Wicked and the Wallflower

Chapter Nineteen

She wanted him.

Not this moment, on the whispering bench in the gardens, though that, too.

She wanted him, forever.

And not only because she didn’t want the strange duke who seemed uninterested in marriage and even less interested in the trappings of it. No, she wanted him because she wanted a man who kissed her like she was everything he would ever want. She wanted a man who teased her and then bewitched her with long-ago stories. She wanted a man who made promises to her that only he could keep.

She wanted this man. Devil.

She didn’t know his name or his past, but she knew his eyes and his touch and the way he saw her and listened to her, and she wanted him. For a partner. For a future.

Here, in the gardens of her family home. In Covent Garden. In Patagonia. Wherever he liked.

And when he went to his knees in front of her, like he’d been there a thousand times before, placing one hand on her hip and the other around her neck to pull her to him and kiss her, she wanted him even more, and not only because his kiss made her want to live here, on this bench, his whispered temptation in her ears, his lips on her skin, for the rest of her life.

“Felicity Faircloth, you shall ruin me,” he whispered, taking her mouth, stealing kisses between his words. “I swore I would come here . . . to tell you to leave me alone . . . to tell you to forget about me.”

Her hands came to his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt as he slid his lips across her cheek, taking the lobe of her ear between his teeth and worrying it. “I don’t want to leave you alone,” she whispered. “I don’t want to forget about you.”

I don’t want to marry another.

He pulled away, putting enough distance between them that he could search her face. “Why?”

How could he ask her that? How could she find the answer?

“Because I want to see all of you,” she replied, the echo of the story he’d just told her. “I want to see your past and your future.”

He shook his head. “I’m not a god, Felicity Faircloth. I’m the very opposite of one. And you’re too good for my past or my future.”

What of your present? she wanted to ask him, desperately. Instead, she pulled him to her and he came, kissing her again, growling low in the back of his throat, licking over her lips until she opened for him and he could tease inside, tempting her. She sighed, and he rewarded the sound by deepening the kiss, one hand scrambling her hairpins as the other found her ankle, smooth and bare beneath her skirts. His warm fingers wrapped around her ankle, strong and firm, then began to tease up the inside of her leg. “Again, no stockings,” he said. “My wicked wallflower.”

“Wait,” she gasped, and he did, his touch stilling instantly when she pulled back from him, wanting to see his eyes—those beautiful amber eyes, ringed in black. “Why do you lie to me?”

“Do I lie to you?”

She searched his face for a long moment before she said, “I think you do, you know. I think you lie every time you look at me.”

“I lie every time I look at anyone.”

“Tell me something true,” she said.

“I want you.” The words were instant, and she saw the honesty in them. Pleasure thrummed through her.

It wasn’t enough. “Something else.”

He shook his head. “There is nothing else. Not right now.”

“Another lie,” she whispered, but she leaned in and kissed him anyway, feeling his desire. Matching it with her own. When the kiss ended, they were both panting. He wrapped a large, firm hand around the back of her neck and pressed his forehead to hers. He closed his eyes and said, achingly soft, “It’s the only truth. I want you. I’ve never in my life even dreamed of wanting something like you. Something pristine and perfect.” His eyes opened, finding hers instantly. “It’s like wanting sunlight.”

This man was going to be the end of her. He was going to ruin her for all others.

“You can’t hold sunlight, though,” he whispered. “No matter how much you wish to touch it, it slips through your fingers, chased away by the dark.”

She shook her head. “You’re wrong. Sunlight is not chased away by dark. It fills it up.” And then she kissed him again, and he took control, tempering her eagerness with his superior skill—making the caress slow and long and deep, his fingers tracing up the inside of her leg.

She let him touch her, let him tease her knee, made room for his touch on that skin that had never been touched before. She gasped as he moved higher, his touch like a whisper, barely there and consuming her nonetheless.

He broke the kiss. “So soft,” he said, pressing warm, full kisses down the column of her neck as she gasped her pleasure. “Like silk.” He stroked up her thigh, leaving fire in his wake until he reached a satin and lace edge. He fingered the ribbon he found there, and she willed it gone. “Are these . . .”

She nodded, knowing she should be more embarrassed. Not caring. “The ones you gave me.”

“If I were to look—” He tugged on the tie, loosening the pant leg, and she closed her eyes at the sensation. “They would be pink?”

She nodded.

“May I?”

Her eyes shot open. “May you what?”

“May I look?”

Only if you promise to touch, as well.

Somehow, she refrained from saying the words. But she could not refrain from nodding, knowing she shouldn’t. Knowing that she wanted everything he promised.

The moment she did, he moved, sitting back to lift her skirts and reveal her. Her cheeks blazed as he reached for the pink silk ribbons. “I will remember these pretty pink ribbons,” he said softly, to himself more than her as his warm fingers slid beneath along her thigh, beneath the fabric, “for the rest of my life.”

She leaned back, giving him more access. “I will remember this.”

His gaze flickered to hers. His hand moving up to her waist, to another pink ribbon, one he could not see but undid effortlessly nonetheless. “This?”

She gasped. “Yes.”

He clasped the waistband. “Shall I give you other memories, love?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and he tugged, removing the undergarment with efficiency. “Please.”

Tossing it to the side, he returned his hands to her legs, now fully bare, draped in the pink silk of her dress. “So much prettier without the ribbons,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her knee, the caress sending heat rioting through her. “Open for me, love.”

Perhaps it was the feel of the command against that skin that no one had ever touched.

Perhaps it was the sound of it—the growl that set her heart to pounding.

But it was very likely the rest that had Felicity opening her thighs to the air and the sun and this magnificent man.

It was the endearment. Love.

He was dangerous indeed.

Because the moment she did as he asked, his strong, warm, work-hewn hands came to the insides of her knees and held her open, his gaze locked to the shadowed space between her thighs, his throat working as though he were holding himself back from—

She reached for him, her fingers trailing down the side of his face, running over his scar, stark white but for the muscle twitching beneath it. “You look as though . . .” He met her eyes, and what she saw there took her breath. “You look . . .”

“Hungry.” His hands moved then, beautifully, sliding up her thighs, pushing her skirts as far back as they would go. “I am hungry for you, Felicity Faircloth. I am starved for you.” His fingers reached the dark curls that shielded her sex. “I want to touch you, love. And I want more. I want to taste you.”

The words might have shocked her, but he punctuated them with a gentle stroke, a slow slide as he parted her. “I want to know every inch of you. What gives you pleasure.” A movement. A deep, delicious groan. “You’re so wet for me.”

A blush rose on her cheeks, and he shook his head, coming up on his knees to steal a kiss. “No,” he whispered. “Never be embarrassed of that. You want it, don’t you? My touch?”

She closed her eyes. “Yes.” More than anything.

“You want my kiss.”

She pulled him to her. Took his lips. “Yes.”

“Greedy girl. You may have it any time you ask.”

The words sent a flood of liquid fire through her. “I want it now.”

He laughed at the words, low and rough. “I want to give it to you.” He stroked, and she gasped. “You like that?” She nodded, lifting her hips toward his touch. “Here?” A long, lingering touch. “Or here?” A slow circle, firm and gentle. She gasped. “Ah . . .” he said. “There.”

Another circle, and her spine went straight, her fingers tightening on his shoulder, her eyes closing, her mouth dropping open. “Yes. There. Please.”

“Hmm.” The circular strokes continued, lazy and perfect, and thought scrambled. She reached down to grasp his hand, her fingers circling his wrist. “Do you wish me to stop?”

“No!” She gasped. “Yes. I don’t . . .” He did, and she hated him a little for it. Her eyes opened. “Don’t stop.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, then said, “I think I should show you something else.”

“But I liked that!” she protested.

“You shall like this more,” he whispered.

She arched toward him as his fingers retreated. “Devil, please.”

“Devon.”

She met his gaze, clear and beautiful and full of something she did not quite recognize. “What?”

“Call me Devon.”

Her heart threatened to pound from her chest, her hand sliding up over his cheek. “Devon.”

In response, he lowered his head to her thigh, as though in worship. Which was mad, of course. He was the one who deserved worship. She stroked his hair, her fingers trembling with need for him. For his kiss, yes. His touch, yes. But him. “Devon,” she whispered again.

The name unlocked him, and he pressed a soft kiss to her thigh, and another, and another, chasing the soft skin to her sex, her hands still stroking his smooth, short hair. He parted her folds, opening her to his gaze, and, for a moment, she struggled, embarrassed by his actions.

Until he spoke, his breath hot and devastating against her. “So beautiful.” He pressed a kiss directly above her sex, inhaling deeply, as though summoning strength. “I shouldn’t have told you. Now you own me.”

If only it were true. And still. . . . “Devon.”

He looked up at her then, his eyes all she could see. “Show me what you like.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know . . .”

“You will.” And then he was kissing her, and she was lost, gasping her pleasure as he pressed his tongue into her softness and made love to her with those slow, languid circles he’d discovered she liked so much. Felicity was undone, her hands at his head as his tongue stroked over the swollen, aching center of her, sending wave after wave of pleasure through her.

Her fingers tightened, holding him against her. She moved against him, and Devil—Devon—groaned, letting her use him, savoring her, impossibly, like she was all he’d ever desired. At the sound, Felicity released him, embarrassed, and he lifted his head instantly, ending her pleasure. No! She shook her head, raising her hands. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

He reached for one of them, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm as he returned it to his head. “Don’t ever apologize for taking what you want, love. For showing me how to give you pleasure.”

She closed her eyes, horrified by the words, certain that women did not do such a thing.

Devil returned to his task, his tongue flickering just barely at the core of her. Too lightly. Barely there. She opened her eyes. “Devon.” The name came on a whine. His eyes met hers over the long expanse of her torso, and she saw the mischief in them. “Please,” she said. “More.”

“Show me,” he said, continuing his teasing. She knew what he wanted from her. Could she do it?

He leaned back and blew a long, slow stream of air over her. Gentle. Useless. Dammit. She lifted her hips. He rewarded the movement with a little suck to her straining flesh. She gasped.

And then, the monster, he returned to his barely-there touch. “Do it!”

He lifted his head, and gave her a look of pure challenge. “You do it.”

God help her, she did, guiding him to her, lifting her hips, taking her pleasure. In response, he wrapped his arms around her hips, pulling her closer, holding her tight and firm, feasting at her as she sighed his name again and again, writhing against him. He moved one hand to add to her pleasure, sliding it inside her, finding a spot that made her see stars. “Devon!”

His response was a growl, the vibration adding to the immense pleasure he wrung from her, the command in it making her grasp tighten, her hips rise, her pleasure crest. And Felicity was lost, unable to do anything but give herself up to this magnificent man and his magnificent touch, pulsing against him, crying out his name as the world tilted and everything she knew changed.

And somehow, as she flew apart, she began to laugh.

It was uncontrollable—an exclamation of deep, nearly unbearable euphoria, rolling through her as he summoned pleasure from her, as she moved against him and let herself go. She laughed and laughed and reveled in this man, his kiss, his touch, her fingers scraping through his tightly shorn hair.

Soon, his mouth softened, his fingers stilling as she quieted. He turned his head, setting his lips to her thigh once more, softly. She caressed his head and face, the back of his neck and his beautiful wide shoulders, not wanting to let him go. “Was that—”

He looked up at her, and she could read the desire in his eyes, dark and sinful. “It was glorious.”

She blushed. “I didn’t expect . . . I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“I know.”

Was it normal to laugh? She couldn’t ask him. So instead she said, “I’ve never felt that way.”

Something flashed across his face, there and then gone before she could read it, replaced by a sly smile, one side of his beautiful mouth tilting up. “I know, love. I was there. I felt you against me. Tight around my fingers. Pulsing against my tongue. And that laugh . . . it was the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard. For the rest of time, I shall hear that laugh in my dreams.”

And then he stood, stroking the palms of his hands down his thighs, the last rays of sun turning the sky bloodred behind him.

He was gone. Still there, but gone from her, as though he’d never been there to begin with. She came forward on the bench. “Devon?”

He shook his head, barely glancing at her. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not for you.”

The words stung like a blow. She stiffened.

He swore, low and dark, running his hands over his perfectly formed head. She hated that she noticed that perfection. Hated that she noticed everything about him—the dark slash of his brows, low over his eyes, the furrow between them. The straight line of his nose and the barely-there indentation at the tip of it. The shadow of beard on his cheeks, as though he could not shave enough to keep its darkness at bay. And that scar, wicked and beautiful because it was his.

Not for you.

Never to be hers.

He was the lock she would never pick.

It didn’t matter that he seemed to know a dozen ways to open her.

“You asked me for something true,” he said, gruff edge in his voice. “Earlier.”

She stood, wanting to be free of the bench that would never be hers again, because it would always be his. “Yes. And you lied.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I told you I wanted you.”

For a moment, not forever. She didn’t say it, and she was proud of herself.

“And I didn’t lie when I told you that my name wasn’t for you, either.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. It didn’t have to sting twice. “Yes, Devil. I am not addlebrained. I understand your birth name is too precious to share with me.”

He looked away again. Cursed again. “For Christ’s sake, Felicity. When I say it isn’t for you, it’s because it’s not precious at all. Because it defiles you to speak it.”

She shook her head. “I don’t—”

“It’s not my birth name; I don’t have a birth name. I was found, days old, wrapped in swaddling clothes and screaming on the banks of the River Culm, a note pinned to me, with instructions that I was to be sent to my father.”

Dear God.

Her chest tightened at the words. At the vision of him, a child. A babe. Left. “Who would do such a thing?”

“My mother,” he said without emotion. “Before she filled her pockets and walked into the water, thinking me better off without her.” Felicity felt ill. What must that poor woman have been facing? What fear must she have carried? What sadness?

And then he added, “She thought he would accept me.”

Of course she’d thought that. Who wouldn’t accept him, this pillar of a man, proud and strong and brilliant and bold? How could any man not love such a son?

How could anyone not love such a man?

How could anyone leave him?

The thought rioted through her on a flood of recognition. She loved him. Somehow, she’d fallen in love with him. What was she going to do?

She stepped toward him, reaching for him, wanting to show him. Wanting to love him. “Devil.”

He shook his head at the whispered name and stepped back, refusing her touch, his words unfeeling. Miraculously so. “He did not come for me. And no one in town wanted a bastard castoff—so they sent me to an orphanage. I had no name, so they named me Devon Culm—for the county from whence I came and the river where my mother died.”

She reached for him again, only to have him pull away again. “Your father . . . he must not have known . . . the letter must not have found him . . . he would never have left you.”

“You will make a lovely mother someday,” he said. “I told you that once before, but I want you to know I mean it. There will come a time when you will have beautiful, mahogany-haired daughters, Felicity, and I want you to remember that you will be a remarkable mother.”

Her eyes stung with tears at the words—at the invocation of those children that she did not want if they were not shared with a man she loved. With this man, whom she loved.

“You wanted the truth, Felicity Faircloth, and there it is. I am so far beneath you that I soil you with my very thoughts.”

She lifted her chin. “That’s not true.” Did he not see he was magnificent? Did he not understand that he was ten men? Stronger and wiser and smarter than anyone she’d ever known?

He reached for her then, his fingers trailing over her cheek in a caress that felt too much like a farewell. She reached up to capture his hand. “Devil,” she repeated. “It’s not true.”

“I made a mistake,” he said, so softly it was almost carried away on the wind. The words made Felicity ache with sadness.

“This isn’t a mistake,” she said. “This is the best thing I have ever known.”

He shook his head. “You’ll never forgive me,” he said, looking at her. “Not if I take you from the life you deserve. Don’t seek me out again.”

He dropped his hand and turned away. She watched him go, willing him to turn back. Telling herself that if he turned back, it would mean something. If he turned back, he cared for her.

He didn’t.

And her frustration and irritation simmered over.

“Why?” she called after him, getting angrier by the moment. Hating the way he had stripped her bare and made her believe that she mattered—and then left her as though she were nothing but an afternoon distraction. As though she were nothing at all.

He stopped, but did not look at her.

She did not move, refusing to chase him. Even a wallflower had pride. But she let her frustration ring out. “Why me? Why give me a taste of this? Of you? Of your world? Why let me have it and then snatch it away?”

It was becoming more difficult to see him in the dimming light, and she wondered if he would answer her. When he did, it was soft enough that she wondered if he meant her to hear it. If he realized that the breeze would carry the words to her just as the bench had done earlier.

“Because you are too important.”

And he was gone, into the darkness.