Wicked Designs Page 8

  “I wouldn’t be complaining of that, Miss. I’d give my soul to be manhandled by that dashing Lord Lonsdale. I started working for His Grace when I was but sixteen. When I first saw the earl—” Libba giggled before she covered her flushed cheeks. “Let’s just say I would have loved for him to take such a notice in me.”

  “You say that now. We’ll see how you feel when five men have ruined your reputation just because one of them desired revenge for something you had nothing to do with.” Emily rose from the bath and wrapped a towel around herself. “It’s aggravating!”

  “His Grace treats you fondly, doesn’t he?”

  “What do you mean?” Emily could only think of that savage embrace by the lake, and the cruel pinch to her bottom, and the threat of a spanking. Fond? Godric was anything but fond.

  Libba pointed to the robe and slippers that Emily had shed near the bed. “His Grace put those on you while you slept. They are His Grace’s personal night clothes.” Libba’s bright countenance relayed an extra implication.

  Emily sank onto the vanity table chair, feeling suddenly very small, in a way unfamiliar to her.

  Godric had stripped her naked? He saw her body while she’d been defenseless? Did the blasted man think he had some right to her, merely because he’d kissed her a few times? Well, more than a few, and they had been most thorough kisses, Emily reflected grimly.

  “Do you think… He wouldn’t expect me to… I’m no haymarket ware!”

  Libba paled at the implication. “He would never force himself on you, Miss. I swear it. He’s a good man.”

  “Would a good man abduct a young woman and destroy her future, Libba?” She tried to forget how easily she responded to his touch, his kiss.

  The maid chattered about how she surely had nothing to worry about, and how things would turn out right in the end, oblivious to the realities of the world. Emily dressed in one of the new gowns Simkins had ordered from London. She’d laid out a new pair of white stockings among fresh petticoats and a chemise, all sewed of expensive muslin and less modest than the gown.

  The feeling of fresh undergarments and a new blue dress made all the difference. It restored her confidence from its fragile state back to a more stable one. Rather than put her hair up, she directed Libba to gather her hair at the nape of her neck and secure it with ribbon. Her eyes glittered, like a pair of lilac gemstones, as she gazed with satisfaction at herself in the vanity mirror.

  “A vision you are, Miss!” Libba smiled. “You wear blue, His Grace’s favorite color, very well. He will be most pleased!”

  Emily frowned. She didn’t want to wear Godric’s favorite color. The last thing he needed was to see her behavior as encouragement.

  Charles burst into her room, against all propriety and reason, causing both Emily and her maid to shriek in protest.

  “You about done yet, Em—” He stopped and his eyes widened. “Bloody hell! What I wouldn’t give to drag you off to my room. What say you, Emily? Care for a noonday tumble? I’ll make it worth your while!”

  He crossed the room and caught her in his arms, like a mad whirlwind in human form.

  Emily regained her wits for a brief moment and freed one hand, slapping him. “Unhand me!”

  Despite the red blotch that grew on the right side of his face, Charles continued to grin at her. “If you think I’ll surrender you to anyone else downstairs, you’re wrong. I want to kiss you, Emily,” Charles declared. “I tend to get what I want.”

  Beneath his teasing, Emily sensed competition. This is just what I need—to become a trophy for these grown boys to fight over. Then again…if she could use that desire to her advantage, she might find a way to pit them against each other. Now that reality had recalled Charles, his cheeks rosied with a boyish bashfulness, and his gray eyes sank to the floor.

  “Um, Emily, you’ll be a good girl and not tell Godric I asked to kiss you?”

  She touched her chin thoughtfully. “I wonder how he’d react to that? He does seem to have a bit of a temper.”

  He flinched. “Most women adore, err…my attentions.”

  Libba seemed to swoon next to the earl. Sometimes Emily wondered if there was any hope at all for her sex.

  “As I keep trying to tell all of you blasted men, I’m not like other women!” She brushed past him and walked out the door, ignoring Libba’s flutter of giggles.

  Emily found her way to the dining room, Charles on her heels. She hoped her veiled threat to expose him to Godric had chastened him.

  Ashton and Lucien stood by the windows, engaged in a fluid conversation. They frowned at her for some reason, then glared at Charles. Lucien opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when Godric and Cedric joined them in the room.

  Godric took one look at Emily then threw Charles a glower that could have melted stone. Charles defiantly raised his chin.

  Ashton cut into this silent war. “Emily, may I ask you a rather odd question?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you, perchance, speak Greek?”

  Emily managed to mask her face to hide the truth, that she was indeed fluent in that particular language, as well as Latin.

  “No.” she lied. Ashton turned to his friends and broke into fluent Greek. She followed the resulting discussion with ease. “Charles, what did you do to her?”

  Charles looked guiltily at Godric then at the floor.

  “I asked to kiss her. She slapped me. I swear it won’t happen again.”

  “Sounds like you’re losing your touch,” Lucien joked.

  “I got a little carried away with my earnestness, but no harm was done.”

  Godric pounded the table with his fist. “No harm? You can’t demand such things and not expect it to affect her!”

  Emily’s teacup clattered sharply and tea spilled onto the table. Hypocrite. She shot Godric a worried look. But none of the others paid attention.

  Cedric spoke in a low voice. “Godric… Not to play devil’s advocate, but you did more than demand a few kisses this morning, if I recall.”

  Exactly. Heat rose in Emily’s face, but they didn’t notice.

  “If I want her, Cedric, then she’s mine!” Godric shouted. “It’s my money her uncle stole, so I can steal back in kind!”

  “But Emily didn’t steal your money,” Lucien said sharply. “You’ve ruined her just by bringing her here, you don’t actually have to seduce her. We aren’t Arab sheikhs keeping her as a slave for our harems.”

  Ashton cleared his throat, silencing the room. “It’s evident we all have taken an interest in Emily that goes beyond captors and captive. I advise we consider our actions more carefully and try to think with our upper heads, not our lower ones. If possible.” He shot a glance at Charles. “It’s time we abided by Rule Four of our code. If any man here wishes to have Emily he must convince her to take him. Once claimed, no others may try for her. There will be no more forcibly stolen kisses, not even from you, Godric. I am putting my foot down.”

  His command left Emily to wonder if perhaps he really was the group’s secret leader. Perhaps peerage did not actually affect the League’s inner politics.

  “But, Ash,” Charles protested, “you can’t expect us not to touch her. She’s so—”

  “Irresistible?” Godric said darkly. “Who the devil is in control, you or your loins?”

  “Yes, she has enchanted us all, but if she knew that she could use it against us. So again I say: if any man wants her, he’ll have to seduce her properly. If she resists that man’s advances, he has a duty to stop paying court to her.”

  “And any further discussions on the matter,” Lucien added, “shall be conducted in Greek.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Emily said in English, drawing all eyes back to her. “Is everything all right? I feel as though I’ve caused some trouble.” The tension in the room eased somewhat.

  “Not at all, Emily,” Lucien replied. “We were merely telling Charles he could not repeat his actions…unless you wish it, of co
urse.”

  Charles grinned.

  “I…” Her face heated and she turned away in embarrassment. “I am not sure what I wish. I’ve never had such attentions paid to me until being brought here. I find it all overwhelming.” The guilty looks on their faces proved they believed her. Excellent. She stood a chance of escaping after all. She’d never realized how persuasive feminine wiles could be until she’d had these five men struggling to figure her out and woo her. Fools.

  “Then I must apologize for my forward conduct, Emily.” Charles bowed his head respectfully.

  “Apology accepted.” She allowed Godric and Charles serve her a late luncheon from either side of her, pretending to ignore how even that had become a competition. How funny it was that, two days before, she could not have imagined she would have five roguish lords to eat out of the palm of her hand. Emily smiled as she ate, and watched.

  She belongs to me. I will have her.

  Thomas Blankenship ascended the steps to his townhouse, seething. He knew what that fool Parr was up to. He means to play me against Essex in a secret bidding war. Well, I won’t play that game. She’s mine.

  He pounded his fist on the door rather than use the knocker.

  His wizened butler, Baltus, appeared at the door. “Welcome back, sir.”

  Blankenship only growled and stamped past him into the hall. He shrugged out of his coat and threw it at the footman who waited by the stairs.

  “Bring me brandy in my study, Baltus.”

  The dimly-lit study reflected the remainder of the house. Years of grime coated the windows and fireplace. Dust layered the books on the shelves and ink stains splotched the worn carpet beneath his desk. He had more than enough money to keep his house clean and in good repair, but he rather liked the symbolic decay of his living quarters. It reminded him of his own life, and urged him to fight harder to claim what he desired. Emily Parr.

  Blankenship threw himself into his chair and closed his eyes. His anger was a living, breathing creature, burrowed deep in his chest. Its bloody claws raked his insides and its beady black eyes fixed on his soul. He challenged the beast, pinning it inside the dark place in his head. He still had control, for a while yet.

  The butler entered with a decanter of brandy and poured a glass, setting it on the counter.

  “Will there be anything else?” Baltus wheezed.

  “No.”

  Blankenship wrapped a fist around the crystal and swirled the amber contents around. The rich color was like Emily’s hair. His thoughts drifted back to the girl. He had to possess her. Her mother had escaped his grasp, but Emily would not.

  Nineteen years ago, when he’d been in his late thirties, he’d still made social rounds in pursuit of a bride. The simpering, delicate flowers of the ton hadn’t impressed him until he met Clara.

  Clara Belarmy. Witty, intelligent and a true diamond of the first water. With auburn gold hair, eyes the color of succulent plums. She was an original.

  He had loved her, like every other man. He spent a fortune in bouquets on her, danced more than one of those dreadful quadrilles with her. Yet she never turned her gaze his way. She always slipped off in the middle of balls to be with that young, idealistic fool, Robert Parr.

  Yet Blankenship had held out hope she might consider him for a husband, given his wealth. He’d shown up on her doorstop, his mother’s ring fitted just for her. Clara hadn’t been available for visitors, and the butler turned him away. As he passed the window that faced the street, he caught a glimpse of Clara tucked in Robert’s arms, kissing him with wild abandon.

  He knew what sort of woman gave her charms to the first willing man. A harlot.

  After that he abandoned London’s ballrooms altogether. He focused on his business deals and harmed any investments Robert Parr made, forcing the young wedded couple to relocate to the country, where living expenses weren’t so high.

  But it hadn’t been enough. He needed to wound Clara as much as she’d wounded him.

  The news of her and Robert’s deaths left him cold inside. He ground his teeth at the memory. Without the fires of hatred to fuel him, he’d kept a loaded pistol in his study, ready to fill his mouth.

  Then he learned of Emily.

  How Clara kept the girl a secret he didn’t know. But, once he heard the girl had moved in with her uncle, he had to see her.

  He began to visit Albert at his club, talking him into taking loans for investment opportunities. It was only too easy to convince Albert to invest with him and even easier to see that such schemes failed miserably. Parr had been forced to offer Emily up as a potential bride in order to settle debts. In a matter of days he secured an invitation to Parr’s residence.

  Finally, Blankenship caught a glimpse of her, seated at a table in the small library, her hair undressed so that it hung in riotous waves the color of evening sunlight about her shoulders. She looked every inch the wanton creature he craved beneath him in his bed.

  For a second, his youthful longing flared up, like a distant star, before night fell heavy in his hardened heart.

  She was just like her mother. A tease.

  Women like her belonged on their knees.

  In his study, Blankenship’s lips curved in a lazy smile. Soon she would be his. Emily would wear the loveliest gowns, the most expensive jewels. The ton would know he was her master, and with her by his side, he would put those aristocrats in their place.

  Each night, he would rip the clothes from Emily’s body, bend her over the nearest hard surface and plow her until she begged for mercy. He’d let her maintain a fiery spirit, just to keep things interesting. Punishing her rebelliousness would be intensely arousing. Having Emily under his control would ease the ache of losing her mother. It was only fair.

  He palmed his aching arousal, groaning at the thought of digging his hands into Emily’s hair to force himself into her mouth. Her body would be a haven for his own longings and would make up for the years of dissatisfaction he’d had with other women when all he’d wanted had been Clara. If he pretended hard enough, Emily would be Clara, Clara would be Emily, they would be one and the same and his hunger for pleasure and for Clara would be sated.

  Visions of Clara still haunted his closed eyes. He hadn’t always craved to hurt, to punish. If only he’d had Clara for his own, he would have been gentle, taken care of her. But she’d refused him, married that young buck, and dashed every dream Blankenship had.

  Emily was the price of revenge for his shattered dreams. She would pay for her mother’s betrayal. She would bear his brats, secure his line and curry favor with the ton so that he could line his pockets with their wealth.

  He sipped his glass of brandy and leaned back in his chair.

  Luncheon was a much quieter affair than breakfast.

  Charles’s desire to kiss her had brought an issue to the forefront, and the gentlemen were still coming to terms with the danger that she presented to them. She was contemplating this amusing form of karma when a hand settled on her knee under cover of the table, heavy and possessive as it tightened then coasted up her thigh, gently pulling her dress up with it.

  A rising blush on her face mimicked the heat that rose between her legs.

  Her lowered gaze drifted in Godric’s direction. His right hand was conspicuously absent from the table.

  “Are you all right, Emily?” Lucian asked. “You look a bit flushed.”

  Emily shoved her bowl of soup away.

  “I think the soup has overheated me.” She tried not to look at Godric.

  The hand, which had paused while she answered Lucien, began to move back and forth along her thigh, fingers digging into the rumpled fabric of her dress, seeking bare skin. The sensation was so overpowering that she barely held her teacup without shaking. She dared not try to remove his hand.

  Her only thought was of Godric’s body on hers, and his mouth on hers, kissing in sweet agony as he had at the lake that morning. Would she ever be free of such memories? Did she want to be?


  The moment luncheon was over, Emily jumped out of her seat. All of the men looked up at her with concern.

  “Excuse me!” She ran to her room. It was the only place in which she felt safe enough to hide as she fought off the unwelcome desire she held for her captor.

  She climbed onto the massive bed and curled up on her side near the headboard, clutching a pillow to her chest. The heat had spread to her whole body, and she needed a moment alone to regain control.

  Ashton appeared in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame.

  “Am I not to have a moment’s peace?” she asked.

  The room seemed to shrink as he strode in. Every movement he made was graceful, yet she sensed he calculated every action. He approached her vanity table, pausing to let a finger trail over the wood surface before it bumped into a silver hairbrush. Lifting the brush up, he studied it intensely.

  He was the most polished of the rogues, yet for all of his barely concealed strength, a weakness shimmered in him. In his eyes, the way they softened on her when he looked up.

  As though sensing her thoughts, Ashton set the brush down, and leaned casually on the bed post at the foot of the bed. He crossed his arms and stared at her, a silent challenge, not a threat.

  “I’m not going to run,” she said. Not right now.

  A corner of Ashton’s mouth curved up. “You’re too clever for that.” But he remained all the same. She sighed heavily.

  “I am surprised you haven’t asked me about him yet,” Ashton said cryptically.

  “Asked about whom?”

  “Godric.”

  “Oh, you must pardon me.” Her tone was light but sarcastic. “My usual curiosity has a way of waning when I’m held against my will.”

  Ashton ignored the sarcasm. “Would you like to know about him?”

  “Yes.” She wished she hadn’t replied. The last thing she needed was for Ashton to think she was interested in Godric, for if he told Godric, she’d fight even harder against his amorous advances.

  “Godric has had a hard life, despite being a duke. His mother died when he was barely six years old.”