A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove, #2)

by Tessa Dare

When a girl trudged through the rain at midnight to knock at the Devil’s door, the Devil should at least have the depravity—if not the decency—to answer.

Minerva slumped forward. Her forehead met wood with a dull thunk. She kept her fist lifted overhead, beating on the door in an even, stubborn rhythm. She might very well be plain, bookish, distracted, and awkward—but she was determined. Determined to be acknowledged, determined to be heard. Determined to protect her sister, at any cost. Open, she willed. Open. Open. Op— The door opened. Swiftly, with a brisk, unforgiving whoosh. “For the love of tits, Thorne. Can’t it wait for—” “Ack.” Caught off balance, Minerva stumbled forward. Her fist rapped smartly against—not the door, but a chest. Lord Payne’s chest. His masculine, muscled, shirtless chest, which proved only slightly less solid than a plank of oak.

She exhaled, letting her patience stretch. And stretch. Until it expanded just enough to accommodate a teasing rake with a sieve-like memory. And stunningly well-defined shoulders.

Minerva decided she’d given him ample time to find a shirt and make himself presentable. She cleared her throat and slowly turned. “I’ve come to ask—” He was still half naked. He had not used the time to make himself presentable. He’d taken the chance to pour a drink. He stood in profile, making scrunched faces into a wineglass to assess its cleanliness. “Wine?” he asked. She shook her head. Thanks to his indecent display, a ferocious blush was already burning its way over her skin. Up her throat, over her cheeks, up to her hairline. She hardly needed to throw wine on the flames.

Once he’d thrust his arms through the sleeves, he held them out to either side for her appraisal. “Better?” Not really. The gaping collar still displayed a wide view of his chest—only with a lascivious wink instead of a frank stare. If anything, he looked more indecent.

Remarkable. The longer she stared at him now, the more she could actually feel her intelligence waning.

“A geology symposium.” He flicked a glance at the journal. “This is your scandalous midnight proposal. The one you trudged through the cold, wet dark to make. You’re inviting me to a geology symposium, if I leave your sister alone.” “What were you expecting me to offer? Seven nights of wicked, carnal pleasure in your bed?” She’d meant it as a joke, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, he eyed her sodden frock. Minerva went lobster red beneath it. Curse it. She was forever saying the wrong thing. “I’d have found that offer more tempting,” he said. Truly? She bit her tongue to keep from saying it aloud. How lowering, to admit how much his offhand comment thrilled her. I’d prefer your carnal pleasures to a lecture about dirt. High compliment indeed.

“Well,” he said. “Certainty becomes you.” Her heart gave a queer flutter. It was the nicest thing he’d ever said to her. She thought it might be the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

I sleep with women and I ruin things, but I’ve never yet ruined an innocent woman.” “Seems like a mere oversight on your part.” He chuckled. “Perhaps. But it’s not one I mean to remedy.” His eyes met hers, unguarded and earnest.

I’d return looking like the worst sort of seducer and cad. And justly so. Having absconded with, then callously discarded, an innocent young lady?” “Why couldn’t I be the one to discard you?” A little chuckle escaped him. “But who would ever believe—” He cut off his reply. A moment too late. “Who would ever believe that,” she finished for him. “Who indeed.” Cursing, he set aside the wineglass. “Come now. Don’t take offense.” Ten minutes ago, she would have expected him to laugh. She would have been prepared for his derision, and she wouldn’t have allowed him to see how it hurt. But things had changed. She’d accepted his coat and his wine. More than that, his honesty. She’d let down her guard. And now this. It cut her deep.

“I didn’t mean it that way.” “Of course you did. It’s preposterous. Laughable. The idea that you might want me, and I might spurn you? I’m plain. Bookish, distracted, awkward. Hopeless.” Her voice broke. “In a geologic age, no one would believe it.” She wriggled her feet into her boots. Then she pushed to her feet and reached for her cloak. He rose and reached for her hand. She pulled away, but not fast enough. His fingers closed around her wrist. “They would believe it,” he said. “I could make them believe it.” “You horrid, teasing man. You can’t even remember my name.” She wrestled his grip. He tightened it. “Minerva.” Her body went still. Her breath burned in her lungs, as though she’d been fighting her way through waist-deep snow.

“Listen to me now,” he said, smooth and low. “I could make them believe it. I’m not going to do so, because I think this scheme of yours is a spectacularly bad idea. But I could. If I chose, I could have all Spindle Cove—all England—convinced that I’m utterly besotted with you.” She sniffed. “Please.” He smiled. “No, truly. It would be so easy. I’d begin by studying you, when you aren’t aware of it. Stealing glances when you’re lost in thought, or when your head’s bent over a book. Admiring the way that dark, wild hair always manages to escapes its pins, tumbling down your neck.” With his free hand, he caught a damp strand of her hair in his fingertips and smoothed it behind her ear. Then he brushed a light touch over her cheek. “Noting the warm glow of your skin, where the sun has kissed it. And these lips. Damn. I think I’d have to develop quite a fascination with your lips.” His thumb hovered over her mouth, teasing her with possibilities. She ached for his touch, until she was miserable with it. This . . . unwanted wanting.

Don’t you know? A man might engage in flirtation with disinterest, even disdain. But he never teases without affection.”

The rich, deep flow of words had worked some kind of spell on her. She stood transfixed, unable to move or speak. It’s not real, she reminded herself. None of these words mean a thing. But his caress was real. Real, and warm, and tender. It could mean too much, if she let it. Caution told her to pull away. Instead, she placed a light, trembling touch to his shoulder. Foolish hand. Foolish fingers. “If I wished,” he murmured, drawing her close and tilting her face to his, “I could convince everyone that the true reason I’ve remained in Spindle Cove—months past what should have been my breaking point—has nothing to do with my cousin or my finances.” His voice went husky. “That it’s simply you, Minerva.” He caressed her cheek, so sweetly her heart ached. “That it’s always been you.” His eyes were sincere, unguarded. No hint of irony in his voice. He almost seemed to have convinced himself.

“You are the most deceitful, horrid, shameless, contemptible man I have ever had the displeasure to know. How do you sleep at night?” His reply came just as she banged the door closed. “I don’t.”

Lately, Colin thought he’d give his left nipple—bollocks were never up for negotiation—for a decent night’s sleep.

For a sharp-tongued bluestocking, she had the most full, ripe, sultry lips he’d ever seen. Lips copied from some Renaissance master’s Aphrodite. Dark red at the edges, and a paler hue toward the center—like two slices of a ripe plum. Sometimes she caught her lower lip beneath her teeth and worried it, as though savoring some hidden sweetness.

When Minerva lost herself in a book, her late father had once remarked, a man needed hounds and a search party to pull her back out. Alternatively, a low-hanging tree branch could do the trick.

Lord Payne, however, was in no hurry. He raised a flask to his mouth and tipped it. Minerva swallowed instinctively, as though she could feel the liquor burning down her own throat.

He was coming for Diana, naturally. Obviously. And she hated him for it. He was a horrid, horrid man. But her heart would not stop pounding. Heat gathered between her breasts. She’d always wondered what it would feel like to stand on one end of a ballroom and watch a handsome, powerful man make his way to her. This was as close as she’d ever come to it, she supposed. Standing at Diana’s side. Imagining. Suddenly anxious, she looked to the floor. Then the ceiling. Then she chided herself for her cowardice and forced herself to look at him. He drew to a halt and bowed, then offered a hand. “May I have this dance?” Minerva’s heart stalled. The book slipped from her hand and fell to the floor.

Sweetness. That was the first surprise. He’d heard so many tart words from these lips . . . but her kiss was sweet. Cool and sweet, with a hint of true decadence beneath. Like a sun-ripened plum at the height of summer. Ready to fall into his hand at the slightest inducement.

Finally, her lips parted. He swept his tongue between them, tasting her. God, she was so sweet and fresh. But utterly still. Unmoving. Unbreathing. He paused to sip at her plump lower lip before trying again. He pressed a little deeper this time, swirling his tongue before retreating. The sweet sigh of her breath whispered against his cheek. It was a confession, that sigh. It told him two things. First, she had no earthly idea how to kiss him back. But, secondly? She wanted to. She’d been waiting for this, too.

I demand you ruin me. As a point of honor.”

For God’s sake, look at the girl. Teeth chattering, lips turning blue. Beneath that horrid garment, her nipples were probably freezing to little icicles. And she seriously expected him to join her? Him, and all his precious, highly-susceptible-to-extreme-temperatures bits?

“Jesus,” he finally managed, pushing water off his face. “Jesus Christ and John the Baptist. For that matter, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John.” Still not enough. He needed to reach back to the Old Testament for this. “Obadiah. Nebuchadnezzar. Methuselah and Job.” “Be calm,” she said, taking him by the shoulders. “Be calm. And there are women in the Bible, you know.” “Yes. As I recall it, they were trouble, every last one.

Colin hesitated briefly. He’d revealed this much. There seemed no point in denying the rest. “I simply don’t sleep alone. If I don’t have a bed companion, I lie awake all night.” He nudged toward the soft heat of her body and gathered the blanket close around them. “So you may want to rethink your plans, pet. If we did undertake this journey . . . I’d need you in my bed.”

He gave a deep, resonant sigh. A sigh clearly meant to pluck at her heartstrings. And it worked. It really worked. “Sweet heaven.” She swallowed back a lump in her throat. “You must do this all the time. Night after night, you tell women your tale of woe . . .” “Not really. The tale of woe precedes me.” “ . . . and then they just open their arms and lift their skirts for you. ‘Come, you poor, sweet man, let me hold you’ and so forth. Don’t they?” He hedged. “Sometimes.” Minerva knew they did. They must. She felt it happening to her. As he’d related his story, a veritable fount of emotion had welled in her chest. Sadness, sympathy. Her womb somehow became involved, sending nurturing impulses coursing through her veins. Everything feminine in her responded to the call.

“Insomnia isn’t an uncommon condition, you know. Surely there must be some solution. If you can’t sleep at night, why don’t you light some lamps? Read some books. Warm some milk. See a doctor for a sleeping powder.” “Those aren’t new ideas. I’ve tried them all, and then some.” “And nothing works?” Those drips counted the silence again. One, two, three . . . He trailed a light touch up her arm. Then—slowly—he leaned forward. And whispered in her ear, “One thing works.” His lips brushed her cheek. Minerva stiffened. Her every nerve ending jumped to attention. She didn’t know whether to be appalled or thrilled that he would make her another link in his amatory chain. Appalled, she told herself. She ought to be appalled.

His lips grazed her jaw. “But you are a most surprising girl.” “You’re being opportunistic.” “I won’t deny it. Why don’t you seize the opportunity, as well? I want to kiss you. And you need kissing, desperately.” She put a hand to his shoulder and pushed him away. The cave filled with her affronted silence. “Why would you suggest such a thing?” “Because last night you wanted to kiss me back. But you didn’t know how.” Her heart jumped into her throat. So mortifying. How could he tell? Wordlessly, he removed the spectacles from her face, folded them, and set them aside. “I can’t believe this,” she breathed. “So you keep saying.” He inched closer, eliminating the distance between them. “But you know, Matilda, what you haven’t said?” “What’s that?” “You haven’t said no.”

He reached for her in the dark, skimming a touch over her cheek, sliding down to cup her chin. With his hand anchored there, he stroked his thumb in ever-widening circles, until he grazed her bottom lip.

He brushed his lips over hers, just lightly, sending pure sensation fizzing through her veins. He hummed with satisfaction. “You taste of ripe plums.” She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Now that’s just absurd.” “Why?” “Because it’s too early in the year for ripe plums.” His husky chuckle shook them both. “You’re entirely too logical for your own good. A thorough kissing can mend that.” “I don’t want mending.” “Perhaps not. But I think you do want kissing.” He nuzzled the curve of her cheek, and his voice dropped to a sensual whisper. “Don’t you?”

She understood now why he’d compared kissing to dancing. He had moves. A great many of them. Not just thrusting his tongue in and out, but swirling and toying and subtle coaxing. And just as she always did on a dance floor, Minerva quickly grew faint, dizzy. She felt overwhelmed and out of her depth. Always a step behind. Once again, she broke away. “This won’t work,” she said, wilting inside. “I’m hopeless at dancing. It simply won’t work.” “No, don’t say that.” His labored breaths raced hers. “It was a bad example on my part. Don’t think of it like dancing. Kissing’s nothing like dancing. Think of it as you would . . .” He flicked a glance to the fossil-studded cave wall. “An excavation.” “An excavation?” “Yes. A proper kiss is like an excavation. When you’re digging up your little troglodytes, you don’t just go plunging your shovel into the soil higgledy-piggledy, do you?” “No.” Her wariness stretched the word. “Of course not. A proper excavation takes time and care. And very close attention to detail. Slowly sifting through the layers. Unearthing surprises as you go.” That sounded much more promising. After a long moment’s reflection, she asked, “So who is excavating whom?” “Ideally, it’s a bit of both. We sort of . . . take turns.” She was silent for a long moment. Something about the air around them changed. Heated. She swallowed hard. “May I go first?”

She moved closer, drawing her knees between his splayed thighs. Leaning forward, she brushed her lips over his. The blissful shock of it rattled his very bones. But as she receded, he kept his tone glib. “You can do better.” She took the challenge and kissed him again, more firmly this time. Her tongue flicked out, nimble and curious. And all too fleeting. “Better?” “Better.” Almost too good. “Hmm. You taste of spirits here.” Her tongue traced the edge of his lip. “But here”—she dipped her head to nuzzle the underside of his jaw—“you smell of spice. Cloves.” Bloody hell. Colin’s eyes went wide in the dark as she sipped at his skin, over and over, tracing the curve of his throat. When she reached the center, she brushed her lips over his Adam’s apple. His breath was a painful rasp in his throat. He couldn’t take much more of this.

She pinned him to the wall, using the leverage to make the kiss deeper, stroking deep with her tongue. And just like that, his control was gone. He reached for her, gripping her by the thighs. Holding her close and tight as she plundered his mouth with bold, innocent abandon. With her kiss, his whole body came alive. Not just his body. Something stirred in the region of his heart, as well. Jesus. Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene. Delilah, Jezebel, Salome, Judith, Eve. Trouble, every last one. Add Minerva Highwood to the list. A woman like this could ruin him. If he didn’t ruin her first.

Right this moment, he was entertaining a quite vivid fantasy of unwinding that knot in her hair, stripping that drab linen from her body, peeling away any layers of modesty beneath . . . and leaving those spectacles on. So she’d see him. So she’d know just who was making her twist and pant and moan with pleasure. So she’d watch each and every wince of pleasure on his face as he pushed into—

I insisted on choosing a pattern that interested me. I’ve never understood why girls are always made to stitch insipid flowers and ribbons.” “Well, just to hazard a guess . . .” Colin straightened his edge. “Perhaps that’s because sleeping on a bed of flowers and ribbons sounds delightful and romantic. Whereas sharing one’s bed with a primeval sea snail sounds disgusting.” Her jaw firmed. “You’re welcome to sleep on the floor.” “Did I say disgusting? I meant enchanting. I’ve always wanted to go to bed with a primeval sea snail.” She wasn’t impressed. “I worked hard on this. The calculations were intricate. I counted hundreds of stitches to get every last chamber right.” She ran a fingertip over the ridges of thread, spiraling out from the center. “It’s not just a haphazard pattern, you realize. Nature adheres to mathematical principles. Each chamber of the ammonite’s shell expands on the last, according to a precise, unchanging exponent.”

somehow, I never pictured you earning high marks in maths.” She reached both hands behind her back, undoing the closures at the back of her gown. As if she’d forgotten he was even there, or felt no compunction about disrobing in front of him. Colin felt like carving a hashmark in the bedpost. Surely this marked a new level of achievement in his amatory career. Never before had he charmed the frock off a woman with talk of mathematics. Never before would he have thought to try.

“Surely it’s not always like that?” she asked, leaning forward and peering intently. “Like what?” “So . . . big. And active.” His straining cock gave another eager leap. Like a poorly trained hound. “Did you do that on purpose?” she asked, sounding amazed.

“Listen, it’s not important that you hear all the rules. The point is that I have some. As I’ve already explained, seducing you would break them. So it’s not going to happen. And I thought it best to broach the topic now, while I’m standing here naked. Because if I brought it up at any other time, you might take offense and assume I’m just not attracted to you.” He indicated his full, turgid, ridiculously optimistic erection. “As you can plainly observe, that’s not the case.” She went silent for several moments. Observing. “You were right,” she told his cock. “We do have the oddest conversations.”

Is it truly so unfathomable, that an imperfect girl might be perfectly loved?”

She didn’t know what to make of her body’s warm flush. Nor the way his thumb caressed her arm. She said, “I mainly feel confused.” He laughed softly. “I won’t believe you’re that innocent.” His hand swept down the side of her body. “You do understand there’s pleasure in the act?” “I’ve gathered as much, yes. But if that’s the case, why doesn’t it sound more pleasant?” “Because the act of love is not civilized. It’s nature at its purest, most basic form. Primal and wild. You ought to understand a little, if you’ve ever . . .” She could all but hear his eyebrows shooting up. “Wait. Don’t tell me you haven’t. You, the woman of science, who can recite the logarithm that defines the precise shape of an ammonite’s shell. Don’t tell me you don’t understand the workings of your own body.” “I’m not telling you anything.” Her breath grew shaky.

Through the bedsheet, he touched her. There. Between the legs. White sensation arced through the darkness. A tiny gasp escaped her, but she quickly sealed her lips. “Did you say something?” She shook her head. Her heart drummed in her chest. “Hm. I think you do understand pleasure.” His touch moved in a devious circle. “But only the hushed, secret kind. You’ve always been surrounded, haven’t you? By sisters, servants. Did you stroke yourself this way? Clamping that jaw tight, turning your head to the pillow to be very, very quiet?”

he drew a single fingertip up her inner thigh, and her breath caught. “Colin—” “No, no. If I’m wrong, don’t tell me. I’m enjoying this idea far too much. The little scientist, conducting quiet surveys beneath her night rail. Or in the bath, perhaps. Curious fingers wandering, exploring. Chasing that pleasure ’round and ’round as it builds . . . and builds.” His voice was dark, decadent. “Until the crisis shudders through you in perfect, devastating silence.”

“But . . . but you’re wrong. Mostly.” He paused. “Mostly?” Good heavens, what had possessed her to add that word? This entire discussion was too mortifying to be believed. Had she conducted her own explorations? Yes. Had those furtive moments ever amounted to a shadow of the exhilaration she felt right now, with him? God, no. She’d never felt anything like this. Evidently, she was both a naughty girl and a poor scientist. A failure, all around.

“I think we need another lesson, Min.” His words sent a thrill racing through her. “You do?” “Yes.” He stroked his hand up to her belly. “Yes, you need to understand this. The wildness of it. How good it can be, when it’s raw and lusty and loud.” He flipped his hand, tracing the backs of his fingers just under the curve of her breast. “You need to know what you deserve from a man. Or you’ll end up in some passionless marriage. Tethered to an ancient, dusty geologist whose ideas might inspire your admiration, but whose touch will never, ever make you writhe and moan and scream.” His touch slowed, then drew to a halt on her breastbone. “Do you trust me?” he asked. “With what?” “With your body. With your pleasure.”

A low moan eased from her throat. He was right. Giving voice to the pleasure made it that much sweeter, sharper. Real. “Yes. God, yes. This is how to drive a man wild, pet.” His hand shaped and molded her breast as he trailed kisses over her elongated throat, sipping and licking at her skin. “Once I’ve made you sigh, all I can think is how to make you moan. Then whimper. Then cry out in helpless ecstasy.”

Damn it, man. What were you thinking? You have rules about this. Yes, he conceded. But he hadn’t broken those rules. He’d merely stretched them. Stretched them. Stroked them. Humped them. Made them moan and sob.

Minerva’s pulse pounded as he slowly lowered his head and kissed . . . the tip of her nose. She blinked up at him, trying hard to focus and read his expression. Was it teasing or affectionate? She couldn’t tell. “Why did you do that?” “Because you weren’t expecting it. Which kind of surprise was it? Pleasant or otherwise?” “I’m not sure.” “Then I’ll try again.” He bent his head and kissed her temple. Then her chin, her jaw, the place between her eyebrows. His tongue flicked over her ear. Slid down her neck. Dipped into the warm, sensitive valley between her breasts.

“So now I should apologize? For wanting something more than carnal ‘lessons’ on your charity? After all, that’s the best an awkward bluestocking like me could hope for. Is that it?” Minerva struggled to her feet. “At least Sir Alisdair would remember my name.” “Perhaps.” He closed the distance between them, standing so near his chest grazed her breasts. “But could he kiss you so hard, you forget it?”

“Colin . . .” She stroked his lapel. “I can convince them I like you. That won’t require imagination.” This thumb traced her jaw, and his voice went husky. “Won’t it?” “But no one will believe we’re lovers. You heard those women laugh. You said it yourself, back in Spindle Cove. No one will believe you want me.” With a groan, he slid his hands down her back. Cupping her backside in two hands, he lifted her and pressed her into the nearest alcove. The possession in his manner thrilled her, and so did the press of his hard, muscled body against hers. He pressed a kiss to her ear. “What if I said I was an idiot that night?” “Then I would agree.” “What if I told you everything’s changed?” He kissed her neck. “That in the past four-and-twenty hours I’ve wanted to murder three different men just for daring to touch you—one of them a duke. That I am desperate with longing, consumed with wanting you. As I’ve wanted no other woman in all my debauched, misspent life.” His tongue traced her pulse, and her breath caught. “Then I would doubt you,” she breathed. Why?” “Because . . .” Because I doubt myself. “Because I know how easily you lie.”