Any Wicked Thing (7 page)

Once the month was up,
she
might be the one who was so besotted with him again the castle could go to pieces around her and she wouldn't even notice. If his reputation was at all accurate, he'd make sure of that, and she'd spend the rest of her life with the memory of his touch burned upon her skin.

Just as she had spent the past decade.

“You wound me, Freddie. I'm a man of my word.”

She wondered. Uncle Phillip had despaired of his only child for years, telling Frederica far more than she should know about Sebastian's habits and haunts. Suddenly she had a perfectly dreadful thought. But Uncle Phillip would have mentioned bastard grandchildren, wouldn't he?

She felt herself blushing. “About—about the possibility that I might become—you know.”

Sebastian's dark eyes gleamed. “Become what, Freddie? A slave to me? Totally debauched? As perfectly wicked as I am? I can make no guarantees, but I do hope so.”

Oh! He was as impossible as he'd ever been. “Please be serious! I have no wish to have—have a child with you.”

The teasing light left his eyes. He gazed down at his hands as he considered her blunt words. His long fingers were, she saw, spotlessly clean, his nails buffed. Soon they would be smoothing over her body and likely driving her wild and witless. She usually hid her own rough hands in the folds of her skirts, but now she was so nervous she was unraveling the fifteenth-century wall hanging with complete disrespect for its survival into the nineteenth.

“Ah. Yes, that would be entirely inconvenient at present. Children cost so much. I'm sure my father complained long and loud about my expense, but it seems he had the last word there, leaving me without sufficient funds and putting us both in this very intriguing situation. I might even come to appreciate the old molly after our month is over.” He gave her a smoldering look.

She pulled a twisted gold thread from the tapestry and wound it so tight around her thumb it hurt. “Uncle Phillip was a good man, if not particularly practical. He would much rather have purchased an ancient text than a comfortable bed.”

Sebastian filled a plate with an alarming amount of food from Mrs. Holloway's tray. The cook-housekeeper had gone overboard trying to impress the duke, and Frederica wondered if they'd have enough in the larder to last the week, never mind an entire month. If all his appetites were like this—

“So, you're saying we'll do it in my room.”

“Wh-what?”

“I take it your mattress has seen better days, like the rest of this place? I remember mine was filled with rocks the last time I was here. But the duke's chambers are more than adequate. My bed is in fact quite ostentatious with all that gold leaf and hangings, big enough for that crowd you were worried about.”

Freddie pulled the thread clear of the fabric. “I am not worried about a crowd! Only worried about a b-baby.”

“Freddie, my dear, there are many, many ways we can enjoy ourselves without fear of you becoming enceinte. I will tutor you in every one. We might even make up a few new ones of our own. We have thirty-one days.”

Really, he was going too far, and enjoying himself enormously, tucking into his tea and sandwiches now as though they were talking about the weather. It was time she set the tone. This was to be a business arrangement only. She would not let herself fall victim to him, no matter what he did to her with his clean fingers or lush lips. Gliding back across to the sofa, she pulled her spectacles out of her pocket and reached into her sewing basket.

“You wear eyeglasses now,” he said through a mouthful of muffin.

“Only for close work.”

“Rummaging about those old papers and writing books must be a trial for you, then.” He reached for a tart. How could he stuff himself and be so calm?

“I manage.” She pulled a bit of moss green thread—rather like his eyes—through the linen, trying to keep her hands from trembling.

“You look rather fetching. Like a naughty schoolmistress. Or a nun.”

Frederica raised her eyebrow but said nothing. She wouldn't let him get under her skin, just under her skirts. Apparently the vexing man was a satyr who was stimulated by virtually any woman. She hoped he wasn't equally interested in men, like his father—like hers—though she didn't have the nerve to bring such a subject up. But the thought of two prime male specimens in her bed somehow cheered her up far more than the addition of another female. She mentally slapped herself. A few minutes in Sebastian Goddard's company and she'd tossed her moral compass down the garderobe.

Sebastian lifted his napkin and wiped his mouth, apparently done with his raid. It was a good thing she wasn't hungry, for there was very little left.

He leaned back, replete. “I expect you'll want to put me on some sort of schedule. So you can carry on with your history project and whatnot.”

Frederica concealed her surprise. She had been ready to defer to him, putting off her writing for a month. Once Sebastian left, she'd have all the time in the world. “That is very considerate of you.”

“I didn't say I would do it. In fact, I won't. That's not my style. You will be entirely at my disposal for the next thirty-one days. In every way.”

Frederica couldn't help the frisson she felt work down her spine. She watched as he folded his napkin into a remarkably neat square. His hands caressed the linen in a way that made her want to flee the room. She made a crooked stitch instead.

“Poor Warren,” he said, after a moment. “He's apt to be shocked.”

She looked up in alarm, Sebastian blurring about the edges through her thick lenses. “You won't embarrass me in front of the servants!” Not that there were many of them to scandalize.

“I'll be sufficiently discreet. Providing you don't argue with me like a fishwife as I drag you up—or down—stairs to ravish you, I believe we will rub along well together. There is a dungeon, is there not? And a wine cellar, if I remember correctly. How handy to take you on a brandy cask and have a bottle of wine to hand for after. I promise I'll remove any splinters on your pretty arse you might acquire. I want you to be ready to bed me at any hour of the day or night, Freddie, with or without beds.”

He thought she had a pretty arse? The green thread was in a hopeless tangle. “You can't be serious.”

“You said
anything
. I think the exact quote was ‘any wicked thing.' I am very wicked, my dear, and I find wickedness does not flourish on a set schedule. In fact it pains me to put my wickedness off until tomorrow. I would so like to suck on your tits, with or without this strawberry jam.”

“Sebastian!” She knew she was scarlet with mortification, as red as the contents of the little crystal dish he waved tauntingly in her direction.

“Having second thoughts already?”

“No.” She poked the needle in her finger and drew blood. It was all she could do to keep her mind steady, but really, she had to be practical about this whole affair. “I want the castle appraised by an independent agent. I'll not pay you a penny more than what he recommends.”

“Very well. That seems reasonable.” He put the jam down gently on the tea table, then scooped a blob out with his forefinger. Frederica licked her lips nervously as he stuck his finger in his mouth and closed his eyes. “Mmm. Delicious. But not, I daresay, as delicious as you.”

She shoved the pillowcase back into the basket, removed her glasses and stood up. “I will take dinner in my room again this evening.”

“If you insist. Remember, tomorrow starts at the stroke of midnight. Be ready.”

“Not until you've put our bargain in writing.”

“You're the writer, Freddie. I'll leave that up to you.”

She heard him chuckling as she flounced out of the solar. If she had a brain in her head, she'd throw herself off the battlements like the treasonous Earl of Archibald before the sun set.

W
ell. That was unexpected. Suddenly the prospect of a few weeks on the moors wasn't so onerous. And after that month, he'd have some of Freddie's money, which she never deserved to start with. He would write to Cam and Lord Sanderson to delay their arrival. Just in case Freddie had a return of scruples, he didn't want to cancel their visits altogether.

Sebastian pushed himself away from the tea table. It was time to set the stage for tonight. It was always best to begin as you meant to go on.

He took the worn stone steps two at a time to the south tower. His father had of course picked the best set of rooms. The view was as good as it got of the lumps of grass and rock fields and distant mountains. Three stunted trees and one enormous muck hole were visible from this window. The sun was dipping in the sky, the clouds tipped with pink and orange. This far north, it would be light for some hours yet. Goddard Castle was no place to wander around in the dark, either outside or in.

Sebastian had thought the purchase of this castle folly enough, but to discover that his father was rewriting one thousand years of history confounded him. Who cared about the Domesday Book or the Crusades or the Conqueror? Everyone was long dead, and Sebastian was very much alive, about to make some history of his own.

He opened his trunk, congratulating himself that he never traveled now without the tricks of his trade. He'd not expected to put them to good use here, but it was imperative he have Freddie keep her promise to do whatever he wanted. What he needed. Soon she would need it, too—and if she didn't, it wouldn't be for his lack of skill or practice.

He unscrewed a porcelain jar and breathed deeply, inhaling the scents of oranges and lemons. Tonight he would cover Freddie's body with the cream, from the curves under her breasts to the pink of her cunny to the cleft of her arse to the spaces between her toes. He arranged his implements of sensual torture just so, found a set of tools, set to desecrating the massive Elizabethan gilt bed. Once he had everything to his satisfaction, he ordered a bath after dinner. He would come to Freddie clean as a whistle, if not pure of heart. He pulled out a tawdry novel from his trunk, trying to distract himself until suppertime. He'd overdone it at tea, but Freddie had caused him to feel somewhat unsettled. It had been simpler to fondle the sandwich on his plate than reach for her.

His mind preoccupied, he made no sense whatever of his book as the shadows lengthened in his tower suite. Since he was to eat alone, he did not change but wandered downstairs at the appointed time. The banquet hall was vast and empty, its vaulted ceiling hung with stained and tattered banners of bygone days. The dais he remembered had been removed, and a smallish dining table looked adrift in the center of the room.

Warren served Sebastian himself from an ancient sideboard, as the only footman had decamped recently, according to the old butler's explanation. Sebastian couldn't blame the man. If it were not for the prospect of fucking Freddie for the next month, he'd saddle up and leave, too.

Considering his intake at tea, he made surprising inroads on his dinner. Once he was done, he leaned back in digestive satisfaction. “Have a seat, Warren.”

The butler paled, nearly dropping a platter in his gloved hands. “I could not possibly do that, Your Grace.”

“Yes, you can. It's an order. Do I not seem ducal enough to you?” Sebastian leveled his most harmless smile at the man.

“C-certainly, Your Grace.”

“Well, then. Do as I say. Drag one of those monstrosities up to the table.” He watched the old man struggle to push a blackened chair away from the stone wall, its ripped velvet upholstery a sad testament to the castle's general condition. Sebastian sprang up himself and seated Warren before the butler could muster any objection. “Tell me about the servants, Warren. We didn't have much opportunity yesterday, except for your news of the footman.” Sebastian had seen very little evidence of any of his father's employees all day. He had left his own valet behind at Roxbury Park, not wanting to subject the man to the indignities that were sure to await, and he'd been correct. Drummond would not have tolerated Goddard Castle more than half an hour before he would have joined the feckless footman.

Sebastian reached for the trifle bowl. “Care for some pudding?”

The butler looked even more dismayed. “No, thank you, Your Grace.” He folded his hands tightly in his lap, as though stopping himself from stacking up the spoons. “I believe you met the grooms yesterday when you arrived.”

Sebastian nodded. A toothless man and his toothless son. But they were happy to have his horse in the stable, a part of the castle out-buildings that was in better repair than the living quarters.