Any Wicked Thing (14 page)

The bed was a rumpled mess, the ruby satin coverlet half on the floor. Sebastian's clothes from yesterday were on a chair where he'd left them. But the snips of rope and lengths of silk had been stored back in his open trunk, the jar of citrus cream capped, his naughty book shut and angled neatly on the bedside table. Evidently she hadn't been entirely able to wait for him to get started.

“I expect you're used to a valet to trail after you. You may choose to live like a pig while you're here, but I hope out of some negligible respect for me you will not expect me to rut in a pigsty.”

“You wound me, Freddie. Again.” To illustrate his point, he placed a hand over the splotch of blood on his shirt. If they were to fence another day, he'd need to find some
points d'arret
for the tips of their swords to prevent her from stabbing him again. She was a bloodthirsty little wench.

She narrowed her eyes at him. They were an odd slate blue, bringing to mind the Yorkshire sky before a major storm. From a distance the color was indeterminate, but he had seen their depths up close last evening, and recalled when they had peered at him from beneath a black velvet mask. He should have known who his milkmaid was back then, but he'd been too deep in his opiate dream and drunkenness to question the gift of her warm body rising over his. He was fully alert now.

“Miss Wells,” he corrected. “Where do we begin?”

She thrust a bucket, scoop and brush at him. She pointed to a folded pile of rags on their erstwhile dining table. “Clear out the ashes from the hearth first. You'll want to dust after, then sweep. In that order, or all your effort will be pointless. I'm going to take the coverlet outside to be aired—by rights it should be laundered, but I don't think I'll be able to get the sta-stains out of it.”

So Freddie was shy about the cream and bodily fluids that had flowed so freely. She bunched up the satin and fled the room. Sebastian got on his knees, swirling up a cloud of ash with overly vigorous applications of the little shovel. After coughing up half a lung, he fell into a rhythm until the bucket was full and his hands were black. He gave a cursory swipe of a cloth to the wooden surfaces of the room, then brandished the broom. Freddie was taking her sweet time hanging up their dirty laundry, so he straightened up the rest of the room as best he could. While he might like his own linen in order, room décor had never been his forte, and it all looked clean enough to him on this bright May morning.

Surely it was too nice a day to stay indoors. He and Freddie should be picking apple blossoms or trilling along with songbirds, picnicking on one of the walls that crisscrossed the moors, pretending that they were normal. He could crown her with dandelions and make slow, thorough love to her beneath the open sky.

But it was not to be. She entered the room with a stack of sheets and pillowcases up to her gilt eyelashes and placed them on the bed.

“I daresay you're used to changing your bedding every day, though I beg you not to. We've enough to do here without daily washing. But I've brought extras from the linen press, so you may decide the appropriate schedule. Have you ever made a bed?”

Sebastian thought of the vast number of disarrayed beds he'd been in, but could not recall ever setting one to rights. Even in the meanest of Continental inns, there had been someone to turn down the blankets and fluff up the pillows. Sometimes even several someones. He wouldn't allow himself to think of the time when he'd slept chained on a mud-packed floor, insects the size of rats scuttling across his sweat-soaked body. No, that dark place was firmly in the past. He supposed in a way he had Freddie to thank for that memory, too.

“You are a veritable who-sis,” he mocked, taking in her naïve, domestic perfection. “Whatever is her name? That Greek goddess of hearth and home.”

“Hestia. You look like a chimney sweep. I don't think I should let you touch the sheets after all. You are filthy.”

It was true his hands were black and his body sheened with sweat from fencing and sweeping. He needed a bath. Perhaps with Freddie in it to make up for all that he had suffered. That would be tomorrow's domestic task.

“What a pity.” Sebastian pushed his dirty clothes to the floor and sat down on the chair. “I will simply have to watch you, then. Perhaps I should take notes.”

She shot him a scowl. “You'll have to pick those up. I will not.” With considerable vehemence, she started stripping the sheets off, throwing them on top of his clothes. She bustled around the bed, presenting a lovely view of her rounded backside. She could not have played into his weakness more if she were reading the script.

“Pay attention, Your Grace. If you fold the ends over just so, the sheet will not come loose as you sleep.”

“Freddie, I doubt anything you can do short of stitching the ends together with wire will be strong enough for what I have planned for you in that bed. We'll make it a point to examine your method tomorrow to see if it holds up. Are you sure we must wait until then?”

Her lips thinned and her pert nose rose in the air. “Perfectly. While you're here, I plan to take advantage of your brawn. I will give you a detailed list of things I expect you to do on your slave days. That way I won't even have to spend any time in your company.”

She seemed altogether too happy about that idea. Sebastian felt the muscle in his cheek jump. This was not exactly what he had envisioned when he'd altered their original agreement. Somehow he thought she might tie him up and tickle him with turkey feathers—always amusing—but he had not foreseen domestic drudgery. He let his mind wander to other pleasant things his submission could entail, but the insistent snap of her fingers interrupted his daydreams once again. She really was the most managing sort of female. The plain, stubborn little girl had grown up to be a pretty shrew.

“You've seen for yourself the condition of the castle. In a month, when I am its mistress, it will be much more tolerable thanks to you.” Sebastian's head spun as she stood in front of him, rambling on about all the chores she had planned for him. He caught snatches of “lye” and “lemon wax” but couldn't be troubled to pay attention. Even in her gray gloom and apron she radiated a winsome sensuality.

He really couldn't help it when his darkened hand fastened around her wrist to draw her to him, or when he smudged her cheek with the other as he covered her lips with his to shut her up, or when he carried her to the freshly made bed and sank down into it with her. After some obligatory—and very minor, to his way of thinking—resistance, her hands became just as busy freeing his cock from his breeches as his were pushing up her skirts. There was no need of citrus cream or blindfolded seduction as he slid deep and true into her deliciously wet passage, her body arching beneath his, her legs wrapped tight around him. Their coupling was uncomplicated, perhaps even ordinary, as though she were the maid of all work caught in a stolen moment by the footman. There was no need for finesse or gamesmanship.

Sebastian performed in the most basic, time-tested way, withdrawing and entering as Freddie begged for both beneath him, her nails digging into the linen of his shirt. He watched her, her face strangely wise, though he doubted she had ever enjoyed another man. Sebastian would bet that the first man to ever plow her was also the second, doing it now, this very instant. The thought of his ownership over her innocence was exhilarating. He rode her until she broke apart, then flooded her with his seed. There was a freshness to lying with her, even in their clothed state. Her stupid little scarf had not even come loose. He pushed it back so he could enjoy the tangled gilt and old gold and copper strands. Her eyes were still shut, her brow creased, as if she didn't want to acknowledge what had just happened between them. On
her
day. The sheet now looked as if it had been used as a cleaning rag, and one corner had very definitely come undone.

“I told you so,” he whispered into her ear, before he gave it a lick and a nibble.

Y
e gods
. What was wrong with her? She had been in perfect possession of her faculties earlier, even when Sebastian had presented his exquisite manly form in all its naked glory. She had kept her eye trained to the valid areas of target, faltering only when she accidentally scratched him at the high line. She hadn't meant to draw blood, but he'd seemed more amused than injured. She was also quite sure he hadn't put all of his effort into defending himself, either, which had made her all the more determined to prove to him she knew what she was about.

And now—all her advantages lost. Even her own domination day had turned on its head. Or should she say on its back, as she lay beneath a perspiring, dirty,
gloating
Sebastian, who with one wicked kiss had ruined her resolve. Again.

This resolve-ruining was becoming habitual. She should have noted that martial gleam in his eye before he dragged her to him and kissed her speechless. From now on she would stay yards—no,
miles
away from him when she spoke to him. If she ever spoke to him again. Words seemed pointless when she only wound up in his bed.

He didn't like her. She knew it. While he played the charmer, was almost like his old self—the boy she had loved since she moved into Roxbury Park with her father—she caught a glimpse of dark displeasure every now and again as he looked at her. He had not forgiven her, and who could blame him? He couldn't guess that when she refused him, she had simply tried to save him from an even worse mistake than they had already made. Than
she
had already made, really. Sebastian did not have much say when she found him sprawled on the floor and climbed on him like a whore. He'd had no idea it was she. A pity he hadn't taken her up on the bet—he would have owed her that shilling.

She didn't know what had been worse—the look on Sebastian's face when he discovered their fathers were intent on stealing a moment together, or when he realized moments later that the woman who'd ridden him to oblivion was little Freddie Wells.

At least he hadn't tied her up this time. She supposed she could say their tussle had been entirely conventional, save for the way his hand was now between them, causing her to continue to peak. Each wave made her clench helplessly around his cock, which still felt stiff despite his obvious orgasm. Surely he meant to withdraw. It was all too much, and she told him so until he thrust his tongue in her mouth and then her ear and she simply gave up.

Never in her life had she wanted a man as she wanted Sebastian. This was far worse than when she had her girlhood crush on him. Then she'd had no real idea of what transpired between a man and a woman. Now she thought she knew only too well. How would she do without him when he left?

“Get off me, you bloody oaf.”

“Such language, my dear Freddie.” In one swift move he tumbled her over to lie upon him. Her corset—or something—left her breathless. Before she knew it, he had unbuttoned her gown and freed her breasts, kissing and caressing them with a devotion that Frederica could only marvel at as she watched his dark head burrow into her bodice. They were doing this all backward. He should have divested her of her clothes first, done the kissing and the touching before he impaled her. But it was really much too late to complain.

“If I had known,” he said, coming up for air, “that housekeeping was so very delightful, I should have apprenticed myself out as an upstairs maid years ago.”

“Stop this at once, Sebastian!”

The pressure of his lips on her nipple ceased abruptly. He looked up and smiled at her. “I've forgotten myself, haven't I? This is your day, after all, and your wish is my command. Forgive me for losing my head. Both of them.”

The arm that banded her to him relaxed, and she rolled off his body onto the crumpled sheet. “You will not,” she gasped, “take such advantage of me again.”

He sat up. “Absolutely not, Freddie. Perhaps it was the allure of your apron. I've always been attracted to the servant class—housemaids, milkmaids. The odd governess. All forbidden to me as a duke's son, and all the more tempting.”

Frederica hoped he didn't see her flinch. Milkmaids? Then her choice of costume all those years ago had been unfortunately apt. “Look what you have done to this bed.” There were actual handprints from where he'd hovered over her, plunging into her again and again. And again.

“I don't mind a bit of dirt, but I'll make sure it's fresh for you tomorrow. I don't suppose us taking a bath together is on your agenda for me today?”

Frederica scrambled up, pulling her skirts down and apron up. Somewhere beneath it, her corset was corkscrewed sideways. Yes, a bath was on order—for her, so she could wash the evidence of this sin away. Whatever else she had planned for the dreadful duke could wait until the day after tomorrow. She needed to clear her head.