Not Wicked Enough (34 page)

“Best stir the ashes,” Lily said. “To be sure no one can reconstruct the note.”

“It’s gone up in smoke.” He looked over his shoulder at her. She remained standing in the middle of the room. “No one will be reading it, I promise you.”

“I can see most of the shape of the paper.”

“And?”

“I once read a novel in which a spy was uncovered in just such a manner. The clever heroine was able to read the words etched into the ashes of the page.”

“Balderdash.”

“Upon such convictions are nations brought down.” In a softer voice, she added, “And reputations destroyed.”

She was right. And it would be her reputation that was shredded. There was no reason for the risk, far-fetched as it might be. He sighed and stirred the embers with his finger until all that was left was curling bits of blackened motes. He splashed some brandy on his fingers and wiped off the ashy residue with his handkerchief. Turning, he said, “Do you think we’re safe now?”

“Not at all,” she said.

Carrying the glass with his sheath, he returned to her and set it on the floor by the chaise. He put his hands on her shoulders and brushed his thumbs over her exposed skin. “You’re right, Lily. Neither one of us is safe now.”

She smiled. “Not in the least.”

Taking her hand in his, he sat on the chaise where he drew her between his open thighs. He reached for the buttons along the side of her glove. One tiny pearl after another, he unfastened her glove enough for him to pull it off. He did the same with the other and draped them both over the top of the chaise.

“Thank you,” she said. “The better to touch you.”

He slid his hands underneath her skirts. His hands glided up her legs until he was touching the bare skin of her thighs. “The better to touch you. Like this.”

She gazed down at him. “It’s not wise.”

“We’ve established that.” He cupped the back of her thighs and pulled her forward. She was careful to lift her
skirt, and he took care not to crush her frock more than necessary. She straddled him, knees on either side of him, and gasped softly when his fingers pressed between her legs. Soft skin, the folds of her already slick with want. Of him. He unbuttoned one side of his breeches and opened the fall to free himself.

Lily dropped her hands to his shoulders and watched him retrieve the sheath. Her skirts hid his hands sliding the lambskin over his cock and fastening the ribbon, but she knew what he was doing.

“Ready?” he whispered.

Her dark eyes stayed on his face while he adjusted them both. He brought her down on him, hands cupping her hips while he pushed up. Her body surrounded him, and as he closed his eyes and gave in to the exquisite sensation of being inside her and surrounded by the soft slickness of her, she whispered, “You feel good. So good.”

When he was seated in her, pressing her down on him, he opened his eyes and said, “Say my name.”

“Your grace.”

He brought his hips toward hers and angled himself so the side of his cock, the sensitive head of him, rubbed harder against her passage. He pulled her forward sharply and thrust hard into her. “That isn’t my name.”

“Mountjoy.” Her lips parted, and he disengaged his hands from her skirts and wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck. He kissed her. Hard and deep, tongue sweeping into her mouth. He moved his other hand to her belly, as far as he could reach before the bottom of her corset barred the way. He angled his fingers so he could stroke her. He knew where to touch a woman to bring her to pleasure, and he did so for her.

Lily’s fingers dug into his shoulders, and he drew back from their kiss to watch her while he brought her closer to the edge. Closer. Until she shattered, and then he lay back, angled on the chaise, drinking in the heat in her eyes, the sensual curve of her mouth.

“Like that,” he said. “God, yes. More.”

She moved on him, rode him, sent him out of his mind with delight, and the same happened to her. When she came, she did so without reservation, and he adored the way she gave herself over to her pleasure. Her reaction made him feel potent, a lover worth keeping.

“Beautiful,” he whispered as she used his body.

Her eyes opened slowly, a satisfied smile curving her mouth. “And you?” she asked.

“I’m close. Very close.”

“What do you need?”

He sat up and rearranged them so that her back was to his front, her gown safely tucked up, with his arms under her shoulders, her legs spread over his thighs, and he pushed into her again. Thrust. Pulled back, thrust again, and she understood the motion he needed. His felt his reaction spiraling tight, out of reach yet closer with every thrust, with every clench of her body around his cock.

“I’m going to spend inside you,” he said.

When he came, his peak hit hard, spun him out of his mind, out of his control. The only thought on his mind was more. More of this. Let him be thrown out of his mind. Inside his chest emotion quivered. He damn near let go of her because he was completely lost to his reaction to her. Releasing inside her.

Once he had his breath back, when he was back inside his body, and they’d separated, he said, “Don’t leave, Lily.”

Saying her name cracked his heart in half.

She did not answer.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Not so soon. Not yet.”

“I have to go back outside before much longer.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

She pushed up on one elbow and peered into his face. “What do you mean?”

“Stay here.” He curled a strand of her hair around his finger. “At Bitterward. At least a little longer.”

She looked away.

“Why not?” he asked.

“My father needs me. I can’t gallivant around the country for weeks and weeks. He gets lonely, you know, and he hasn’t any friends. When he came to live with me, he gave up all that. No one should be lonely when they’re old and frail. What sort of daughter would I be if I left him alone like that?”

“If he’d raised you with half the thought you give him now, you’d have had a happy childhood. He’d be the sort of man who could make new friends.”

“I’ll be here another fortnight. That’s a long time yet for me to impose on your good graces.”

“You’re no imposition.”

She leaned down and kissed the tip of his nose. “And when I do leave you’ll think just the same. That I was a delightful guest. You’ll have fond memories of me.”

“More. You know that.”

“Yes,” she said without smiling this time. “Yes.”

What would he do if, after he’d tried everything he knew, she left him anyway?

A
T
B
ITTERWARD’S FIRST BALL
, M
OUNTJOY WORE ONE
of the new suits that had arrived at the house just the day before. He felt foolish even though he knew he looked, in some indefinable way, more like a duke than he ever had before. Everyone was staring. In the last two hours, he’d had more compliments about his appearance than he’d had in the last ten years. He accepted each surprised remark with a nod but could not help thinking he remained the same man he’d been every day before this.

The fit was as comfortable as both Elliot and Lily had promised, but his cravat had a deal more starch than he was used to. His shirt was of so fine a linen that even he, with his dislike of any change and his aversion to even a tacit admission that he had been a stubborn ass, had to admit he liked the way his coat slid on and left him with no urge to pull or tug at the parts that bunched up. Now and again, he caught sight of himself in a mirror or a fortuitously reflective surface, and he scarcely recognized himself. He looked a
dandy, but without the fussiness he associated with those overdressed fools.

This was a night in which he learned he’d been wrongheaded about more than his clothes. Obviously, Mountjoy had completely underestimated the importance of social entertaining. In London he rarely went to events that weren’t political or for some purpose of business, his or the government’s. He had not been to a ball these five years at least and had yet to as much as hint that a voucher for Almack’s would be put to use. He did not care to be turned down by the Almack’s patronesses—he wouldn’t be the first duke to suffer that humiliation—any more than he would actually care to attend such an affair.

He ought to have begun formal entertainments here years ago. He really should have.

Here he was. A duke from the skin out, in a house full to the rafters with what looked to him to be the entirety of High Tearing and half of Sheffield. There was a steady procession of people through the room where samples from the treasure Lily had uncovered were on display. The pieces, though they appeared to be metal parts and fittings torn or removed from centuries-vanished armor and other equipage, were nevertheless beautifully worked. With the dirt removed and what repairs the local goldsmith felt competent to make, the displayed collection took one’s breath.

An hour of talking to his neighbors had cemented better relations with them than all his years of appearing at the Sessions or at any of the official or ad hoc governance meetings that had taken place over the years. A good many of the men were genuinely interested in his opinions of the management of an estate, its tenants, lands, livestock and crops, and other holdings. The men’s wives knew a great deal of their husbands’ interests. More than one extended a verbal invitation for a social meeting that even he, at last, understood was at least as much a business opportunity as it was luncheon or supper or tea.

Presently, he was standing at the edge of the ballroom watching the dancers in the last set before the orchestra took an intermission and his guests could sit down for an informal meal. Nigel was not yet back from London, which had caused much consternation and upset with Eugenia. The Kirk girls were here, but for Jane, which was odd. Somewhere, though not within immediate sight, was Lord Fenris, who had not been invited but who had come nevertheless.

Eugenia was dancing with the mayor of High Tearing. She was lovely in pale blue silk, happy and smiling as she had not been for far too long. Miss Caroline Kirk was dancing with Dr. Longfield. He did not see Lily anywhere. He scanned the room, expecting to find her easily and feel that rush of his pulse that happened whenever he laid eyes on her.

Her ball gown was the color of the champagne coming from his wine cellar in such copious amounts, and he did not see that so distinctive hue anywhere in the room. He stayed until the set ended, watching his guests enjoying themselves while he looked for Lily. She’d danced several times tonight, but he hadn’t asked her yet. He wanted to waltz with her.

People applauded the orchestra when the members put down their instruments, and soon after couples and groups formed for the meal that would be served during the intermission. They were enjoying themselves, he thought. Young and old alike, and he had Lily and Eugenia to thank for that.

He headed for the terrace by way of his office where he kept his cigars. His office was at the end of this corridor and ought to be closed, as that was not a room intended to be open to his guests. The door was ajar, however, though there was no light inside other than the moonlight through the windows. Mountjoy walked in, reaching as he did, for the flint by the door. He did not light the lamp because the room was occupied.

“Is that you, Wellstone?”

“Your grace,” she said. She was on the sofa by the fireplace. Her soft greeting was forlorn. So very unlike her on
a night that was her triumph. Success in everything, the ball, the house, Eugenia smiling and in colors, and him looking like a man born to his title.

He pushed the office door closed and crossed to her. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t believe I am.”

“Tell me what’s the matter.” Anything. He’d do anything to keep her from being unhappy.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned her head away from him.

“Are you crying?” He sat beside her and took her hand in his. With her other hand, she swiped at her face.