Wilde in Love

  He devoured her, forcing a moan from deep in her chest. Kissing, by definition, involved lips. But Alaric’s kisses were a bodily experience. His tongue plundered her mouth; his hands went down her back, shaped her bottom and pulled her against his thighs.

  Even had she been wearing four or five layers, instead of a thin chemise, she would have felt exactly what he had to offer.

  “It’s a good thing we’re not on that damn bed any longer,” he said, pulling away.

  Willa gasped for air.

  “Perhaps you could kiss me next time,” he said. With that, he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The following afternoon

  Given the rain shower this morning,” Lady Knowe announced after luncheon, “I suggest a few rounds of cards, which will allow the grass on the archery field to dry.”

  To Alaric’s disgust, a thicket of gentlemen surrounded Willa during the first game; every unmarried man in the house party seemed to be hovering about her. He stayed on the opposite side of the room, resenting the ache he felt every time he saw her. He couldn’t help noticing as Willa lost the game, beaming at her circle of admirers as she implied that she couldn’t count cards.

  She is lying, Alaric thought savagely. Probably she could empty their pocketbooks if she wanted to, but she preferred to gaze at them with limpid blue eyes and collect betrothal rings instead.

  She didn’t accept the rings. But only so that she could keep looking for the perfect consort. The man with a private life.

  To add insult to injury, Prudence persisted in fluttering around him like a demented moth, putting off discussion of her return to Africa by claiming exhaustion. Alaric was on the verge of tossing her forcefully into a carriage. Instead, he excused himself with the plea of work, and took himself off to the library.

  His father’s desk was piled high with ledgers. North had declined his offer to help with the estate, but Alaric thought he’d take a look at the ledgers, if only to get a sense of the scope of work North had inherited on Horatius’s death.

  An hour later, he had made considerable progress with the books when his Aunt Knowe burst into the room. “Prudence Larkin just told me that the two of you were matched in heaven by the Angel Gabriel himself,” she said. “I asked her to describe him and she took offense.”

  “Thank you for rescuing me at breakfast. Again,” he said wearily.

  “I wouldn’t have to rescue you so often if you would just stay where you belong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She scowled at him so ferociously that her slashing eyebrows touched in the middle. It was a Wildean feature, less unfortunate in the men of the family.

  “I found this on the drawing room floor,” she said, handing him a locket. It wasn’t one of those cheap souvenirs engraved with a W; this one was gold, beautifully made, and opened easily.

  A cutout of his own face looked back at him. One of his eyes was higher than the other. He closed it, turned the locket over, examined it more closely. The soft metal was dented by tiny teeth marks.

  Sweetpea.

  Willa owned this locket, and she was carrying his picture.

  Lady Knowe’s face was transformed by a broad smile. “It must be Willa’s. If the castle has rats—which I doubt—they’ve never gnawed on my jewelry.”

  Alaric tore off a small strip from a sheet of foolscap. “Would you be so kind as to return Willa’s locket?”

  His aunt circled around behind him and watched over his shoulder as he wrote.

  My dear Evie,

  This note replaces a likeness of my face. Perhaps I should stop by your chamber to reassure you that my eyes are level with each other, unlike the image you were carrying in this locket.

  He pried his face from the locket, folded up the note, and tucked it inside. His aunt left, laughing under her breath.

  Sometime later, as Alaric was steadily working his way through yet another of the ledgers associated with the castle’s upkeep, a footman appeared bearing a silver tray. On it was the locket.

  Alaric nodded. “Return in two minutes, if you please.”

  If I had a true betrothed, I would wish to reassure myself about many aspects of his physique.

  He stared at this for some minutes before a slow smile spread over his face. Willa was wickedly sensual underneath that placid exterior of hers. A wild woman hiding in plain sight.

  How will you judge his worth, if you have nothing with which to compare those “aspects”? You should conduct a thorough examination. I offer myself as a standard for comparison.

  He dispatched the footman and returned to the task at hand. The ledgers before him, bound in leather and made up of line after line of entries written in the crabbed, cramped hand of his father’s chief steward, began to resemble Mr. Roberts’s hieroglyphs.

  He already had over two dozen questions to ask North. Why did they maintain the mew when no one had gone hawking since Horatius’s death? Why did they send two deer to Lord Pewter, in the next county, every November? Who was drinking all this small beer? Why were twelve or more rolls of silk wall covering acquired every year?

  Glancing around at the walls of the library, he thought he had the answer to that. Probably the dampness of the stone rotted silk within a few seasons. Wouldn’t it be better to put a sturdier fabric on the walls?

  He knew the answer to that too. The duke’s consequence demanded silk. If her fussy, frilly style of dressing held true for decorating, his future sister-in-law Diana would cover every nook and cranny, including the ceilings, in silk spun from royal silkworms, if such a thing existed.

  At length, the footman reappeared. This time, he offered, along with the locket, the information that the ladies had removed to the archery field.

  Alaric nodded, his hand clenched around the locket until the door closed behind the man. He instantly opened it, read Willa’s missive once. Then over again.

  Undoubtedly many ladies would be enchanted to learn of your generosity as a teacher. Others, like myself, envision themselves being schooled in these matters only once. By their husbands.

  Schooled?

  The slow burn in his blood burst into open flame. He had a sudden vision of Willa watching intently as a man, a faceless man, stripped off his shirt and peeled off his clothing.

  No, not a faceless man. That was his body, his thighs. And she was watching with wide eyes.

  He got up, strode over to the library door, and fastened the latch. Back in his chair he stretched out his legs and tore open his breeches. His cock sprang forward, stiff and swollen, into his hand.

  He wrapped his right hand around himself and let his head fall backward with a sigh of relief. Damn it, he had a cockstand twenty-three hours out of twenty-four these days. Every time he caught sight of Willa’s lips, or the curve of her waist, or the turn of her slender ankle.

  Eyes closed, he drew his hand up tightly. Behind his closed lids, Willa’s lips opened as she watched him kick his breeches to the side. He stood in front of her, letting her adjust to the size of him.

  His Willa wasn’t afraid, though. Her tongue ran over her lower lip, and a soundless groan escaped his lips. His hand tightened again, stroking himself as imaginary Willa reached toward him, her hand tentative.

  “This is yours, Evie,” he told her. “All for your pleasure.”

  Damn it, his imaginary voice sounded as rough and untutored as a lad of sixteen. He had the feeling that it would be like that with her. Completely different than it had ever been with other women.

  He imagined her naked, pink, excited, on her back but propped up on her elbows, watching as he kissed his way up her inner thighs. His hand tightened to the point of pain as he imagined stroking her with his tongue.

  A harsh groan broke from his lips as he envisioned her eyes squeezed shut, lips open, her hands gripping his hair so he didn’t move. Making certain that he kept licking her.

  An orgasm ripped through his body as his head fell farther back. He thought he heard
her panting, and his body spasmed again, his cock jerking in his hand, warm liquid splashing onto his belly.

  No solitary pleasuring had ever felt as brutally all-encompassing as this.

  He pulled out a handkerchief and cleaned himself up, but even his brisk touch made his tool harden again and strain forward, as if that first orgasm was just the beginning.

  The idea of seducing Willa flashed through his head … yet the last thing he wanted was to take away her choice by compromising her. The moment North had made his courtship apparent, it was as if Diana had been compromised. She had no say in the matter. Diana’s dislike was biting into North like acid.

  They were trapped in a cage made from his future title of duke.

  Alaric would rather live without Willa than marry her under those circumstances.

  If only Horatius hadn’t died in that damn peat bog. With that bleak thought, his tool went abruptly limp. He tucked himself back in place, buttoned his placket, and came to his feet, shoving his shirt into his breeches with the brisk movements of a man who rarely waits for a valet to dress him.

  He went to the window and drew back the curtains.

  Lindow Moss started on the other side of the wall at the east end of the rose garden and stretched into the distance like a rolling green ocean marked by brighter threads, reddish patches, brown moss, and ochre-colored mud. From here he couldn’t see the heath butterflies or golden-ringed dragonflies, but he knew they were there.

  Not for nothing was his family called the Wildes of Lindow Moss. His ancestor had tamed land no one else had wanted, and had erected Lindow Castle on the edge of the bog as a sign of his audacity.

  Centuries ago, that early Wilde held off a siege by Oswald of Northumbria—who had successfully besieged Edinborough Castle. Lindow defeated Oswald. Only local men knew the bog’s twists and turns, and food and supplies had flowed readily through Lindow Moss, while the bodies of Oswald’s men sank without a trace.

  Alaric stood at the window for long minutes, watching the rippling mounds of moss, grass, and peat. Horatius had truly loved the bog; he’d been proud of it and considered it their birthright.

  Alaric had to make his peace with Horatius’s death.

  And with Lindow Moss.

  He slowly returned to the desk, feeling older by a decade.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Willa was shocked by her own disappointment when Alaric did not return her locket with another improper message. She should have been relieved that he had halted the game before other guests noticed the footman traveling back and forth.

  Back in her room, she sank in a deep tub of warm water and afterwards gave Sweetpea her own bath. The little skunk paddled in a circle, nose scarcely above the water, waiting for Willa to drop peas so she could dive for them.

  When Sweetpea tired of the game, Willa took her to the bed and toweled her until Sweetpea’s tail waved like an ostrich feather. With a thump, Hannibal landed on the coverlet.

  To this point, the tomcat had hissed every time she came close to his corner of the room, or to the door leading to the balcony, if he was outside.

  Now he glared at her, his eyes squinty.

  “Oh for goodness’ sakes,” Willa told him. “I have no interest in hurting your baby; why would I?”

  Hannibal put a paw forward. Willa didn’t move. Still glaring at her, he bent his neck, grabbed Sweetpea by the scruff of her neck, leapt down off the bed, and padded over to the basket. Then he ostentatiously curled around Sweetpea and began licking her head, regarding Willa through slitted eyes.

  She broke into laughter. She was surrounded by protective males. Absurd, protective males.

  When dinner was announced that evening, Willa accepted Parth’s arm into the dining room. She was tired of her suitors’ simpering flattery. What’s more, Alaric showed no reaction when she flirted with them—but he looked daggers whenever she talked to his old friend.

  There was no need to feign interest in Parth’s conversation; after he told her about his purchase of the infamous lace factory, their topics of conversation ranged from the ideas of Jean-Jacques Rousseau to exploration of the territory west of the Ohio River in America, to the war between Britain and the American colonies.

  Surprisingly, North sat down with them and joined the conversation about the war, revealing a nuanced and thoughtful interest in British skirmishes with American troops. The problem, to his mind, was that the British weren’t fighting for their territory; instead, they’d filled the ranks with Hessians, German mercenaries.

  The more they talked, the more Alaric glowered. Hemmed in by admirers who only wanted to talk of his books, he had no way of joining them.

  She wasn’t surprised when, late that night after the castle had quieted, a knock came at her door. Sweetpea, ever curious, headed directly toward it, as did Willa—without bothering to pull on her dressing gown.

  Sure enough, Alaric stood in the dark corridor. “Roly-poly delivery. Plus one locket.”

  She pulled him inside, closing the door. He put the roly-polies on the floor in front of the delighted baby skunk and went to the basin to wash his hands. “What is it you like more about all those proposals you’ve received—the compliments or the kneeling?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “The kneeling. It’s so infrequent that men recognize how important women are to their lives.”

  Alaric turned, his eyebrow raised. “Just how important is that?”

  “If you don’t know, I shan’t tell you,” she said. “I don’t suppose you have spent a great deal of time with ladies in the last few years.”

  “None. And that includes Prudence, no matter what she thinks.”

  Prudence was no lady. “Do you intend to see her play?”

  He flinched. “On the contrary. I intend to close it down.”

  “You’re not curious?”

  “No.” Alaric prowled toward her with the effortless grace of a large cat. “I’m told Prudence characterized me as so terrified by water that I couldn’t save the missionary’s daughter from nearly drowning in a river.”

  His tone was so offended that Willa couldn’t help laughing. “You showed no sign of hydrophobia when you helped rescue Hannibal,” she observed.

  “I prefer to maintain a respectful distance from crocodiles, but water in itself? No.”

  “I wish I could see it,” Willa said. “From what I’ve heard, the play enacts not just one, but two scenes in which you fail to save the missionary’s daughter.”

  “First the flood, and then the cannibals.”

  She nodded, watching his frown. He was a man who any woman would instinctively know would care for her. His strength and contained ferocity would be wielded to protect those he loved every time.

  It made her think that Prudence had deliberately constructed the play to misrepresent him. But that implied that Prudence hated, not loved, him. “I begin to wonder whether Prudence wrote the play as revenge,” she said, thinking it through as she spoke. “Perhaps she meant the portrayal to shame you, to make the audience believe that Lord Wilde was not a hero, but a coward. But instead—”

  “It exploded in her face, and she turned me into England’s most celebrated explorer!” He let out a bark of laughter. “I owe this damnable fame to a woman who tried to ruin me.”

  How like him to laugh on hearing something that would drive many men to a murderous fury. Of course, he didn’t care whether strangers thought he was a coward. He knew himself and his strengths. That confidence made her feel weak in the knees.

  Light from the candles on her dressing table flickered over his cheekbones and revealed a reddish tinge in his hair. Why did men ever wear wigs?

  “If you look at me like that, Evie,” he said softly, “I will take you to that bed, and be damned with the fact that I’ve made up my mind not to let you seduce me.”

  “Let me seduce you?” she cried. “I’ve no such intention!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, shaking his head. “You’r
e doing it without trying. May I kiss you goodnight?” There was a raw note to his voice, a shocking, blatantly erotic undertone.

  Heat ripped through her, roaring up the back of her neck and between her legs, and the tips of her breasts—all parts of her that hungered for his caress. Somehow it was even more erotic to know that he wouldn’t approach her unless she gave permission. Not here, in her bedchamber where she was vulnerable.

  Modesty was called for, but she ignored it. Willa didn’t care that they weren’t married, or even betrothed. Alaric looked as hungry as a man who hadn’t eaten in days, as if the only thing in the world that would satisfy him was her. She’d never seen hunger like that in any of the fourteen men who’d proposed to her.

  He read the answer to his question in her face and drew her into his embrace, bending his head until his lips met hers, whisper-soft.

  In that moment Willa understood that kisses were like kindling for a fire yet to come. When her lips opened, the spark caught flame. When Alaric invaded her mouth, the blaze threatened to turn into a bonfire and burn out of control.

  She caught hold of his shoulders in order to steady herself. Unfamiliar sensations crowded into her faster than she could catalogue them: desire, hunger, tenderness. The hard length that pulsed against her, burning through her nightdress.

  Many kisses later, she watched him, mute, new emotions crowding her throat so that she couldn’t, didn’t want to, speak. She wanted things that couldn’t be said aloud.

  She wanted to lick the severe line of his jaw. She wanted to make him groan. She wanted to eradicate every trace of Lord Wilde and make the man before her all Alaric, all hers, only hers.

  None of that could be spoken aloud, and it all whirled in her head in a daze of possession and desire. He kissed his way down her neck, and she tipped her head to the side to let those lips go where they would, trembling as he pushed down the wide neck of her nightdress and kissed the line of her shoulder.

  He made a sound, low and deep in his throat, when she tugged the nightdress farther down. Her breast was revealed, and they both stared at it as if surprised.