Lady Gone Wicked (Wicked Secrets)(24)

She placed a hand on either side of his face, holding his mouth to hers while she scrambled onto his lap. She spread her knees to sit astride, but her night rail held her fast. Breathlessly, she broke the kiss and reached between them to free herself. She was bare beneath, and could not help but slide her finger against the needy nub at the center of her sex as she raised the garment to her waist.

In an instant he caught her hand in his own, bringing it to his mouth. He sucked the taste of her from her finger in one languorous pull, his eyes darkening with lust. Her hips rocked against him in response—oh, how she ached!—and again she sought his kiss.

She rubbed her tongue against the seam of his mouth, and his lips parted. Her hands tangled in his hair as his went to her breasts. He palmed their weight, squeezing gently, and again she rolled her hips against his hardness.

“Adelaide.” He broke the kiss with a groan. “Oh, angel, you will make me do something very wicked.”

His words stilled her. Was she mad?

The ache in her sex subsided, replaced with a much heavier, more painful throbbing in her bosom.

“Forgive me,” she said quietly. “I quite forgot myself.”

She moved to get off him. His hands flexed, the pads of his fingers digging into her thighs to keep her there…and then gentled as he released her.

She stood. “It would be best if you left the way you came, so as not to wake the servants. Can you manage to do so without injuring yourself?”

“Of course.” His voice was cool, but she dared not meet his eyes. “I have scaled walls twice this height.”

“Not whilst in your cups,” she said. Because she was worried for his safety. She allowed herself to focus on that, rather than the unbearable wound in her breast.

He paused. “I am not so very drunk. I find my senses rapidly returning.”

She flushed with shame.

She said nothing as he went through the open window. Interminable seconds passed into minutes before she allowed herself to look. He was gone. Uninjured, no doubt.

She did not sleep that night, instead staring at the ceiling while his words echoed in her head.

Wicked, wicked, wicked.

Only when the first light of dawn streaked through the white curtains did she finally wonder.

Why in heaven had Nick come to her bedroom?





Chapter Nineteen


Nick awoke the next morning to the realization that he had made a terrible mistake.

And not just because his eyeballs felt like they might explode in the light streaming through the window. Sunlight had been created solely to torture those who imbibed. Ten out of eleven days he could count on good old dreary English weather, but on the one day he felt the worse for drink, naturally the sun shone brilliantly, beaming down on its pale citizens like a fireball of doom.

That was how he felt. Doomed.

His intentions had been pure: sneak into her room, warn her off the loathsome lords, then bid her a gentlemanly adieu. But she had greeted him with those doe-dark eyes and soft, warm lips, and he had lost his wits—not that he’d had many to lose, thanks to the copious amounts of brandy he had consumed with Nate and Wessex.

He had wanted her—God, he had wanted her so badly. And she had certainly seemed willing—nay, eager—for one exquisite moment. Here, at last, had been the Adelaide he remembered, so sweetly desirous, so hungry for his kisses.

Thank God she had stopped him when she had. If he were not careful, they would end up married despite her adamant wishes to the contrary. And then what? She would learn what he was—what he truly was—and she would hate him. He didn’t think he could bear that.

He rose from his comfortable bed at the crack of noon and made himself presentable for breakfast. He could manage to feed himself, which was more than he expected of first sons in general and his elder brother in particular, but Nick preferred not to. Besides, he must meet with Montrose. Therefore, he found himself returning to his club a mere half day after leaving it.

He picked up his pace. It felt good to move, in spite of the slightly sick feeling in his stomach. Every stride put more distance between himself and his regrettable decisions.

The club was blessedly dim as he entered. He told the man to bring him cold chicken and strong tea, and if the man thought it was an odd choice, he kept it to himself. Nick looked about the club and, after noting Montrose in the far corner by the bookcase, took a seat and awaited his food and the morning paper.

A moment later the duke joined him. “Eastwood, at last.”

He sat, looking stiffly at ease, in the ducal way. Still, Nick liked Montrose, for all his elegant formality. There was a kindness to him that Nick knew was genuine.

The tea arrived, along with the chicken. Nick waved off the man and served himself.

Montrose watched with amusement. “You will have to learn less self-reliance once the letters patent are signed. A marquess must not serve his own tea. What would people say?”

“That there is a man who knows how to lift a teapot?” Nick suggested drily.

Montrose laughed, clearly not the least bit offended. Oh, yes, Nick liked the man greatly.

But would he like him for Adelaide’s husband? That was the question.

He offered tea to the duke, who declined with a shake of his head.

“I have news,” Montrose said. “I received word yesterday. A good number of the House of Lords have privately expressed support for your title. I believe in a fortnight’s time I shall have enough signatures to present to the Prince Regent. This is merely a formality, you understand. The signatures are not necessary to issue the letters patent, but the Prince Regent prefers the show of support.”