Free Any Wicked Thing by Margaret Rowe Page A

blankly.
    â€œYou know, the privy, Your Grace. With regular applications of lime, they’re still perfectly functional. We’ve upgraded from hay to rags, however.”
    How barbaric . The sooner he got away from this heap, the better. His father may have preferred to live like a feudal lord, but Sebastian was a thoroughly modern man, although his droit du seigneur was stirring—the right of the landed lord to sleep with the bride before the groom, or indeed any of his vassals at any time he chose. Sebastian knew that was more medieval nonsense, though. The custom was unproven, word of it likely spread about so the peasants would revolt against the casual cruelty of their lords. More often than not, the lord was probably paid a tax in lieu of sexual congress, but Sebastian didn’t think any amount of money would stop him from wanting to fuck Freddie.
    Sebastian considered himself an expert on obscure sexual practices, and knew of several other methods for a bride to lose her virginity—one, for example, by her publicly mounting a fertility statue’s phallus. It was even, God help the poor girl, part of the marriage ceremony, her blood or lack thereof witnessed by the wedding guests. But he wouldn’t have to worry about that with Freddie. He’d already relieved her of her virginal barrier.
    Freddie raised her chin. Her nightgown had been washed many times, rendering it almost transparent in just the right places, but she might as well have been wearing a queen’s robe. Her innocent braids begged for unraveling, but she held herself like the virtuous chatelaine of the castle. She stepped away from the doorway, her velvet slippers soundless on the cold stone floor.
    â€œI still have over an hour until midnight, Your Grace, and I’ve not quite finished the wording on the bill of sale. Of course, a solicitor will draw up the actual document, but this is between us. If you would be so kind as to leave—” Her voice was cool and dismissive.
    She had bottom, he’d give her that. It was not every spinster who could converse with a nude man with such aplomb, but perhaps she’d taken other lovers after him and was used to the sight of a man’s cock. Apart from the first few seconds of their encounter, she had not inspected his manly parts, which were rising to the occasion with alarming insistence despite the chilly temperature in the room. Her eyes had risen to his and were watchful. Soon they would be half-lidded in rapture.
    His blood was still hot from his earlier sense that Freddie was in danger. An hour seemed like an eternity to wait, and he didn’t want to. He would not be bound by an arbitrary time. It was a minute after midnight somewhere.
    â€œNo.
    â€œOh, I’ll leave your room, but you will come with me. There’s a fire in mine. Wine.” He held out a hand. “Come, Freddie. It’s pointless to delay.”
    She clenched the fabric of her night rail. Her hands were reddened and ink-stained, a pity when the rest of her was so perfect.
    â€œI—I’m not ready.”
    â€œWe can iron out the details of the castle business in daylight, my dear. Let’s not waste any more of our first night together.”
    She made no effort to take his outstretched hand. If she could not come to him willingly, whether out of fear or aversion or pride, he would make her decision for her.
    A minute ticked by, and his arm grew weary. Just as he determined to sweep her up and carry her up to his beast’s lair, she took one shaky step toward him.
    â€œI do not plan to enjoy myself,” she said.
    Sebastian had always enjoyed a challenge. The more she fought him, the better he’d like it—and so would she. He knew every button to push, every lace to knot, every kiss to corrupt. She’d be screaming for him within a quarter of an hour, or he wasn’t the God of Sin.

Chapter 8

    Kissing the back of one’s hand is a poor