Your Wicked Heart (13 page)

She would take her fill of him tonight. It would be a tale worth the telling.

Rising to her knees, she looped her arms around him, taking from him a long, deep kiss, openly sexual, a kiss such as she’d never shared with any man. Her body suddenly seemed full of arcane knowledge—how to kiss as an invitation; how to twist against a man’s body in a way that made him catch his breath. As he gathered her against him, that strange instinct of sinuousness only grew stronger. She felt gripped by it, a drugging excitement that made her move her hips against him so that he gasped.

Breaking from the kiss, she dragged her mouth down his throat—a distant corner of her mind marveling at it: Ripton’s throat,
Ripton’s
skin, finally hers to explore. No ancient argonaut had ever felt more triumph at his discoveries than she did. Her hands closed on his shoulders, smoothing down the densely muscled slopes of his arms, the foreign territory of his ribs and waist and hips, and then—so daringly that she held her breath, amazed by herself—the firm rise of his buttocks . . .

He growled low in his throat, an animal sound that made her stomach tighten. His fingers plunged through her hair as he dragged her mouth back to his. Now his lips grew savage. They demanded compliance, and she felt herself go softer, hotter, in reply.

Until it occurred to her that he was still wearing his waistcoat.

She squirmed to put an inch of space between them, then went to work on his buttons. His low laugh coasted over her, and then he shrugged out of the clothing, and did her one better: he pulled his shirt off over his head.

She felt knocked back by the sight—literally. The mattress caught her as she fell backward.

He was
extraordinary
. Chiseled like a classical statue, not a spare ounce of flesh to disguise the bands of muscle strapping his belly. She reached out, hesitant, to touch his navel, and then froze as he hissed out a breath.

He caught her hand and held it flat against him for a moment, breathing hard. And then he caught her other hand, too, and raised both to his mouth, kissing each wrist, a hot, wet benediction, his tongue trailing up the center of her palm. She bit back a noise when his teeth closed around her middle finger.

Delicately he sucked her, then pulled free, sitting back on his haunches to look at her. A poet might have created him from an opium dream: darkly intent, a satyr come to devour her.

“Unbutton your robe,” he said, very low.

A flutter moved through her, nerves and heat combined. She did not know the rules of this game . . . but what of it? The mood upon her was wild enough that she did not care if she erred; she would simply invent a new method. And she would make him like it.

Yes,
she thought: that was who she was, a woman who could make him like
anything
she wished. She had power in this moment, power over
him
—that was clear in the way his eyes followed her hands’ progress over the buttons at the front of her robe, tracking her progress down her body, his lips parting slightly as she parted the dress to reveal her linens.

She wore no corset tonight. The garden was private to their two rooms.

She rolled her shoulders to let the robe fall to her elbows.

Without hesitation, he came for her—and moved behind her, his hand threading through her hair, lifting away her tresses so his lips could touch her nape.

Her eyes closed. Her muscles seemed to be unwinding, so pliant did she feel. His mouth traced down her spine, tongue flicking, as he worked the robe free inch by careful inch. Still kneeling, she lifted her hands out of the sleeves, and his palms slid around her waist and down over her belly, which contracted on a bolt of heat. Past her thighs now he reached until he was leaning over her, holding her calves. She watched his dark hands work up the hem of her chemise, pausing now and then to smooth over the skin his efforts had bared: first her knees, then her thighs, his fingers gripping and massaging her.

“Ah,” he said, nearly soundlessly.

His hand closed over the juncture of her thighs.

The pleasure caused her to jerk and gasp aloud. He rubbed—once, twice, settling into a steady rhythm, slow and deliberate motions that raised a quickening pulse, an ache that beat a fiercer demand with each stroke he gave her.

“Forward,” he whispered into her hair, and then nudged her shoulders so she was bending at the waist toward her knees.

He pulled the shift out from beneath her bottom, lifting it over her head.

Leaving her naked.

For a heartbeat she was uncertain—not afraid, but . . . unsure. And then she twisted to face him and beheld his expression as he looked on her—his eyes riveted, his lips parted, the look of a man who had been struck a hard blow.

“My God,” he said. “I never . . .”

She felt a strange catch in her heart. Reaching out to touch his face, she whispered, “You are beautiful, too.”

Their eyes held for a long, still moment.

“I could write a thousand books in tribute,” he said, “and I would not run out of words for you.”

She rubbed her thumb along his cheek, feeling the light stubble of beard.

“You’re a . . .” His laughter was strained and brief. “. . . a fever dream come to life. Venus’s curves and . . .” His fingers combed through the heavy weight of her curls, lifting them away from her shoulder. “. . . Rapunzel’s hair.” He kissed her along her collarbone; she felt him inhale deeply. “The princess in the tower,” he murmured. “Like alabaster.”

It was too much. Her blush, she feared, traveled the full length of her body. “You said you weren’t clever with words!”

He laughed even more softly, a ghostly sensation against her skin. “I’m uncovering new inspiration.” Catching her around the waist, he laid her down so quickly that she cried out, and then startled herself by laughing, too—but the sound caught in her throat as he began to kiss her again.

He had an aim. That was clear from his rapid descent down her body, which he paused only to nip lightly here and there until his breath heated her breast. The light brushing of his lips across her nipple teased her. “Roses,” he murmured, his tone marveling. “You’re the color of roses.”

“Please,” she said, wanting only—

Ah.
His lips closed around her, sucking hard. She made a noise—astonished, she heard it escape her, and put her knuckles into her mouth to silence herself.

“No,” he said, pulling her hand away. “Let me hear you.” And then he lowered his head again and gently rasped her with his teeth.

Yes.
She would let him hear her. No place for hesitance or modesty now; this was the wildest adventure she would ever know, and it took brazenness, daring, trust—

His mouth trailed lower yet. She tensed.
That
could not be his destination!

Parting her with his thumbs, he ran his tongue along her most sensitive spot—and the cry that she loosed frightened her. Someone would hear!

She tried to squirm free, but his grip on her hips held her in place. “Shh,” he said—and then he licked her again, and her worry drowned in a tide of pleasure so violent that she feared she might come apart.

“Hurry,” she moaned, barely understanding herself, but he seemed to. His mouth suckled her steadily now, but his hands fell from her hips, and she felt the mattress creak beneath his movements. When he came up over her again, she sucked in a breath at the contact of his bare thighs against hers—and a hard, blunt pressure, which felt, as it pressed against her, like the answer to the most urgent question she had ever known.

“Yes,” she said, and planted her hands in his hair, pulling him to her as she opened her legs and tilted her hips in invitation. “Yes, yes, yes—”

A steady intrusion, at first blissful, and then—the burn startled her, made her shrink back. Suddenly she remembered the tales the girls told, in giggling whispers, at the typing school. It was going to hurt very badly; it was—

His hips moved, one sharp motion. The breath went from her.

She was full, impossibly full. She dared not move. Nor did he. Dimly she was aware of his gentle caress on her cheek. “All right?” he murmured.

“I . . . think.”

Strained amusement threaded through his voice now. “Shall we see?”

And then he began to move.

Nothing, no words, could have prepared her. It felt . . . strange. Strange, and then . . .

Wonderful.

The thrust of his hips summoned back her hunger. Stoked it higher and higher yet. Some instinct surfaced, animating her; it demanded that she move. She pushed up against him, uncertain, clumsy; his hand found the small of her back, and by that steady pressure he guided her. Now they were moving together, like dancers, only they were creating something together, a mounting need which their bodies fed, which his body answered . . .

She felt the intuition strengthen into a physical heat, flickers that built in intensity, growing so urgent that she could barely endure them. Her head thrashed; she bit his shoulder, and then—

The pleasure exploded. Overpowering. She clung on to him, gasping into his mouth, his kisses a brutal encouragement. A distant pain as his hand knotted in her hair. She was grateful for it; she wanted him to grab her harder, to hold her harder . . .

With a choked sound, he thrust himself off her. His seed erupted on her thigh.

Immediately he pulled her back to him, nudging her onto her side so he could lie behind her, his body pressed to hers, his hips still moving, pressing into and cradling hers. His hand came around her waist; she laid her own upon it, staring, bedazzled, at the wall. His ragged breath, hot against her nape, began to slow.

For long minutes she was content to lie motionless, surrounded by him. Her body felt blissfully limp, wholesomely exhausted, as though she had scaled a peak and seen a view of heaven.

But as the physical euphoria ebbed, it dawned on her that he was also silent. And she wondered, for the first time, if she should not feel . . . bashful.

As though he sensed her shift in mood, he tightened his hold and kissed her shoulder.

It soothed her only for a moment. For somebody
would
have to be the first to speak. And she could not think of a single thing to say, save everything she mustn’t.
You are the most amazing man I have ever known.

I think I could love you.

Perhaps I already do.

What madness! She had known him all of a fortnight! She was a
secretary,
and he a viscount!

She would not be the first to speak.

He nuzzled her nape. “What are you thinking? I wonder.”

“That I will not be the first to speak,” she said promptly.

His husky laugh made her shiver, raising an echo of that greater pleasure that had come so recently. “And so you weren’t the first to speak,” he said.

She tried to think of a reply. But his was not a very
leading
remark, was it?

So she settled on “I don’t know what to say now.”

“So say nothing,” he murmured. “But I have figured out something, if you would like to hear it.”

Her heart tripped. Surely he would not say . . . “Yes,” she whispered. “Tell me.”

“Here’s why I can’t write those tributes to you: you render me wordless.” His lips pressed a lingering kiss to her nape. “Clementine, I should have known you would be my downfall the moment I saw you in that squalid little hotel.”

Downfall.
What did he mean by that? It sounded . . . more permanent than a single night’s folly.

She took a long breath.
Don’t be foolish. Don’t hope for—

A knock sounded at the door, causing them both to sit up. She scrambled for the blanket to cover herself.

He sprang to his feet in one easy, lithe movement. “Who in God’s name—”

The pounding continued, harder now, more insistent.

“No time for you to dress.” He gestured toward a door in the opposite wall. “The dressing room—wait there. I’ll get rid of this person.”

Snatching the blanket around her, she dashed across the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

The floor creaked as he walked toward the door. Now came the scrape of a dead bolt sliding. And then—his sharp gasp.

She dropped to her knees to look through the keyhole.

The midnight visitor stepped into the room. She could not see his face, but from behind, he looked so familiar . . .

“I heard you were looking for me,” the man said.

Horror flooded her. It was an ambush! She threw open the door. “That’s him!” she cried. “Watch out!”

But Ripton did not move. He only stared at her, a peculiar, stricken expression on his face. His impostor pivoted and gasped.

“
Amanda
?” he said. “My God! Darling! What are you—” His gaze swept down her body, and he visibly paled. “What,” he said unevenly, “are you doing with my
cousin
?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

For a moment, her addled brain could not make sense of the man’s words. Her own news exploded from her. “This is he!
This
is the impostor!”

But Ripton’s expression did not change. When he looked toward the other man, he showed no surprise.

And the impostor showed no fear. As his gaze wandered her body again, his reddening face began to look wrathful.

Something was very wrong.

“This is he,” she repeated, but her voice sounded shaky. “Ripton, this is . . .”

“I know,” he said quietly.

Her breath left her. He knew? She didn’t . . .

“How
dare
you,” said the impostor to Ripton.

“Quiet.” Ripton took a step toward her. “Amanda, you must let me explain. I know it will seem very strange to you—”

The impostor followed. “Th-that woman w-was to be my
wife
!”

Sheer instinct drove her a step back. Something was very wrong.

What had the impostor said a moment ago?

He had called Ripton his cousin.

The
impostor
was Ripton’s missing
cousin
.

Oh, God. “You knew.” The words escaped her, nearly soundless because she could not bear to listen to them, to acknowledge the truth. “You
knew
he was your cousin.”

Ripton looked stricken. “No! Listen to me.” He caught her arm and her flesh responded—dumb flesh, still animated by the memory of the pleasure they had shared. “I had no idea at first—”

“At first. At
first
? Then when did you realize? Before we—” Nausea rolled through her. She yanked free of his grip. She had given her body to him. This man—who had deceived her, had accused her of so many things, when his
cousin
had been the true wrongdoer. “When did you realize? Before you kidnapped me? Before you kissed me? Before you accused me of endless crimes—”

“
K-k-kissed
her!”

With a jolt she remembered the other man. He shoved Ripton away from her and put himself between them. “You
kissed
her, d-did you? And a g-g-good deal
more,
it appears!”

She could see now his resemblance to Ripton: the height, the sharp line of his jaw. But he had no interest in her; his fuming rage was fixed on Ripton. On his
cousin
.
“You b-b-bastard,” he burst out. “This woman—”

But Ripton took no note of his cousin. His eyes were still fixed on her. “I was not sure until Malta. And even then . . . Amanda, what passed between us then—”

“I was an idiot to trust you.” Who could she blame but herself ? He owed her nothing. He was far above her in the world. She had only been an inconvenience to him. Such naïveté!
“I have made that mistake before.” She had only herself to blame. That was the worst of it. “I’m a
fool
.”

“No!” The word exploded from him, hoarse and desperate. He was an excellent actor. “My intention was never to deceive you. But to protect my family—”

“You would bed a secretary? How noble!”

Her brittle words caused the other man to issue a strangled yelp. “You
cad
!” he screamed, and then threw a punch at Ripton—or rather, stuck out his fist and leapt after it.

It might have been amusing, how poorly he boxed. But it was not amusing at all. Amanda felt herself sinking into a cold place. From a great distance, encased in muffling ice, she watched as Ripton caught his cousin’s fist and threw him around, forcing the man onto his knees.

“Stop right there,” Ripton snapped at her—and only then did she become aware that she was walking toward the door.

“Th-that is the woman I w-w-was to
marry
!” the other man cried.

A crazed laugh slipped from her. Marry her? He had jilted her. And then his cousin had come along to enjoy what remained. What a grand time they’d had at her expense!

She tasted a premonition of rage. “Both of you,” she said, “go to the devil.”

“Wait.” Ripton was striding toward her, his cousin forgotten on the ground. But he deserved nothing, least of all her attention. The other one scrambled to his knees. Now he was coming after her, too.

“The devil take you
both,
” she said, and slammed the door on them.

*   *   *

If Spence never took another sea voyage, he would be grateful. Standing on deck, watching the waves disappear into coastal fog, he fancied he could
feel
the anger pulsing up through the deck beneath his feet. Down below, to his left: a woman who had brought him to the heights of ecstasy—and now to lunacy. Below to the right: a cousin who seemed unrepentant about his fraudulent antics—“You w-would have loaned me th-the money; there s-simply wasn’t time to
ask
you for it”—and remained hypocritically furious over Spence’s behavior toward Amanda. “If y-you suspected that I w-was her fiancé, th-then how d-dare you trifle with her!”

A fine sight their trio must have made when boarding the
Augusta
the next morning. Silent, scowling,
stubborn
 . . .

She would not hear him out. Kept her cabin door bolted and stymied his every attempt to explain. Yet somehow she managed to slip out when he was not looking—and he’d spent the first two days searching for her, constantly. When he tracked her down, he found her, always, in the most public areas of the ship. Very difficult for him to explain himself in the presence of a dozen onlookers. Impossible, in such circumstances, to say the words that had clogged his throat for four days now:

That night was a miracle to me. And I was not alone in it. I saw your face, damn it. You felt the same.

You cannot let this ruin it
.

Nevertheless, he had tried to speak the words—in a hushed undertone, over the breakfast table.

And had received a scalding lapful of coffee for his efforts.

“Oh, dear,” Amanda had gasped, springing to her feet to wave furiously at a passing waiter. “How clumsy of me! I’ll just—”

And off she had dashed. He’d taken three steps after her—amazingly, even the prospect of permanent injury to his manhood had not deterred him—but then Charles had appeared at the entrance to the dining room, stepping aside only to allow her to exit. And then
he
had turned heel to chase after her as well.

Farcical. They had both ended up outside her door, glaring at each other, pounding on the door, as coffee pooled in Spence’s trouser cuffs.

Four days: Spencer now knew the precise length of time it took for a man to surrender the last shred of his dignity.

In that way, she was like a fever. One could not be blamed for one’s actions in a delirium, and she was in his blood, now—blurring his vision, making his head swim. Warping his brain.

Worst of all, if someone had offered him the cure, he would not have taken it.
That
was how far gone he was.

His black laugh floated into the darkness.

He’d known, hadn’t he, that he should not touch her again? He had supposed that lovemaking would wreck her. Instead, it was he who was wrecked.

The creaking of the deck alerted him to company. On a flicker of hope, he turned—and then grimaced at the sight of his cousin.

“N-nearly b-back home,” Charles said. He was rubbing his neck—perhaps preemptively. They had quarreled again last night; Spence had threatened to throttle him.

Perhaps the threat had stuck. For once, Charles did not wear a look of self-righteous indignation. Did not seem inclined to accuse him, once again, of despoiling another man’s chosen bride.

How good that one of them was recovering his sanity.

Spence turned back toward the misty view. The waves slapped at the hull, a peaceful sound, a futile counterpoint to the enraged drumming of his heartbeat. This rage rattled his bones. It kept him awake at half past four, when any sane man would be asleep.

His hands fisted on the rail. “Go to bed,” he growled.

“C-can’t sleep.”

Brilliant. Only Amanda, locked in her perfumed cabin, slumbered without cares.

No. You know that’s not true
.

She was furious. Massively so. And he could not blame her for it.

He should have told her his suspicions. Should have said,
Your rotter fiancé may be my cousin
.

Family loyalty had stopped him. But what loyalty did he owe this cur when it came to Charles’s wretched treatment of Amanda?

“Then go pace somewhere else,” Spence said.
Before I hit you
.

His cousin drew a great gulping breath. “W-we must talk.”

Must they? Very well. He pivoted. “I have rescued you from a hundred scrapes. But you have passed the limit now. You have dishonored our name, Charles. And I find myself sick of repairing it.”

Charles, his hands stuffed into his pockets, slumped a little. “I know. I kn-know that.”

Surprise briefly silenced Spence. And then his mouth twisted. Now began the routine of contrition. The campaign for forgiveness. And in a month some new trouble.

But this time, the effects were lasting. This time, Charles’s escapades had injured someone else in Spence’s circle.

Someone whom he cared for more than his bloody cousin!

The thought briefly shocked him. But it felt true. She deserved so much better. So much better than either of them. “Apologize to her,” he said. “You’ll have nothing from me.”

“B-but I’ve
tried
!” Charles took a step forward, pulling out his hands, spreading them in the manner of a pleading penitent. “I
t-told
her! Th-that I d-did not
mean
to leave her!”

Christ. “To leave her? You mean you
abandoned
her, penniless, without recourse, three thousand miles from home!” The thought strangled his voice. “God above. Do you know what might have happened to her?” If
he
had not come along—if
she
had shown an ounce less courage, storming into that circle at the Hôtel de Ville, demanding the whereabouts of her fiancé—

His stomach turned when he considered the possibilities. He swallowed bile. “You don’t deserve her forgiveness.” Nor his. Had something happened to her, he would have taken his cousin apart with his bare hands . . .

No. Had something happened to her, he never would have known her.

The thought made him go cold, deep in his bones.

“I know it! B-b-but—” Charles paused to draw a great lungful of air. He was not faking his distress, at least. His stammer always grew worst in moments of great emotion. “I was not. Thinking. Clearly. I heard. You had come. To town. And I p-p-panicked. You w-would have caught me.
Exposed
me. And she. Would have
known
. That I was. A fraud.”

These choppy rhythms were an old trick of his, to keep his stutter under control. In the normal course, they never failed to soften Spence’s attitude, to raise his unwilling sympathies, no matter the scrape Charles had landed in.

But not this time. “She is not one of your society widows. You preyed on a woman without a single protection to safeguard her.”

But that had changed. She had protection now. She had Spence, whether or not she wanted him.

“I n-never
meant
to fool her! B-but she w-was so
careful
. S-so cautious. I only thought, if sh-she thought I was a v-viscount, she m-might pay
attention
to me. I w-wanted to—”

“So you lied to her. Courted her through a deception. A courtship funded by money stolen from
me
!”

Charles groaned. “It was insane. I kn-know that. But I w-went a little mad. I
love
her, Spence. I
ad-d-dore
her. It addled my brain—”

“God save her from such love! Such love as would desert her halfway around the world, and go scampering off to England without her—”

“No! I l-left a message for her! With M-Mrs. P-P-Pennypacker, and f-funds for her passage—”

Another sin against the crone. Revenge, Spence thought, would keep him occupied well into the winter.

“I t-tell you, I have
never
loved
anyone
as m-much as—”

“Enough!” He did not want to hear this. Did not want to listen to Charles’s tale of romance. Did not want to think of how Charles had wooed her, flirted with her, touched her.

Jealousy was a new emotion. He loathed it.

He could not have crushed it to save his own life.

Did she lie below, in that cabin, cursing
him
? Or did she weep into her pillow for Charles, the man she had wished to wed?

Christ.
That
was what truly
kept him up at night: the fear that her anger toward him had nothing at all to do with the night they had shared.

And Charles’s next words provoked that fear as expertly as a well-aimed knife. “I f-fell in love. I w-would wed her still.”

He gritted his teeth. “She does not love you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I c-can change her mind!”

He snorted.

Charles’s sigh sounded pitiful. Like the mewing of a kitten. “I d-did not even stammer around her, y-you know.”