Just Wicked Enough Read online

  “Shall I fetch you some, then?”

  “No, I told my wife half an hour. I didn’t think it would take so long to get warm.”

  “You were out in it for some time, my lord.”

  He was unaccustomed to having a valet. While once he’d welcomed the assistance one offered, he’d grown accustomed to doing for himself. But his wife had insisted that a man of his stature should have a personal servant, and he’d not argued because it seemed they argued over every little thing. It was becoming quite tedious.

  Fortunately, she’d not faulted him for paying for Obsidian to have extra oats and an extra rubdown. The gelding was a good horse, black as midnight.

  Black. That was a color he’d never considered a woman favoring. It might be just the thing his somber wife preferred. He smiled.

  “Feeling better, my lord.”

  “Indeed. Let’s prepare me for dinner now, shall we?”

  He was knocking on her door in record time, almost precisely half an hour on the dot from when he’d predicted dinner would be served. Her maid, Chloe, opened the door and curtsied.

  “My lord, my lady prefers to have dinner in her room.”

  “Is she not feeling well?”

  “I don’t know, my lord.”

  “I’ll have a word with her, then.”

  He edged past the maid, who seemed particularly jumpy. Perhaps she didn’t fancy storms. He found his wife sitting in a chair on the far side of the room, reading.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked, when she failed to even acknowledge his arrival.

  “No, I simply prefer to eat in here.”

  “They’ve prepared the private dining room for our pleasure. Surely you don’t expect me to dine alone?”

  She did look up at him then, and he was surprised by the hurt he saw mirrored in her eyes.

  “Why not? You expected me to travel alone.”

  He slammed his eyes closed. He’d not considered she’d take offense at his not traveling with her. A wife was a good deal more trouble than a mistress. He opened his eyes. “My apologies, madam. I don’t usually travel in a coach. I prefer going by horse.”

  “Even in the rain?”

  “Even in the rain.”

  “You might have caught your death.”

  “Yes, I think perhaps I did.”

  He watched as, miraculously, her hurt turned to concern. “Are you not feeling well, then?”

  “I feel fine, but I would feel better if you would join me for dinner.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think you’d enjoy my company much. I don’t suffer loneliness well, and I’m in a most disagreeable mood.”

  “It seems you would be more lonely in here than down there.”

  “Why do you care? We’ve never even had a true conversation.”

  “Even without conversation, I appreciate…your company.” Dear God, she looked so bereft staring out the window, bereft like those who lived in the same residence as his mother. Was that how it began? With a sadness so profound that the mind sought escape into fantasy?

  “I’m sorry, my lord, silent company isn’t enough for me.”

  He wanted to kneel before her, take her hand, and comfort her. Instead, he said simply, “As you wish. I shall have a tray sent up. And I shall see you in the morning.”

  He walked toward the door, stopped beside the bed, and glanced over his shoulder, not certain why he took pleasure in the fact she was watching him. “Obsidian?”

  He caught the barest hint of a smile before she turned away and shook her head. When he left the room, he took a sense of satisfaction with him.

  Chapter 8

  His wife ate breakfast in her room as well, stubborn chit. Michael had barely slept, worrying about her. He’d never planned to hurt her. It was only that she asked for more than he knew how to give.

  Tugging on his gloves, he walked out of the tavern in time to see his wife being assisted into the coach. At least she’d not delay their departure.

  The rain had ceased, the skies were gray, and dampness still clung to the air and ground. Michael walked to where his groom stood, holding Obsidian, ready and waiting. Michael never traveled without his groom or his trusted steed.

  Obsidian nickered as he neared. Michael felt a pang of regret knowing he was going to disappoint the gelding, but he supposed that was better than disappointing his wife. He patted the thoroughbred’s sleek neck while offering him an apple, which he hastily chomped.

  “Unsaddle him, Andrew, and tether him to a coach. I’ll be riding with the marchioness today.”

  His groomsman had trouble schooling his features so as not to look surprised. Michael knew the man was well aware that his lordship never rode in a coach, and he had little doubt he was going to receive a few stares from those familiar with his habits.

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  It wasn’t really what he wished, but what his wife wished. He patted his horse again. “See you later, old boy. Tomorrow I’ll take you on a ride across the hills.”

  He strode to the first coach. The footman, a recent hire who obviously had expected him to follow the precedent he’d set the day before, was slow to open the door for him. Michael removed his hat, climbed inside, and sat across from his obviously startled wife. He took a small measure of satisfaction in her startlement.

  “Here I am, madam. What is your pleasure?”

  His wife stared at him as though she hardly knew what to make of him. Not that he blamed her. He hardly recognized his own behavior. He was accustomed to doing as he pleased, in seeking his own pleasure above all else. It was disconcerting to find himself bending so easily to her whims.

  “I want you to be here because you want to be here,” she stated, with chastisement reflected in her voice.

  “Women are cunning and that is a convoluted line of reasoning. You wanted me to be here; I want to please you, and, therefore, I am here.”

  “But if you had your druthers?”

  “I would be on my horse.”

  “I am perfectly fine with you choosing your horse over me.”

  “Devil take it! I’m not choosing the beast over you. I’m choosing my horse over the coach.” He sighed, failing miserably at not showing his frustration. He was on the verge of getting blistering mad at her. “I don’t want to argue, madam. You wanted me in the blasted coach, so now I’m in the blasted coach. Enjoy it.”

  “Your temper makes that quite impossible.”

  Before he could cut a scathing retort, the coach lurched forward. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw momentarily. He could stop the coach in a heartbeat, step out, and be in the open. The coach would only seem to close in on him if he looked at the walls, floor, and ceiling. If he focused on something else so those objects were not in his vision…

  He opened his eyes and narrowed his gaze on his wife, until she was all he saw, all that filled his vision. Her red hair pinned up beneath her hat, a gray hat trimmed with red velvet. It matched her gray traveling dress, which was also trimmed in red. She wore gray kid gloves and gray slippers. His gaze followed the line of her pearl buttons and he imagined loosening them and revealing the treasures they presently hid.

  He wondered how long he’d have to endure not knowing the exact shape, texture, and hue of what lay beneath the cloth. He couldn’t imagine that any aspect of her would be displeasing, and while he’d told his mother he didn’t fancy the shade of Kate’s hair, he couldn’t deny he had an incredible urge to see it loose and flowing around her face, over her shoulders. He wanted to bury his face in the lustrous strands, fill his nostrils with the sweet scent. Hair he could easily escape. The confines of the coach—

  He leaned out the window, yelled up, “Stop the coach!”

  “What’s wrong?” Kate asked, obviously worried, but he had no time to reassure her. He’d already broken into a sweat and his chest was tightening painfully—

  He was out the door before the coach had been brought to a full stop. He landed in mud, slip
ped, and caught his balance. Taking in great draughts of air, he walked farther away from the conveyance. He wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. It was easy enough to stop the damned thing, easy enough to get out. It wasn’t a trap. It wasn’t inescapable. He had but to—

  He heard a feminine screech. He spun around to discover his wife sprawled on the ground, Nesbitt, Andrew, and a footman rushing toward her. Somehow, in spite of the odds, Michael reached her first and crouched beside her.

  “Good Lord, woman, what are you about?” he asked, as he took her hand, cupped her elbow, and helped her sit up.

  “The way you leapt from the coach, I wanted to make sure you were all right,” she said.

  He hadn’t been this close to her since they’d exchanged vows. She smelled of raspberries. He’d never known a woman to smell of raspberries. He wondered if she’d nibbled on them for breakfast. Her lips were slightly parted, her brow furrowed, her cheeks flaming a shade that almost matched her hair. He wanted to remove his gloves and touch that brightly colored cheek. He wanted to search through her hair and remove the pins that kept it anchored. She was sitting in the mud. Her being more disheveled only seemed appropriate. And yet as his thoughts wandered into dangerous territory, he couldn’t imagine her welcoming the touches he longed to give, not here in the open, before servants.

  “Why wouldn’t I be all right?” he snapped, as much in frustration because she was denying him what he was beginning to so desperately want as irritation with her for behaving so unpredictably.

  “Excuse me for caring, but you looked as though you were about to be ill.”

  Unexpectedly she shoved on his shoulder, hard enough to send him off-balance. He landed in the mud he’d so carefully avoided only moments earlier.

  “Well, this is just jolly lovely,” he ground out.

  And she laughed. The most beautiful, joyous sound he’d ever heard. Her smile bright, her eyes sparkling. She covered her mouth with her cupped hands, and he wanted to beg her not to, not to deny him the sight of such happiness. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard such joy. He was tempted to stand up and fall down again just to see if she’d laugh all the harder at his antics.

  “You think it funny, madam, that we have hours yet to travel and we shall be doing so in mucked up clothing?”

  Shaking her head, she bent forward, pressing her forehead to her upraised knees, her shoulders quaking with her mirth. “I’m sorry,” she said through her laughter, but she didn’t sound at all apologetic. “It’s just…”

  When she looked up at him, she had tears rolling down her cheeks. “You looked so stunned. You have to admit it’s funny. I mean, here we are, in the mud on the side of the road…” She wiped at her tears with the edge of a muddied gloved hand, smearing—

  “You’re making a mess of yourself,” he said, reaching out, swiping at her face, only to worsen the damage done. Looking at his hand, he realized it was equally muddy. Damnation!

  She took a deep breath, sighed, and released one last giggle, before clearing her throat. “Surely there’s a village nearby where we could change clothes. Or we could return to the tavern—”

  “And how do we explain our state of dishevelment?”

  “You’re a lord. You shouldn’t have to explain anything.”

  Except to her. He was going to have to explain every damned aspect of his life to her in order that she continually release the funds he needed. And if he told her about his mother before their marriage was consummated, would she be so appalled that she’d demand the annulment she so blithely referred to on their wedding night?

  He looked back the way they’d come. Concentrating on her in the coach had apparently kept him distracted longer than he’d realized. It appeared they’d traveled a good distance already, and quite honestly, he had no desire to travel back. “There’s a village not too far up ahead,” he said. “We’ll make for it.”

  “Could we walk for a while?” she asked. “Until we’ve dried off a bit?”

  “Do you have any idea how far we have to travel?”

  “Not really. But will half an hour truly make so much difference?”

  In the end, Falconridge’s valet and Kate’s maid brought blankets over and did their best to remove as much of the mud as possible. Kate considered asking them to find something in the trunks she could change into with the minimum amount of fuss, but she didn’t think slipping behind the trees lining the side of the road would provide adequate cover for changing clothes. Besides, she’d no doubt only serve to get another outfit muddy.

  She and Falconridge walked behind the last coach, so they could avoid the risk of being trampled. It was not as muddy along this stretch of road. The driver had apparently simply chosen a very poor place to pull to a halt when her husband had yelled for him to stop. So perhaps it was Falconridge who was responsible for the mishap.

  She still couldn’t believe how much it had tickled her to see the astonishment on Falconridge’s face when he’d landed in the mud. She’d thought for a moment he’d actually looked amused, that he, too, might laugh. She couldn’t help but wonder what his laughter might sound like. Deep, she decided, a rumble as mesmerizing as his voice.

  “Why did you get out of the coach so fast earlier?” she asked, quietly. “It was almost as though you were trying to escape me.”

  She watched as his jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed. Obviously he didn’t like her prying but if they didn’t ask each other questions, how would they ever learn about each other? She could only observe so much, and he had a history, a past, that had made him the sort of man he was. He wasn’t cold, but he was more distant than she would have liked. In a way, she supposed with her questions, she was attempting to build a bridge.

  “Not you,” he finally said, his voice sounding as though he’d pushed up those two little words from the depth of his soul.

  “What then?” she asked.

  “I’m not certain I’ve ever known as inquisitive a woman as you.”

  “It’s a simple enough question. Don’t view it as my prying. View it as my having an interest in you. I’m trying to understand—”

  “There’s nothing to understand. If you must know, I don’t relish traveling within the confines of a coach.”

  “That was more than dislike—”

  He spun around and glared at her. “I do not suffer confinement well. I don’t know how to explain it any clearer than that.”

  “That’s the reason you rode your horse yesterday.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you simply explain your reasons to me last night—”

  “My inability to control my reaction to confinement is not something of which I’m particularly proud.”

  “Well, if you’d said something, we wouldn’t now be traveling covered in mud.”

  His gaze shifted from irritation to intense wonder. “Nor might I have ever heard your laughter. It was quite mesmerizing.”

  He looked as though he wanted to take her into his arms, kiss her unmercifully, and draw her laughter into his soul.

  “Do you ever laugh?” she asked, uncomfortable with the thoughts bombarding her.

  He looked to the sky as though he’d find the answer there. “I can’t remember the last time I did. A shame, that.” He turned his attention back to her. “Why would sitting in mud cause you to laugh?”

  “It just struck me as funny—the proper marquess and his marchioness rolling about in the mud—”

  “We weren’t rolling.”

  “It might have been fun, though, to do it.”

  “It might at that, especially if we weren’t encumbered by clothing.” His eyes darkened, and she wondered why he had to turn the most innocent of suggestions into carnal desires.

  She shook her head in an effort to rid herself of images of them nude and cavorting in muck, the length of their bodies, slipping and sliding—

  She cleared her throat and thought to get the conversation back on track. “I don’t know that I
was really laughing about the mud. I think I just needed to laugh, to release the tension that’s been building ever since I walked into the church.”

  “I know of more satisfactory ways to release tension. I could share them with you tonight.”

  Based on the intense heat that suddenly lit his gaze, she didn’t think he was offering to share humorous tales with her.

  “They’re leaving us behind,” she said, suddenly experiencing her own warmth.

  She began walking, quickening her pace, trying to outdistance her unexpected desire.

  “I take it you find fault with my suggestion,” he said, his long legs making it possible for him to easily catch up with her.

  “Quite honestly, I don’t see us progressing to that point anytime soon.”

  “Unless I suddenly transform into Lord Bertram. I always thought he resembled a startled fish.”

  She erupted in laughter at the image, before scowling at him. “Don’t be cruel.”

  “If you’re so enamored of him, why didn’t you marry him?”

  “He didn’t ask.” Plus he was a viscount and her mother had forbid her daughters to settle for any rank lower than marquess.

  “Did you want to marry him?”

  “I hadn’t really considered him as a suitor.”

  “You didn’t attend many balls.”

  She peered at him. “You noticed?”

  “Of course. I was besotted, after all.”

  “Now you’re teasing me, and cruelly at that.”

  She expected him to apologize. Instead he said quietly, “I did notice.” As though upon further reflection, he not only realized he had, but was surprised by the discovery.

  He glanced over at her as though trying to decipher a rather complex mathematical problem. “You’re not the social butterfly your sister is.”

  “I’m not nearly as pretty or popular.”

  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.”