Page 32 of Dare to be Wicked

“We shall,” he promised her, though he had no right to, not yet. “Somehow. We’ll figure it out, Lottie.”

“I hope so, Cass. I’m counting on it. Now, you’d best get on and draw me, warts and all remember,” Lottie said with a laugh. She gave a happy sigh and stretched on the day bed, and Cassius swallowed a groan. Perhaps he was weak. He was most certainly reprehensible not to force her to dress and send her back to the house, but Cassius could have no more have turned away from the sight before him than he could have flown to the moon. Even his desire for her was set to one side as he worked, though it simmered in the background, revealing itself in every sumptuous sweep of his hand as he reproduced the beauty before him with loving attention to detail. As the hours passed, he produced sketch after sketch, each one finer than the last, his heart singing with joy, with love for this beautiful creature, this goddess, who made him come alive and inspired him to reach higher than he’d ever dared dream.

The last sketch was his favourite, the image he would carry in his heart always, engraved there for all time. For his beloved had fallen asleep, her lovely mouth parted on a sigh, her hair tumbling over her breasts, the nipples peeking shyly through. She was relaxed, safe in his presence, and the honour of her trust in him was enough to make his throat tight. He gathered up her night gown and wrap, and told himself sternly that she would get dressed and he would escort her back to the house. That was all. Good Christ, as if he hadn’t been villain enough for one night.

With that thought in the forefront of his mind, he moved to the day bed and covered her with the wrap before leaning down to wake her.

“Lottie,” he said, his voice low, not daring to touch her, to shake her awake, for if his skin touched hers he would surely be lost. “Lottie, darling, wake up.”

“Hmmm,” she mumbled, hazy with sleep as her eyelids fluttered.

Cassius saw a dazzling flash of lapis lazuli blue that made him long to reach for his paints, even if he’d not slept and it was almost dawn. He smiled at her, the desire to pull her against him greater still, though he denied himself that too.

“Wake up, love.”

She blinked, focusing on him at last as her mouth curved and she reached for him, coiling her arms about his neck.

“Lottie,” he said, sounding more a croak of desperation than her name as she tugged at his neck, pulling his head down, and pressed her lips against his.

Chapter 11

Wulfric,

You are insane to consider returning and stirring up another hornet’s nest. For even were it not your intention, your presence will inevitably cause trouble as it always does. Keep your anonymity, my friend. It has served you well this many years.

I must tell you at his point that Nic has deserted me. Though I find it hard to fathom after he has been my shadow for so long, something has driven him from my side, and I do not know what. I have a suspicion that a woman is at the bottom of it, but you must agree it seems so ludicrous I can hardly believe it. We have been here days only, and… but I must do something to fix the situation. If only I knew what.

― Excerpt of a letter to an anonymous friend, from Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.

Dawn. Morning of the 7th July 1838, The Summerhouse, Holbrook, Sussex.

Cassius was lost the moment her lips touched his, reduced to a quivering schoolboy in the arms of his first sweetheart. He had never been short of female attention. His father had attained a wicked reputation as a young man, though he protested it was far from true, but he was still acknowledged one of the handsomest men of the ton. Cassius had been made in his image, as anyone would tell you. Though his father had given him many a stern lecture on the perils of dallying with the female household staff—which he had heeded—it had not been easy. Women liked him and were drawn to him with little effort on his part, and he liked them too. There was nothing that pleased him more than tumbling into bed with a willing partner, especially one who knew what they liked and was prepared to ask for it.

Lottie, though….

Lottie made him giddy. When he saw her, he could think only of poetry, of the need to capture her image in every aspect, of the desire to take her to his bed and never let her go. She called to something inside of him that wanted to pack up his paints and head off on an adventure with no set destination in mind.

Eliza would not care for such a life, he knew, and so he had decided on the two years he had taken to cure his wanderlust before he settled down. Not that it had worked. His time away had only cemented the knowledge that a settled life would drive him mad. He’d tried to pretend otherwise, tried to tell himself it was just cold feet and would wear off, but the closer to home and Eliza he’d got, the more despondent he’d become.

Lottie would not want that of him. She would not ask him to stay in one place, but she would follow him in a heartbeat. He knew that now. Now she’d reminded him the memories returned, tumbling over each other. He remembered the days before he’d left with Lottie pouring over maps and asking him if he would visit this place and that one. He remembered now, the longing in her eyes, the yearning to go with him. How the hell had he forgotten? She had been so excited for him, so obviously envious and he… he could give her that. Lottie would not care about uncomfortable carriages or sleeping in rooms that were not quite respectable or going to places that had seen nothing resembling a tourist. Lottie would live it with him, would demand she go with him and not be left behind, just as she had when they were children, determined to be included.

“Darling,” he murmured against her lips, trying to pull back, knowing it was dangerous to them both in so many ways… but he made the mistake of looking down at her instead.

Cassius found himself drowning in a sea of blue, in the swathes of Mary’s cloak, the brilliant flash of a kingfisher skimming the lake on a clear summer’s day.

“Oh, God.”

He moaned and pressed his lips to her temple, her nose, her cheek. He sought the warm, delicate patch of skin beneath her ear that made her breath hitch when he kissed it, and he forced his hands to remain braced against the day bed and not on her. His palms itched to feel her warm skin, to fill his hands with her and lose himself in the pleasure of her. Yet, he had made such a mess of everything already. He would be a bloody, damned gentleman if it bloody, damned killed him. It really might too.

“We can’t do this.”

Lottie made a sound akin to a sob of frustration and he wanted to weep too, for he would surely run mad if he could not have her. Now. At once.

“We can’t… Eliza….” he said helplessly.

It was the one thing he could say that would bring them back to their senses, as brutal as a bucket of ice water flung over their heads.

“Yes,” Lottie said, resignation in her tone. “I know.”