Just Wicked Enough (16 page)

“I’ve never been here before.”

“Why today?”

“If you must know, I sought to purchase you a gift; however, I know nothing about your reading preferences and, therefore, it was a futile effort. And it wouldn’t really be my purchase would it since you’d be the one paying the charges?” He was weary of discussing his stupid attempt to be the type of husband she wanted. “How are you feeling this afternoon?”

She nodded, looked away. “Quite well.”

“What are your plans?”

“I haven’t any really. I just…”

“Would you care to join me in the carriage? Perhaps take a ride through the park?”

She held up the book, smiled. “After I make a purchase.”

While Kate made her purchase, Falconridge went out to inform her driver she’d have no further need of the coach. She didn’t know why she was anticipating sharing a carriage ride with him. Perhaps because he’d seemed charmingly disconcerted by her presence, disgruntled by the fact she’d ruined what obviously he’d planned to be a surprise. Or perhaps it was that seeing him again wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as she’d expected it to be, was actually quite thrilling.

She could tell by the way his gaze heated whenever he looked at her that he was thinking about what had transpired between them last night. She wondered if she was as easy to read.

“Here you are, my lady,” the clerk behind the counter said, handing her the book wrapped in brown paper for safekeeping. “I hope you’ll enjoy the story.”

“I know I shall. I’ve already read it.”

She walked out of the shop, to find her husband waiting by the carriage. He assisted her onto the seat, and she very deliberately scooted all the way across. He stayed as he was, studying her.

“I don’t think I could be any more clearer if I sent you a gilded invitation,” she finally snapped.

Grinning, he gave a slight nod. “I suppose not.”

The carriage rocked as he climbed in and took his place beside her. She could smell his sharp, citruslike fragrance, remembered the scent of it heated with passion.

“Take us home through the parks,” Falconridge instructed the driver. “Leisurely.”

They journeyed in silence for several minutes, before she finally said, “I’m not overly fond of the English tradition of calling aristocratic men by their titles. Falconridge sounds so harsh. I barely remember the ceremony.” She shifted her gaze to him. “I seem to recall your name was Michael.”

He nodded slowly.

“I believe I shall call you Michael, then.”

“If it pleases you.”

“It does.”

“Did I please you last night?”

She gasped. “A gentleman wouldn’t ask such a thing.” She expected him to say a lady wouldn’t scream out in ecstasy.

“No, he wouldn’t,” he said quietly. “I’d not expected you to welcome my company today. It’s a pleasant surprise that you have.”

“I suppose you intend to continue with what you began last night.”

“Indeed.”

She arched a brow. “What? You’re not going to say your usual, if it pleases you?”

“I think it did please you. More importantly, you pleased me.” He trailed his gloved finger along her cheek, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been married?”

“I know gentlemen prefer their women pure.”

“I’ve never fancied virgins.”

She could hardly countenance they were discussing such intimate details in broad daylight.

“You can’t deny you were angry.”

“Would it not bother you to discover I’d been married?”

She shifted slightly in the seat to better see his face. “Were you?”

“No.”

“Was there ever a woman you wished to marry, other than me, I mean?”

“No.”

“You’re not comfortable with the direction of our conversation.”

“No. I do not see the need to meddle in our pasts.”

“You seemed quite willing to meddle in mine last night.”

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“I didn’t have to answer any questions.”

His eyes held a gleam that drew her, just as they had when they’d traveled from London to his estate. She found herself chuckling as their driver turned into the park. And more than ready to shift the conversation to something a little less likely to cause either of them to feel uncomfortable.

“The flowers in English gardens are always so lovely,” she said.

“I suppose you have a favorite, and I shall have to guess it in order to prove—”

“Forget-me-nots.” She looked down at the book in her lap, wondering why it was so difficult for them to get to know each other. “I like forget-me-nots.”

“Is that because blue is your favorite color?”

She peered over at him coyly. “There are other blue flowers. Besides, I thought you guessed blue already.”

He grinned. “I suspect I did. If it’s not your favorite color, then why that particular flower?”

“I think because of what it symbolizes. That one is always remembered.”

He looked away, but she thought she caught a glimpse of sadness in his eyes before he did.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “There is no joy in being forgotten.”

“I can’t imagine anyone forgetting you.”

He shifted his attention back to her. “I shall do all in my power to see that you don’t forget me.”

She watched as the heat in his eyes intensified until she was the one who turned away. She thought forgetting him would be an impossibility.

She straightened at the sight of a gentleman astride a horse. “Is that Pemburton?”

“I believe so. Why?”

“Jenny told me she couldn’t accompany me because she was going to the park with him. How strange.”

“Perhaps she meant someone else, or perhaps their outing will be later.”

“Perhaps.”

Although she had a rather bad feeling about things.

Oh, Jenny, please don’t do anything silly.

“Are you all right?” Falconridge asked.

She nodded, smiled. “I’m fine.”

She could only hope the same remained true of her sister.

Kate didn’t want to be fascinated by her husband, and yet she couldn’t deny that she was. They’d not spoken a great deal as they journeyed through various parks, but he’d spoken a little about his schooling, she’d told him of hers. She’d even confessed how much she’d envied Jeremy because he’d had the opportunity to attend a university.

“Why would a man have need of an educated wife?” Michael had dared to ask her.

She’d given him an earful there. Perhaps she’d show him. She’d join a suffrage organization. Surely her newly acquired title carried some weight behind it, and with her financial status secured, she could very well make a difference.

But as she stood in her bedchamber, gazing out the window, women’s rights were the last thing on her mind.

Their pleasant afternoon had led to a pleasant enough dinner. An hour of quiet reading afterward, and then they’d retired to their respective bedchambers, he with the promise of coming to say good night.

He’d then proceeded to ruin a perfectly lovely evening by glancing over his shoulder at her with a knowing grin and saying, “I suppose a more accurate statement would be that I’ll be in to
show
you good night.”

Now her stomach was all aflutter. She moved to the bed, then crossed back to the window. She didn’t want him to think she was anticipating his visit.

But dear Lord, help her. She was. Her nipples puckered with the mere thought of him walking into her bedchamber. She strolled to the chaise, sat, got up, and walked back to the window. How was it that it took him longer to prepare for bed than it did her?

Tonight she’d not bothered to braid her hair. She’d very nearly dispensed with buttoning her gown.

She walked back to the bed, fluffed a pillow, and froze when the door finally opened. She considered dashing back to the window, but instead she lifted her chin and met his gaze as he strode into the room, wearing the now ever-so-familiar dressing gown.

He fairly prowled around the corner of the bed, like some great cat. She faced him as he got nearer, crowding her as he reached past her—

“You don’t have to extinguish the light,” she said, surprised by the breathlessness of her voice.

He gave her a questioning look. She angled her chin defiantly. “I can close my eyes.”

He seemed to ponder her strange prelude to their lovemaking, but she refused to acknowledge she wanted the light, wanted an opportunity to see him, even if it was through eyes that gave the appearance of being closed. She wanted to see all she’d touched last night.

She made a move to climb into bed, but he gently took her arm.

“Not yet.”

She watched as his gaze moved slowly from her eyes to her mouth and lingered there. Licking her lips, she was acutely aware of his eyes darkening, his nostrils flaring. He was going to kiss her. She was certain of it. When he lowered his head, she closed her eyes, angled her chin up so their mouths could meet—

Only he kissed the underside of her jaw, provocatively, his tongue teasing as much as his lips. She felt the sensations stretch all the way down to her toes. He blazed a trail all along her throat. No hurry, no rush, as though they had all night.

She didn’t remember reaching out, but suddenly she felt silk beneath her fingers and she didn’t want silk. She wanted the velvety smoothness of flesh. She slipped her hands beneath the opening, felt the heat of his skin. His groans and moans were the most beautiful symphony she’d ever heard. How was she to have guessed that she could play him as easily as she could a piano?

She peered through lowered lashes and watched the intensity with which he studied her as he worked loose the buttons on her gown. Appreciation lit his eyes, even as they smoldered. Against her palms, grazing over his throat, she felt him swallow.

She’d never known this much power before. The way he looked at her made her feel beyond beautiful. Made her feel that even if she were a pauper, still would he appreciate the gift he was skillfully unwrapping.

The gown slid to the floor, pooled at her feet. He raised his eyes to her, and she quickly shut hers more tightly. What did hers reveal to him?

She stepped out of her gown, moved to the bed, and again he took her arm and said in a voice hoarse with desire, “Not yet.”

Not yet? Did he not realize that she could barely stand? That she was in danger of becoming a pool at his feet in the same manner that her nightgown had? She thought she should feel self-conscious standing before him completely nude, but his gaze held nothing lascivious. Rather he looked as though he were appreciating a fine work of art.

Then his eyes met hers and she realized hers were as wide open as his. Her hands had moved lower until they were at his waist, butting up against the sash that held his dressing gown in place.

Holding her gaze, he slid his hand beneath hers and easily loosened the sash. With a sleek roll of his shoulders, he dispensed with the dressing gown entirely and she saw what she’d only felt last night. He was truly magnificent. Firm and fit and quite…proud.

Gliding her hands back up his chest, she slid her eyes closed. Expected him to guide her to the bed. Instead, his mouth and hands were trailing over her as she stood before him, quivering with need, shivering with desire. He kissed and stroked, tasted and touched, his mouth moving lower, across the swells of her breast, lower still. She heard his knees pop as he crouched before her. Opening her eyes, she looked down on his dark head, remembered it so often drenched with rain.

She’d told him she couldn’t give herself to someone for whom she held no affection. She couldn’t say she loved him, but running her fingers through his hair, she could admit that she had come to care for him. Somehow, against the odds, in a very short time, she’d grown quite fond of him with his pitiful attempts to please her that weren’t pitiful at all.

He skimmed his mouth along the hollow of her hip. And then he was kissing her more intimately than she’d ever been kissed and frenzied passion spiraled through her. She imagined his mouth on hers, drinking just as deeply. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, wanted to bring his mouth to hers. But he took his time, working his way back up, turning her as he did so, gently pushing her back on to the bed, until she was sitting on the edge and he was journeying up her body, laying her down as he went.

Standing between her thighs, he plunged inside her and began to ride her with a fierce determination as though his body was as close to exploding as hers. She was clutching him, holding on, her legs wrapped around his waist as passion rose between them. She didn’t know if she’d ever seen anything as beautiful as the movement of his body, joined with hers. And when the cataclysm came, it bowed her body beneath his. He threw his head back, lost in his own pleasure. She gloried in the sight of it, found it as satisfying as experiencing her own release.

On strong, yet trembling arms he held himself above her. He lowered himself slightly, kissed her throat, and eased out of her. He studied her for a moment as though he wasn’t quite certain what to do, as though what he’d just experienced had stunned him. He reached down, then draped her nightgown over her, while clutching his dressing gown in his other hand.

“Good night,” he rasped, before stumbling back, straightening, and striding from her bedchamber.

She brought her legs up, rolled on to her side, and pressed her nightgown against her chest as though it were the rag doll she’d slept with when she was a child. How could he give her so much, yet leave her with so little?

Michael stared at the empty bed in his bedchamber. It held no appeal.

He’d wanted to crawl beneath the covers completely and fully with Kate. He’d wanted to hold her close, fall asleep with the sound of her breathing filling his ears.

He’d never wanted that from a woman.

Ride her until the end of the journey—and then travel on alone. It had always been his way. But with her, he wanted so much more.

When her eyes were open, was she seeing him or another?