Any Wicked Thing (6 page)

“Your father missed you.”

“I doubt it. He was far too engaged with his moldy old books and rusty battle-axes and fucking your father. How have you managed to survive all these years? I've only been here two days and already my mind is going.” Lusting after Freddie was a sure sign of it. But sitting in a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight, she showed to exceptional advantage. Her faintly freckled skin was dappled additionally with the jeweled tones of the stained glass window. On it was the Archibald motto,
Fortuna Favet Audaci
, and crest, a stag's head and three sheaves of wheat. The yellow glass of the wheat set her light brown hair to copper and amber.

Fortune favors the brave. He wondered if her position was deliberately brave, meant to dazzle him in her own sunbeam. When she bent to pour him a cup of tea, looking up at him through gold-tipped lashes to see if he noticed her scantily covered assets, he was sure of it. People might conclude from his deliberate demeanor that he was a charming lackwit, but never let it be said he was too witless to miss the signs of seduction, or an opportunity to seize upon them.

Good God
. Freddie meant to entice him again. Trap him. The dismissal of Mrs. Carroll. That scrumptious, scandalous dress. He'd run away from her ten years ago, cutting her and his father and Goddard-damned Castle out of his life. He'd managed to keep body and soul together—well, the soul part was debatable, but there was no question his body had reaped the benefits of all manner of sin.

Perhaps he wouldn't keep her at arm's length after all, but let her seduce him, if that was what she planned. It might make his immurement in Yorkshire somewhat amusing. And wouldn't the pater frown down on him from heaven—if that was where he was—when his scheme was foiled? Sebastian knew the conditions placed on Freddie's money. Though Sebastian had burned them, he remembered his father's letters always implored him to come back and marry Freddie after all; apparently she hadn't taken the money he'd offered her. Which was absurd, because how did she come upon the thousands of pounds she now possessed? Counting tree stumps and stones? Her fortune was tempting enough for any man, and certainly for a man in Sebastian's situation.

But he wouldn't marry Freddie—he'd rather die of the pox. But he could fuck her, properly—or improperly—this time. He sat back, watching her strain and pour his tea from a dented silver service, calculating what it would sell for. It wouldn't fetch much, but something was better than nothing.

A bird in the hand . . .

All his problems might be solved by his old playmate, if he could teach her some new games to play. But he'd offered marriage once, and she'd refused.

“I've survived very nicely, Sebastian. After my father died, I assisted your father with his book. Now that he's gone, I've taken it upon myself to complete his work. How do you take your tea? I can't remember.”

Rubbish. Of course she knew. They'd drunk tea together in the nursery for years through a series of ill-paid governesses. Sebastian frowned. “Just milk. And what do you mean, his book?”

She passed him a fragile cup. “I suppose I ought to say
books.
He was halfway through volume four when he died.”

Sebastian choked on the foul liquid. “
Four
books? What on earth could he write four books about?”

“Why, the Middle Ages, of course. Salic law. Charles the Fat. Otho the Great. I'm almost done with volume five now, and there are to be six altogether. There are any number of fascinating primary sources in the library. Some lovely illustrated manuscripts.”

“That no doubt cost him a pretty penny.” He couldn't repress the bitterness from his voice.

“He thought the money well spent,” she said primly.

“They will all go up on the auction block, although I don't think I'll find as big a fool as my father to recoup my losses.”

It was Freddie's turn to frown. To his regret, she had abandoned the flirtatious sideways glances and was suddenly tugging her dress up. “The history was his life's work, Sebastian. Your Grace. His and my father's both. I don't suppose a person like you has the first idea of what it is like to have intellectual interests.”

Ouch
. So she thought him a dunce, did she? It was only what he deserved after working so hard all those years ago to attain such spectacularly low marks. “We can't help it if our parents were loose screws. Whatever my father collected has to be sold, hand-colored by dead monks or not. You must know that he left me near penniless. It's a wonder he didn't take back your money.”

“He would never have done such a thing! But—” She stopped, her cheeks turning crimson.

“But
I
might. That's what you're thinking, isn't it? Now that I'm your trustee, there's no telling how I might exercise my authority over you.”

“No man—especially
you
—will ever exercise authority over me!” She bit into a biscuit with a ferocious snap.

Such passion could be put to much better use, although he wouldn't want his private parts anywhere near her teeth right now. He wondered how he could have ever thought her plain. Of course, when they had last met ten years ago she had been like a little sister to him until she made her daring, deceitful move. Freddie had seemed like a brown wren in a muster of peacocks. He'd been such an ass, quite full of himself as only a youth of one-and-twenty could be, never once connecting her with the saucy milkmaid until the lantern light revealed her shocked face.

That hideous house party. There was nothing so repellent as a bunch of middle-aged peers and peeresses trying to recapture their salad days, running about with lances and wimples. He'd slipped off to have a pipe and dreamed of a milkmaid, who'd been full of delicious, sweet cream. The dream had turned into a nightmare, and he'd not willingly taken opium since.

“Your independence does you credit, Freddie, but I'm afraid I've come to uproot you. I can't afford to keep this archaic dump. I've got several potential buyers coming over the next few weeks to look it over. If one of them likes it, I'll accept whatever he offers me. I can't be too choosy.”

Her flowered teacup slid off its saucer, splashing her skirts and tumbling to the faded rug under her feet. “You can't sell Goddard Castle!” She bent to retrieve the cup, and Sebastian was treated to the sight of breasts he hadn't seen or tasted in a decade.

“Oh, but I can. I must. You can make your home at Roxbury Park. It's all that's left. Everything else is sold, I'm afraid. It will take years to get the estate to rights.”

Freddie stood up unsteadily and walked to a mullioned window. “I cannot live with you. After—after everything between us. You—you and your exploits are infamous. It would be most improper.”

How hypocritical to hear her lecture him on morals when she had bared her breasts and more to him like a common harlot. “I've always found impropriety to be most delightful. Almost essential to my well-being.” He pictured Freddie sitting across from him at the breakfast table at Roxbury Park after a night of vigorous bed sport. Her lips would be swollen from kisses, her throat pink with love bites. Her wrists and ankles would be only slightly chafed from the restraints he'd place upon each white limb. His cock twitched in anticipation beneath the linen napkin.

She turned, her hair lit by the afternoon sunlight. “Let
me
buy the castle.”

No, no. That did not jibe with his new plan for her at all. “You? Don't be daft!”

“I have the money. Well, technically
you
have control of it, as you've just pointed out to me. But I must have enough. The castle cannot be worth much. It's falling down daily.”

Sebastian sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then why would you want it?”

She shrugged, causing her luscious bosom to thrust upward. “It's been my home for almost twelve years. I'm used to it.”

“Freddie, my girl, as a responsible guardian, I could not permit you to make so foolish an investment with your capital.” He did need her money—quite desperately—but right now there was absolutely nothing he wanted more than to take history-mad Frederica Wells up against the ancient moth-eaten tapestry that she was so nervously fingering and kiss her everywhere until she forgot what year
this
was.

He cleared his head. He'd always been a bit impulsive. Just twenty minutes ago he'd been dreading this meeting, and now he was contemplating fucking the one woman who was responsible for the second-worst time in his life.

“Cancel the buyers' visits.”

Entreating, her voice was honey, with a dogged edge. He could be stubborn, too. “Why ever should I do that, Freddie? I've just said you can't buy this wreck.”

She stared up at the coffered ceiling. “I'll—I'll be your mistress for a month. I'll do any wicked thing you want if you let me buy the castle after. With everything in it, mind you. Your father's manuscripts and artifacts. Just think, Sebastian. Thirty days and thirty nights.”

Sebastian felt the breath leave him, taking half his wits along. Was she a witch? A mind reader? He still had the napkin across his lap to cover his erection, so she couldn't have noticed, could she? If she had an inkling that he'd settle for a week—hell, a night—with her, he'd lose his bargaining power.

Time with this version of Freddie would never be boring, especially if he had a month to train her to his tastes. He was sure he could bind her to him beyond silken ropes and blindfolds. After a month in his care, she would do anything he asked and be grateful. Beg him for more.

“Thirty-one.”

“Pardon?”

“The month of May has thirty-one days, Freddie. Tomorrow is May Day. I hope you're much more amusing than you were last time. I'm seeing you now, a crown of flowers in your hair. The rest of you—” He lowered his voice. “The rest of you is quite unadorned. And I know just where the maypole is.”

S
he truly hadn't expected him to agree to her outrageous proposition with such alacrity. And insult her in the bargain.
Much more amusing!
She hadn't even planned to make such an offer, but out the words tumbled and here she stood, the recipient of his salacious smile. A smile, blindingly white for a miscreant who probably smoked cigarillos and swilled red wine and brandy for breakfast. A smile that creased his left cheek with a delightful dimple. A smile from curving, full, sensual lips that had once suckled her nipples like a greedy infant.

Merciful heavens, what had she gotten herself into? She was no longer a moony girl with a hopeless crush. She had meant to have a lighthearted fling just to see what all the fuss was about, and now she was to be in his servitude for an entire month,
plus
pay him for the privilege of buying this disintegrating dwelling. She must be mad. Possessed by the devil. Hell, Sebastian Goddard, Duke of Roxbury,
was
the devil who had somehow made her abandon every precept and principle of her twenty-eight years that she'd fought so hard to reacquire.

But he meant to take her home away from her. Her occupation. She'd spent almost a decade being Uncle Phillip's amanuensis, taking down his every word and adding many of her own. Replacing her father as best she could, though certainly not in every way. She had centuries more to cover. Too many King Edwards to count. How could she let Sebastian throw it all away?

It wasn't as though she was a virgin—he'd already seen to that. And he was as handsome as ever. More so, actually. He might live a dissipated life, but one would never know it from his lean, predatory body and his bright dark eyes. Not black, but a green so dark they might as well be, the color of a shadowed forest at dusk. He was looking at her with particular acuity, as though he had already unbuttoned her out of her ill-advised dress. Frederica felt her nipples stiffen to points and warmth spread in her lower belly. He was only
looking
at her. What would happen when he touched her? She was in over her head already.

“You did say
anything.
” The gravelly rumble of his voice made her toes curl.

She cleared her throat. “Within reason. I'm not anxious to have anyone else join us in bed.” She tried to sound flippant, but a man like Sebastian Goddard could probably service several women at a time without a qualm.

“You need not worry. I wouldn't want to complicate matters just
yet
.”

“Well, then, we're in agreement,” Frederica said briskly, ignoring his deliberate emphasis on “yet.” The kitchen maid was twelve and had dreadful buckteeth, the cook, Mrs. Holloway, was nearing seventy, and Frederica's own maid had run off with the last remaining footman three months ago. Thank heavens Mrs. Carroll and her abigail were gone, so there were no other females in the vicinity of Goddard Castle for the duke to lure to sin. Frederica did all the dusting and sweeping herself. Fortunately, most of the rooms were closed because the ceilings could fall down at any moment. Perhaps Sebastian could be stationed strategically beneath a crumbling corbel and she'd be free of him and this ghastly bargain she'd just made. “I'll want the details of our arrangement written down. I'll not have you renege once you've had your way with me.”