Just Wicked Enough Read online

  And it was a downpour. He’d barely gotten her back against the tree when the rain hit. He stood so close, his arms raised and pressed against the trunk of the tree, hemming her in. She dared not move. Instead she studied the perfection of his burgundy silk cravat, a color that matched her riding habit, wondering that he would dress almost formal for such an informal outing. Almost as though he felt a need to impress her.

  He was so near she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. He bowed his head slightly and said in a low voice near her ear, “Chartreuse?”

  She furrowed her brow. “What’s chartreuse?”

  “The wrong color.” His lips skimmed against the outer shell of her ear. “Burgundy?”

  She slid her eyes closed. “No.”

  He lowered his right hand until he could skim his thumb along her jaw. “Brown?”

  “No.”

  She felt his hand beneath her chin, movement against her buttons, and her collar loosening around her neck.

  “Blue?”

  “No.”

  She felt his lips pressed against the sensitive skin below her ear and her breathing became small pants.

  “Yellow?” he rasped, and it sounded as though he was having as much difficulty drawing a breath as she.

  “No.”

  She felt a need to weep, a need she didn’t understand. Desire swirled through her. Hot and fierce. Running his tongue along her skin, he nestled his lips up against her throat.

  “Purple?” Somehow his mouth reached her collarbone. “Pink?” His sturdy leg pressed between her thighs. “White?” His hand cradled her breast, his thumb stroked across her hardened nipple.

  “No.” The sensations were building. “No.” His hand, his mouth, his thigh. “No!” Her body tightened and coiled and tiny shivers of pleasure were coursing through her as she instinctually pressed more firmly against his thigh, felt her legs become as insubstantial as jam, and clutched his shoulders to remain standing. Oh, dear Lord, she’d never experienced anything this intense with so little effort.

  “A little death?” he murmured. “Tell me your favorite color and tonight I shall gift you with a good deal more than that.”

  “No!” She shoved on him, putting enough distance between them to edge past him and dart out into the rain.

  “Kate! Kate, wait!”

  She felt his arms come around her and fought against him until he released her. She faced him. “How could you do that to me? Outdoors! Where anyone could see! You had no right to make my body do that. I didn’t give you permission.”

  “I don’t need your damned permission. I’m your husband!”

  She shook her head frantically. If he took such liberties in broad daylight, what would he do when darkness provided cover for more wicked things? “I don’t want that from you. I’m not ready.”

  He turned away from her. Bowed his head. She watched his hands fist at his sides, as he struggled to regain control of his temper…or perhaps he was contemplating murder. How could something as innocent as a picnic, something as carefree as escaping the rain turn into something so sensuous? She’d never reacted so strongly to nothing more than the nearness of a man. The power Falconridge held over her body terrified her.

  When he once again faced her, she could read nothing in his expression, nothing in his eyes.

  “Forgive me. I forget you’re innocent when it comes to passion. Your reaction to my touch…is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “You don’t know how vulnerable, how…”—she swallowed hard—”please don’t ask it of me before I’m more comfortable with you.”

  “Before you hold affection for me.”

  His words were spoken as a statement, not on inquiry. She nodded slightly.

  “As you wish.”

  His words were spoken succinctly, flatly, with no emotion whatsoever. And while she was certain she’d gained a reprieve, she feared she may have lost something she might not have even realized she’d gained.

  That night they ate dinner in silence. He bid her good night at the door to her bedchamber. After Chloe prepared her for bed, Kate sat by the window until long past midnight, waiting for him to come in and announce a color.

  He never came.

  Chapter 12

  Michael had always considered American women to be spoiled, pampered. The Rose sisters, especially, he’d delegated to that category. After all, they’d grown up surrounded by an exorbitant amount of wealth that he could only imagine, and while a portion of it was now at his disposal, he’d never forget the ease with which James Rose had spit out the amount he was willing to pay for Michael’s title as though it was nothing more than pocket change.

  But Kate Rose Tremayne threw herself into the task of setting Raybourne right as though she’d made a wager with the devil himself and her failure would result in the forfeiture of her soul.

  In the evenings, in the library, rather than reading, she sat at the desk and scribbled her plans for the next day on one piece of paper after another. She was so absorbed in her efforts that he doubted she’d have heard him if he’d yelled a color in her direction. Not that he’d tossed any her way since their encounter at the pond.

  The first morning, they went to the nearby village where she hired a half dozen women whose job was to beat the dust out of the draperies and rugs that the London servants brought outside. He’d never seen so much dusting, scrubbing, and polishing in his entire life. Kate’s first priority had been the essential rooms: their bedchambers, dining rooms, parlors, kitchen. Rooms were aired out. Men from the village were hired to wash windows.

  He’d caught her more than once with a smudge of something or other across her cheek or her chin…once on the tip of her nose. A mark that he yearned to replace with a kiss.

  He didn’t want to press her for what she was not yet ready to give, but not having her was torment, especially at night when he envisioned her lying in bed, or worse preparing for bed with water caressing her flesh as he longed to.

  So he rode over the hills at midnight or came to his study where he could pour his efforts into something else that brought him pleasure since his wife was intent on not providing him with any.

  That harsh assessment wasn’t entirely true. He took pleasure in her company as spare as it was. During meals, when she had questions about his lands, when she sought his advice about the arrangement of furniture as though it mattered at all whether the largest portrait was on the south wall or the north, whether a chair was set to the right or left of a sofa. Would this small table not be better placed here?

  “Do what you pleases you,” he’d finally said, only to have her give him a wounded look that had forced him to apologize—for God only knew what transgression—and he’d spent the next four hours of his life pushing furniture around. They needed more footmen, they needed more servants, they needed to return to London.

  Kate waited for Michael every night. Some nights she heard his footsteps as he paced in his bedchamber. Other nights, she watched him gallop his horse over the moon-drenched rolling hills.

  Sometimes she considered inviting him into her bed, suffering the consequences once he learned the truth. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter to him. Sometimes she contemplated confronting him, telling him everything.

  And sometimes she wanted nothing more than to return to London.

  Tonight she was restless, unable to sleep. She hadn’t seen her husband galloping across the hills, but she knew he wasn’t in his room. She’d pressed her ear to the door trying to catch the sound of his snoring or his bed creaking as he rolled over. Or his frequent pacing. But she heard nothing at all. Just an unnatural stillness, so she was fairly certain he wasn’t there.

  As she walked through the manor on her way to the study to look over more ledgers in an attempt to force herself to sleep, she ran through her mind everything she needed to accomplish when they returned to London. She needed to hire additional servants. She needed to make a list of repairs and enhancements she wanted done. They
needed supplies that couldn’t necessarily be provided by the tradesmen in the village. So many things to consider, so many decisions to be made.

  She walked into the study, only to discover her husband there, bent over the large table, drawing lines on a piece of paper, so absorbed in his endeavors he obviously didn’t hear her approach. But she recognized the drawing beneath his hands. It was the small cottage she’d seen before.

  “You’re the architect,” she said quietly, awed.

  He spun around. She wasn’t surprised to see that he wasn’t pleased by her discovery, but then his glare had also ceased to intimidate her.

  “It is rude to sneak up on a person,” he said.

  “I hardly sneaked.” She eased closer to the table. “Why didn’t you admit these efforts were yours?”

  “They’re personal, a distraction from troubles.”

  She looked up at him. “Like my reading?”

  He gave a brusque nod.

  “Have you ever had any of these built?”

  “No, but this one”—he pointed toward the table—“this one is special. I would like to hire a builder and have it built near the pond where I took you the other day.”

  “Why?”

  “Must I justify every expense?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Clearly agitated, he began rolling up the paper. “I should like to hire a builder when we return to London.”

  “I’ll want to look over his costs, of course.”

  His jaw clenched. “Of course.”

  “Not because I don’t trust your judgment, but I need the figures so I can determine a proper budget for handling all our expenses.”

  He gave her a look of incredulity. “Are you unfamiliar with exactly how much your father gave us?”

  “Are you unfamiliar with how much work needs to be done?”

  “We could never spend all that we’ve been given.”

  “You would be surprised, my lord. And I don’t want to just spend it. I want to find a way to increase it.”

  Studying her, he hitched a hip onto the corner of the table. “A gentleman does not work.”

  “I’ve always considered my father a gentleman and he works.”

  “Then allow me to rephrase: Nobility does not work.”

  “I’m not referring to toiling in the fields. I’m talking about putting your mind to work, taking your strong suits and putting them to work.” She shook her head, frustrated by her inability to explain. “You understand responsibility…and duty.”

  “Of course.”

  “Not everyone does. There are institutions—banks, hospitals, prisons—that need someone to guide them.”

  He shook his head.

  “My father raised me to believe that when you have an abundance of money you have an obligation to put it to good works.”

  “Charity.”

  “Not necessarily. Let’s say you purchase a building. You have, in essence, given income to the owner of that building. If you then hire people to work in the building, then you’re giving them an income, a means to support themselves.”

  “What are their jobs?”

  “Well, I don’t know. It depends what interests you.”

  “You interest me.”

  He slid off the table, and Kate was certain that he was going to approach her, touch her, kiss her. “I believe we should open a paint shop.”

  “A paint shop?” she asked, staring at him. She’d never considered where paint came from.

  “Indeed. We shall only sell paint and we shall only sell it in your favorite color. I’ll need to know what it is before I can begin the venture.”

  Shaking her head, she laughed. “Is bedding me all you think about?”

  “No, sometimes I think about bathing you.”

  Her laughter ceased abruptly as that image took hold. It hadn’t helped that his voice had deepened as he said it and little shivers had danced along her spine. “I was serious about us finding something to do with our money so what we spend is returned to us. You should speak with my father about investments. That won’t require that you work.” She nodded toward the scroll on the table. “Perhaps you can do something with the buildings you’ve drawn.”

  That suggestion seemed to take him aback. “Why would anyone have an interest in my pitiful drawings?”

  “Because you have the money to build them whether or not anyone is interested.”

  After their midnight encounter in the study, the tension that had been between them eased somewhat, but not completely. Falconridge had begun to come to her bedchamber again—only to announce a color before bidding her good night. And Kate found herself longing to know him better.

  A few nights later, during dinner, she announced, “I received a letter from my sister. Jenny. She is hosting a ball later in the week. A costume ball. I wish to return to London so we might attend.”

  Kate watched as Falconridge’s jaw clenched, and she knew without him saying anything that he didn’t fancy costume balls. In the past week, she’d learned he wasn’t a man who filled his life with gaiety. To her surprise, he preferred not being noticed, although he was quite adept at taking care of the estate. They discussed all aspects and his knowledge impressed her. He wasn’t quite the idle nobleman he let on to being.

  “If it pleases you,” he finally said.

  A bit of the devil took hold of her. “I believe we’ll go as Helen of Troy and Ulysses.”

  She thought her husband was going to be unable to digest his veal.

  “Surely, you don’t expect me to actually don a costume?”

  “Of course, I do. That’s the whole purpose of a costume ball. Perhaps Cleopatra and Cesar.”

  “Perhaps we shan’t go.”

  “Perhaps I shall stop dispensing money.”

  He wrapped his hand around the stem of his wineglass, and she suspected he might like to wrap it around her throat. “Costumes are a frivolous waste of money, having an item sewn that will be worn only once.”

  “Following that logic, most of my wardrobe is a frivolous waste of money since I never wear a gown more than once.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I’d heard that Americans spent a fortune on their wardrobe. Thousands—”

  “Twenty to be exact.”

  “Pounds?”

  “Dollars. Perhaps Pocahontas and Captain John Smith. That would be fun, don’t you think?”

  “Honestly, I think it will be hell. Why don’t I go as an English aristocrat, and you go as his wife?”

  “So boring to go as we are. Have you no fantasies of being something other than what you are?”

  “Trust me, madam, I don’t believe you want my fantasies voiced aloud.”

  “Don’t be so secretive. Share them. Do you dream of being a pirate? A cowboy perhaps? A soldier? Come on. Do confess and I’ll see that you’re costumed appropriately.”

  He lifted his wineglass, studied the wine as though it held his fantasies. Then he shifted his gaze over to her, and her breath caught before he ever spoke.

  “Your lover,” he finally said, his voice low and seductive. “That would require I attend the ball without a stitch of clothing.”

  She felt her face warm at the thought of him bared, and suddenly she was quite terrified. Nude? Completely nude? Why would he have to remove all his clothing to be her lover? Wesley had never gone to such extremes.

  Glancing down at her plate, she poked her fork into a pea. “Perhaps we should go as the Prince and Princess of Wales.”

  “Are you certain? Going as lovers has a certain appeal.”

  He was mocking her. She wished she could rattle him as easily as he oftentimes rattled her. She looked up, met his gaze. “I shall consider it.”

  Chapter 13

  “Oh, Guinevere! What fun, Kate!” Jenny said. “What of your marquess? Is he coming as Arthur or Lancelot?”

  Kate and Falconridge had arrived in London the night before, so Kate could spend the afternoon visiting with her sister and hel
ping her prepare for the night’s activities. They’d spent hours instructing servants in the decorating of the ballroom.

  “I think he’s going to come as himself,” Kate said.

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  They were in the Jenny’s bedchamber, putting the final touches on their costumes. Falconridge would join her there at her parents’ residence sometime this evening. It wasn’t unusual for husbands and wives to arrive separately. Still, Kate was surprised by how much it bothered her that they wouldn’t arrive together, arm in rm. This was after all their first social appearance since their wedding day. What sort of message would they be sending? Would people think the blossom on the rose of their love had wilted? That the marquess had found marriage to her not to be to his liking? And why did she care what anyone thought?

  “I’m discovering that fun is not something with which my husband is intimately familiar.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Jenny took her arm, turned her so they faced each other. “Are you so terribly unhappy?”

  “I’m not really unhappy. I’m just not happy.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “Nothing to tell really. He’s not awful, he just seems to have so little interest in me. We share our meals together, but our conversations are of nothing important. Every night he comes into my bedchamber and announces a color. I shake my head and he bids me good night.”

  “What?”

  She released a frustrated sigh and explained about her first night as Falconridge’s wife.

  Jenny laughed, incredulous. “When you said you’d been pleased—”

  Kate shrugged. “I didn’t want to admit that I’d turned him away.”

  “And he thinks if he simply announces your favorite color, you’ll fall into his arms?”

  “Apparently.”

  Jenny laughed all the harder. “Oh, this is rich.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s pathetic.” Kate released a bubble of laughter. “He announces colors I’ve never heard of.”

  “At least you have to give him credit for trying.” Kate abruptly ended her laughter. “Do I? Should I?”

  “I think it’s terribly sweet.”