. She could still see Falconridge’s gaze traveling the length of her body. Oh, how she’d almost turned to face him. How she’d almost dared him to look, dared him to touch. But he’d appeared to be a man standing on the precipice of desire.

That he’d walked away astounded her. Not only because he’d turned aside his yearning for her, but because she was fairly wishing that he hadn’t. What would it be like to be touched by a man who gazed at her with such intensity, who looked at her as though he would die if he didn’t possess her?

Even Wesley had never looked at her like that.

Would the passion generated between her and Falconridge be enough to make her no longer desire love?

With a shaking hand, she reached for the towel, stood, and began to dry herself. When had her skin become so sensitive to touch? How could his gaze alone cause her to reach such awareness? She thought she might ignite into flames.

When she was dry, she slipped her nightgown over her head. Her toes curled against the floor with the sensation of the cloth whispering along her flesh. She felt a tightness coil between her thighs. She needed release, but possessed too much pride to ask it of her husband—a man she’d denied for want of something greater than passion.

And now she was suffering because of it.

She peered into the bedroom, grateful, as well as disappointed, to discover her husband wasn’t about. She darted a quick glance at the bed, imagined him there—

Shook her head. No, she wouldn’t think of what might happen between them at some point.

She sat on the sofa, pressed herself into the corner, brought her legs up, and hugged them tightly. She’d decided to prepare her own bath, dismissing Chloe earlier, because her maid had worked so hard unpacking all of her trunks, putting away her things. Preparing herself for bed had seemed a small enough matter after the tall footmen Jenny had encouraged her to hire had carried up the heated water.

She’d certainly not expected Falconridge to walk in on her. And now her mind was filled with all sorts of carnal images.

How was it that she could even contemplate allowing into her bed a man she didn’t love?

But considering it, she was.

Urging Obsidian on, Michael rode at a reckless pace across the rolling hills. A madman. With his cloak billowing out behind him and the rain slashing at his face and shoulders. He’d not bothered with a hat. He’d barely bothered with his clothes. Trousers, boots, a shirt more unbuttoned than buttoned, and a cloak.

He’d needed to distance himself from his luscious wife. He wanted to bury himself deeply within her. He wanted to become lost to passion, his troubles set upon a distant shore. He wanted to be free of the burdens that plagued him.

Damnation, but he should have insisted on Jenny. He should have stood his ground, instead of settling for a woman who could do little more than satisfy his financial needs.

Bringing Obsidian to a halt at the crest of a hill, Michael dismounted and with the wind buffeting him, he stared out at his land, his legacy, barely visible in the moonlight.

She wanted love, damn her.

And yet she’d stood there, enticing him with her curves, with her dips, and hollows. Growling, he dropped his head back and welcomed the rain pounding at him. Felt the drops gliding over his flesh, imagined them gliding over hers.

She tormented him with what he could not possess. He was a fool to think flowers, chocolates, and citing her favorite color would earn him a place in her bed. He should simply insist, demand his husbandly rights…

But dear God, the thought of her willingly turning to him, holding out her hand, beckoning him…wanting him as much as he desired her…

And he’d begun to desire her as much as he desired the money that came with her, money for which he had to beg her favor.

He lowered his head. He wanted her body, he wanted her money. She wanted his love. Their relationship was unbalanced. She’d been dictating the terms. He’d been trying to please her. Perhaps it was time he began playing by his rules. He didn’t have to earn her love.

He simply needed to entice her with something she desired more.

Kate tossed and turned for what had seemed hours. She told herself it was the thunderous storm crashing outside, but the truth was, she feared it was the storm raging inside her body as it sought surcease. It had been so very long since she’d felt these stirrings—if she’d ever truly felt them this intensely.

The first time Wesley had kissed her, her body had grown as warm as an oven baking bread. But she’d never felt that heat from something as distant as a…look. She was tempted to invite Falconridge into her bed, to risk his anger when he discovered the truth—

She threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed. She wouldn’t compromise her integrity or her belief that a woman should only welcome into her body a man whom she loved or at the very least a man who loved her. She wouldn’t let her flesh have control over her heart.

She snatched up her wrapper from where she’d left it earlier at the foot of the bed and drew it around herself. There was plenty to occupy her within this household, to keep her mind from wandering down dangerous paths. Nothing dictated she only look over matters during the daylight hours. In truth, looking over the books in the middle of the night would ensure she had no disruptions.

In her youth, she’d fallen asleep many a night while sitting on her father’s lap, watching in fascination as he manipulated numbers and figures until he made sense of them. For her, dealing with numbers served as effectively as any bedtime story or glass of warm milk. They forced her to concentrate as nothing else did. She could become lost in them, until eventually dealing with them would wear her down and she’d sleep the slumber of the dead.

Based on the manner in which the residence had been kept, she could only deduce that the books would be equally in shambles and need to be set right. Since sleep eluded her, she might as well get started on them.

Taking the lamp, she stepped into the dark hallway. She cast a quick glance at the door which led into her husband’s chambers. No light spilled forth from beneath it. Damn him for finding sleep so easily. Damn him for disturbing her so easily. Damn him for…