Wicked Seduction Read online

  “Sweet,” he finally forced out. “I like it sweet.”

  Perhaps so, she thought, but surely not as sweet as what Rose’s tea had been this afternoon. She plopped one large teaspoon of sugar in it and extended cup and saucer carefully toward him. He took it as if they were in the regent’s drawing room, with precise fingers and a refined, “Thank you.”

  It was all very normal, she thought, and yet absolutely bizarre. They were not in a salon, the regent’s or otherwise. And even though he was the cousin of an earl, his hands were scarred with cuts and layered with calluses. His clothing was that of a poor sailor, and he had nearly choked her to death. And yet, she sipped her tea with him in companionable silence as if this were truly the most normal thing in the world.

  “Were you at a ball this evening?” he asked, gesturing to her attire.

  “What?” she gasped as she was jolted from her musing. “Oh no. A musical evening. Boring really, but unmarried women must be seen.”

  He nodded but didn’t comment. She searched his face for a clue but got nothing. She wondered if he’d heard her uncle’s proposition this afternoon. Surely he had a thought or an opinion. Then she nearly kicked herself for her stupidity. Was she hoping for a rescuer? She of all people knew that they didn’t exist. In fact, the very idea soured her stomach and she set down her teacup with a click.

  “You know,” she said a little too tartly. “We must consider the question of your payment. Uncle Frank will bluster and threaten, but do not allow him to charge you more than a shilling a night. He should not be charging you at all, but his Christian charity apparently stopped with me.” It took a moment for her to realize what she’d said, and then her mood abruptly plummeted. Apparently, her uncle had something other than charity in mind when he’d opened his doors to her. But that was not for tonight’s discussion, and certainly not with this man. He had enough difficulties of his own. So thinking, she continued to babble to cover her own embarrassment. “If he insists, you must agree to whatever he says, but tell him you will pay me. It shall be no more than a shilling, I assure you. I will cover the rest with the household accounts.”

  He arched a brow at her. The look was especially dashing on him, with his sun-weathered face and his rugged growth of beard. All he needed was an eye patch and all the girls would be swooning. “Do you do that often?” he asked, his voice low enough to produce a shiver across her skin.

  “What?”

  “Lie to cover for your uncle’s boorish manners?”

  How was she to answer that? Normally she would consider lying, if only to preserve the family name for Rose’s sake. But she had the distinct feeling that he would see through any falsehood, so she simply shrugged. “I’m told that he was once a very kind man. When Aunt Susan was alive, when he was young and in the flush of his youth.”

  “And now?”

  She sighed. “Now, I sometimes lie to cover for his lacks.” Then she lowered her lashes in shame only to be startled when his hand covered hers.

  “We all do what we must to survive, Miss Wilson.”

  Her gaze leaped to his, startled by the depth of feeling in those quiet words. And in his eyes, she saw compassion wholly absent in anyone of her acquaintance. A level of understanding that had her vision blurring with tears. Good God, she could not be about to sob! Not when all he had done was extend a simple kindness.

  He must have seen the tears. He must have known how deeply she was about to embarrass herself because he abruptly withdrew his touch. Pushing back from his seat, he looked toward the straining buckets. “I believe I shall leave the question of payment for tomorrow, if you please. I think a bath and shave is all I can manage for one night.”

  She nodded, knowing that he was covering for her. She was the one who couldn’t manage tonight. At the moment, he appeared able to handle any difficulty in his path. “Of course,” she said as evenly as possible. “I shall find you a razor.”

  “And I shall get some more water.”

  She turned to leave, only to have him stop her. He gripped her wrist before she even realized he’d moved. And when she looked back at him in question, his eyes were burning with intensity.

  “Mr. Frazier?” she whispered, startled by his abrupt shift in mood.

  “I shall need help,” he said, his voice thick. “You said your father was a doctor. That you cared for his patients? His male patients?”

  She nodded slowly. “I often helped my father,” she said the words, not entirely sure what she was answering. There was something in his expression, something underlying his words that she did not understand.

  His fingers tightened, then abruptly released and his eyes canted away. “I had a fever recently and my hands still shake. I would ask Alex, but . . .”

  “Oh!” she said, beginning to understand. “Oh no. Alex is still too young. Too much nervous energy in his hands.”

  He nodded, and she saw relief in his eyes. “I am steady for most things,” he said softly, “but razors . . .” A quiet tremor shook his body. “I do not like razors.”

  It took her a moment to connect razors with his scars. Had he been cut viciously? By a vile pirate? It was a leap of logic, but not a far one. She swallowed and gave him a smile. “You have nothing to fear,” she said softly. “I am extremely steady. I will shave you tonight, and tomorrow will sort itself out soon enough.”

  His eyes widened, and she thought for a moment there was admiration in their depths. “Do you think so, Miss Wilson?” he asked softly. “Do you truly think that tomorrow will bring better things?”

  “Of course,” she answered calmly. “What else should one think?”

  He had no answer for that except a harsh guttural grunt that might have been laughter, except there was no lightness in it. And when she pulled away, her heart beating in her throat, he immediately shuttered his expression and looked away.

  “Mr. Frazier?” she finally said.

  “My apologies. Returning to England has me more unsettled than I thought.”

  “Of course, sir, but—”

  “Enough, angel,” he interrupted quietly. “Just get the razor. I shall prepare the bath.”

  Chapter 4

  Kit poured the last of the filtered water into the large pot over the fire. The wooden tub was already half filed. Within ten minutes, he would have enough scalding water for a bath like a civilized man. Ironic that, since he had never felt less civilized.

  He thought he’d put the past behind him. A slave for three years, but free for four. He’d used that time to become less of an animal, to forgive his family, and to become the man he was now. But, seeing Michael and Lily again had been hard. Then to overhear through a doorway that his mother and grandmother were dead. And finally, that Scher, sweet Scher, the love of his youth, was married to his cousin and not more than a month after his disappearance? That was a cruel cut, deep into his soul.

  He told himself it didn’t matter. He had other things on his mind. Alex for one. Then the angel outside his door being opportuned by her uncle. All of these things distracted him, helped him push the pain away so he could pretend he did not ache. And it had worked for a time.

  But now he was with this woman, this naive girl who spoke of sorting out his future when her own was in such disarray. He alternated between wanting to shield her from the world’s ills and wanting to shake her for her ignorance! Didn’t she know her uncle planned to have her? Didn’t she understand how used she was in this household?

  Of course she did. She was not stupid. She knew her only hope was to delay her uncle and pray that she found a husband quickly. And in the meantime, she ran the household, forced her uncle to accept two strangers into his home, and still had sweetness enough to talk of his future. The depth of her goodness stunned him, overwhelmed him, and made him insane with hunger.

  Good God, he wanted her beneath him, spread for him alone. He wanted to take her as a man claims a woman, and in so doing he would see if her goodness was real. He would either break
it or own it, but it would be his.

  Kit clenched his jaw, refusing to release his howl of fury. Was he a beast then? Was he a slave again, forced to steal any tiny scrap of joy, consuming it quickly before it disappeared? This was why he had waited so many years to return to England. He knew then that he was more animal than man, a beast that walked upright and pretended to civility. He thought four years as a free man had changed him. He thought he was ready to return now.

  How wrong!

  One look at Miss Madeline Wilson, and he was surging with equal parts lust and fury. It hadn’t been bad during the daylight when there were people and things to distract him. But now, alone in her kitchen? He wanted her with a hunger that frightened him. She was a gently reared lady and he would hurt her. And yet, he could not send her away. If anything, he wanted to push her, to see just how deep her sweetness went.

  She was coming! He could smell her scent on the air and hear the light tread of her steps. He waited, breath suspended for her entrance. He knew the moment she appeared, and the beast inside him relished her soft squeak of alarm.

  “What are you doing?”

  Stripping so that she would see his scars and know him for the animal he was. That’s what he thought, but not how he answered. Instead, his mouth curved into a slightly mocking smile. “I can hardly bathe in my clothing, can I?”

  Her face was flushed, her eyes wide with fright. And she had never looked more beautiful. “B-but the water isn’t ready!”

  He turned to face her full on. He had yanked off his neckerchief, but had yet to pull off his shirt. Still, he had left the rough cotton open, exposing a small part of his chest if she dared to look.

  She didn’t. She kept her eyes firmly trained on his face, and her expression carefully blanked, though it took her two attempts before she could speak. “I—Um, if you would s-sit right here,” she said, gesturing to the chair by the large kitchen table, “I can shave you while you wait.” She offered him a white towel. “This will protect your shirt.”

  He curled his lip at the fine linen in her hand. “That towel cost ten times what my shirt did.” Then he tilted his head in challenge. “Have you never seen a man’s chest before?”

  She stiffened in outrage. “I am the daughter of a surgeon, Mr. Frazier. I have seen naked chests aplenty.”

  “Good. Then mine shall cause you no shock.” So saying he pulled off his shirt in a single swift movement. He meant to do it quickly, to reveal the horror that was his body as one might uncover a monster at a traveling fair. It had once been a favorite thing to do with the whores. Reveal his body, hear them scream. He could learn a lot about a whore from the way she reacted to his scars.

  So he stood half naked before his angel, silently daring her to run. She should be grateful she was only being treated to the sight of half his deformities.

  Except she didn’t run. She didn’t even scream, though he heard her gasp in shock. For a moment, he feared she was like the dead-inside whores who no longer cared about anything, least of all the condition of their customers. But one look at his angel’s face and he could see that she was not dead inside. Far from it.

  Her eyes were narrowed in thought as she inspected his chest. The large crescent scar was most obvious, beginning at his collarbone, curving around his torso to end at his waist. Most people stared at that, but she saw more than the large sweeping cut. He watched as her eyes picked up the pattern of smaller slashes, deeper, darker wounds.

  “You have been whipped,” she said softly.

  He nodded.

  “And stabbed, as well.” Then she pointed to a series of parallel lines just above his navel. “But these lines . . .”

  “A razor,” he rasped. “Wielded with great skill.”

  “And designed to give pain.” She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Mr. Frazier,” she whispered. “I am so sorry.”

  He meant to say something cutting then. He had come across sweet women every now and then, usually innocents abducted as he had been. Girls too shocked or dim-witted to realize the hell that would be their lives from then on. He always said something cruel to reinforce that there was no room for tender emotions there.

  But he was not in the bowels of a slave ship. He was in a London kitchen standing in front of a woman who had simply offered soft words. Suddenly, he felt ashamed of himself, for ripping off his shirt just to frighten her and for treating her as he did a common whore. He grabbed his shirt, his fingers fumbling with the coarse fabric.

  She stopped him with a touch on his arm. “Please sit. It will be easier that way.”

  He had no choice but to obey. He had abused her enough already. He sat in the chair as she wrapped the starched white linen across his chest. “There’s no need to soil—” he began.

  “Of course there is,” she said as she clipped the drape behind his back with a clothespin. “You can’t possibly want the shaving lather dribbling down your chest. And besides, I need something to wipe the blade on.”

  He had no argument to that. She was right. And perhaps, he thought belatedly, she was avoiding the sight of his scars. Either way, he sat still, his hands gripping the side of the chair as she set about the business of lathering his face. Kit, of course, had felt such civilized wonders before. He’d had a valet once. One with a bad hand at shaving, as he recalled. His angel’s hand was sure and steady, her movements efficient enough to show that she had done this many times before.

  “Who did you shave before?” he asked, his words unexpectedly harsh.

  Her hands were busy dabbing on the lather about his face, but her eyes were steady as she looked at him. “Patients, from time to time. And then my father during his last months. This is his shaving kit.”

  There was a melancholy in her voice that pricked his conscience. He had no cause to be jealous of any man she may or may not shave. And from the sound of things, she could very well be performing this duty for Uncle Frank soon enough. That thought soured him enough that he grimaced.

  “Stay still,” she admonished. “I do not wish to cut you.”

  He almost smiled at that. Given what he’d lived through, he doubted a little nick would bother him. But she was applying a blade to his throat, so he closed his eyes and appreciated the wonder of her touch. Firm. Efficient. With only the slightest hint of a tremble.

  No, he realized with shock. That was not her shaking but him. Why was he shaking? She moved to his side, and her skirt brushed against his forearm. It was coarse cotton, this time. She had changed from her white gown when she’d gone to fetch the razor. Now she wore a dark blue thing that somehow looked more appealing than her white frilly thing.

  “You changed your gown,” he said, rather than allow himself to think about his reaction to her. “I like this one better.”

  Her hands stilled against his cheek. And when they did not resume, he opened his eyes in question.

  “Why would you say such a thing?” she asked, obviously wounded.

  He frowned, confused. “This one fits you better. And you should be in bolder colors.”

  “It is a work dress.”

  “It is not too small with panels on the side and an extra flounce at the hem.”

  “It is a work dress.”

  “Then your musicale dresses should look more like your work dresses.”

  She had no answer to that. Neither did he. Of all the things to be cross with him about, this was the oddest. But it did set his mind to churning. And before long, he began to speak, moving his lips as little as possible when she resumed her task at his beard.

  “At the musicale this evening . . .” he began.

  “Yes?”

  “I must have been the topic of the hour.”

  He chanced a look at her face and saw her lips quirk in a half grimace, half laugh. “Yes, you were.”

  “And you must have been the woman of the hour too for bringing me to your home.”

  “Oh no, that was Rose. She painted quite a picture of you
as the doomed pirate returning home to fresh heartbreak.”

  “Me? But Alex—”

  “Alex was cast as the insane servant, defending your honor but so mad as to not know he was attacking an earl.”

  He swallowed, wondering how all that the boy had experienced could be narrowed down to so few words. “Did they . . . Did you spend the whole time recounting the tale? Or did you hear anything else?”

  She finished with one side of his face and shifted to the other. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” he said. He looked at her, the hunger surging anew. He did not want to ask her these questions. He wanted to be strong and whole for her. But he had to know, and she was the only one here to tell him. “About my family,” he finally forced out. “I have three brothers. And there is the question of Scheherazade. How could she . . . Is she really . . .”

  “Is she truly Lady Blackstone?”

  “Yes.” He flushed. He had given up thought of her years ago, but still part of him yearned to know.

  She sighed, a soft puff of air that cooled his ear where the water had splashed. “Are you sure you wish to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. I will tell you everything I heard, but I cannot guarantee that it is true.”

  “Whatever you know would help.” And it would distract him from his desire to cross the bare inch that separated them and caress her, hold her, take her.

  Obviously unaware of his thoughts, she began to speak. While she scraped at his face, she listed off all that she had heard, her musical voice a temptation all its own. He could have gotten lost in her voice. He closed his eyes and let the sound sink into his bones. But in time, his mind caught up with her words, and he began marveling anew.

  Her mind was obviously sharp, her memory excellent, but as she recounted every detail, he noticed a particular emphasis: that of a woman on the hunt for a husband. Listening to her, he could understand how her mind cataloged each person, noted specifics of clothing and conversation, and logged them in her brain as one of two things: eligible for matrimony or not.