He knew the answer to that too. The duke’s consequence demanded silk. If her fussy, frilly style of dressing held true for decorating, his future sister-in-law Diana would cover every nook and cranny, including the ceilings, in silk spun from royal silkworms, if such a thing existed.
At length, the footman reappeared. This time, he offered, along with the locket, the information that the ladies had removed to the archery field.
Alaric nodded, his hand clenched around the locket until the door closed behind the man. He instantly opened it, read Willa’s missive once. Then over again.
Undoubtedly many ladies would be enchanted to learn of your generosity as a teacher. Others, like myself, envision themselves being schooled in these matters only once. By their husbands.
Schooled?
The slow burn in his blood burst into open flame. He had a sudden vision of Willa watching intently as a man, a faceless man, stripped off his shirt and peeled off his clothing.
No, not a faceless man. That was his body, his thighs. And she was watching with wide eyes.
He got up, strode over to the library door, and fastened the latch. Back in his chair he stretched out his legs and tore open his breeches. His cock sprang forward, stiff and swollen, into his hand.
He wrapped his right hand around himself and let his head fall backward with a sigh of relief. Damn it, he had a cockstand twenty-three hours out of twenty-four these days. Every time he caught sight of Willa’s lips, or the curve of her waist, or the turn of her slender ankle.
Eyes closed, he drew his hand up tightly. Behind his closed lids, Willa’s lips opened as she watched him kick his breeches to the side. He stood in front of her, letting her adjust to the size of him.
His Willa wasn’t afraid, though. Her tongue ran over her lower lip, and a soundless groan escaped his lips. His hand tightened again, stroking himself as imaginary Willa reached toward him, her hand tentative.
“This is yours, Evie,” he told her. “All for your pleasure.”
Damn it, his imaginary voice sounded as rough and untutored as a lad of sixteen. He had the feeling that it would be like that with her. Completely different than it had ever been with other women.
He imagined her naked, pink, excited, on her back but propped up on her elbows, watching as he kissed his way up her inner thighs. His hand tightened to the point of pain as he imagined stroking her with his tongue.
A harsh groan broke from his lips as he envisioned her eyes squeezed shut, lips open, her hands gripping his hair so he didn’t move. Making certain that he kept licking her.
An orgasm ripped through his body as his head fell farther back. He thought he heard her panting, and his body spasmed again, his cock jerking in his hand, warm liquid splashing onto his belly.
No solitary pleasuring had ever felt as brutally all-encompassing as this.
He pulled out a handkerchief and cleaned himself up, but even his brisk touch made his tool harden again and strain forward, as if that first orgasm was just the beginning.
The idea of seducing Willa flashed through his head … yet the last thing he wanted was to take away her choice by compromising her. The moment North had made his courtship apparent, it was as if Diana had been compromised. She had no say in the matter. Diana’s dislike was biting into North like acid.
They were trapped in a cage made from his future title of duke.
Alaric would rather live without Willa than marry her under those circumstances.
If only Horatius hadn’t died in that damn peat bog. With that bleak thought, his tool went abruptly limp. He tucked himself back in place, buttoned his placket, and came to his feet, shoving his shirt into his breeches with the brisk movements of a man who rarely waits for a valet to dress him.
He went to the window and drew back the curtains.
Lindow Moss started on the other side of the wall at the east end of the rose garden and stretched into the distance like a rolling green ocean marked by brighter threads, reddish patches, brown moss, and ochre-colored mud. From here he couldn’t see the heath butterflies or golden-ringed dragonflies, but he knew they were there.
Not for nothing was his family called the Wildes of Lindow Moss. His ancestor had tamed land no one else had wanted, and had erected Lindow Castle on the edge of the bog as a sign of his audacity.
Centuries ago, that early Wilde held off a siege by Oswald of Northumbria—who had successfully besieged Edinborough Castle. Lindow defeated Oswald. Only local men knew the bog’s twists and turns, and food and supplies had flowed readily through Lindow Moss, while the bodies of Oswald’s men sank without a trace.
Alaric stood at the window for long minutes, watching the rippling mounds of moss, grass, and peat. Horatius had truly loved the bog; he’d been proud of it and considered it their birthright.
Alaric had to make his peace with Horatius’s death.
And with Lindow Moss.
He slowly returned to the desk, feeling older by a decade.
Chapter Twenty-six
Willa was shocked by her own disappointment when Alaric did not return her locket with another improper message. She should have been relieved that he had halted the game before other guests noticed the footman traveling back and forth.
Back in her room, she sank in a deep tub of warm water and afterwards gave Sweetpea her own bath. The little skunk paddled in a circle, nose scarcely above the water, waiting for Willa to drop peas so she could dive for them.
When Sweetpea tired of the game, Willa took her to the bed and toweled her until Sweetpea’s tail waved like an ostrich feather. With a thump, Hannibal landed on the coverlet.
To this point, the tomcat had hissed every time she came close to his corner of the room, or to the door leading to the balcony, if he was outside.
Now he glared at her, his eyes squinty.
“Oh for goodness’ sakes,” Willa told him. “I have no interest in hurting your baby; why would I?”
Hannibal put a paw forward. Willa didn’t move. Still glaring at her, he bent his neck, grabbed Sweetpea by the scruff of her neck, leapt down off the bed, and padded over to the basket. Then he ostentatiously curled around Sweetpea and began licking her head, regarding Willa through slitted eyes.
She broke into laughter. She was surrounded by protective males. Absurd, protective males.
When dinner was announced that evening, Willa accepted Parth’s arm into the dining room. She was tired of her suitors’ simpering flattery. What’s more, Alaric showed no reaction when she flirted with them—but he looked daggers whenever she talked to his old friend.
There was no need to feign interest in Parth’s conversation; after he told her about his purchase of the infamous lace factory, their topics of conversation ranged from the ideas of Jean-Jacques Rousseau to exploration of the territory west of the Ohio River in America, to the war between Britain and the American colonies.
Surprisingly, North sat down with them and joined the conversation about the war, revealing a nuanced and thoughtful interest in British skirmishes with American troops. The problem, to his mind, was that the British weren’t fighting for their territory; instead, they’d filled the ranks with Hessians, German mercenaries.
The more they talked, the more Alaric glowered. Hemmed in by admirers who only wanted to talk of his books, he had no way of joining them.
She wasn’t surprised when, late that night after the castle had quieted, a knock came at her door. Sweetpea, ever curious, headed directly toward it, as did Willa—without bothering to pull on her dressing gown.
Sure enough, Alaric stood in the dark corridor. “Roly-poly delivery. Plus one locket.”
She pulled him inside, closing the door. He put the roly-polies on the floor in front of the delighted baby skunk and went to the basin to wash his hands. “What is it you like more about all those proposals you’ve received—the compliments or the kneeling?” he asked over his shoulder.
“The kneeling. It’s so infrequent that men recognize how important women are to their lives.”
Alaric turned, his eyebrow raised. “Just how important is that?”
“If you don’t know, I shan’t tell you,” she said. “I don’t suppose you have spent a great deal of time with ladies in the last few years.”
“None. And that includes Prudence, no matter what she thinks.”
Prudence was no lady. “Do you intend to see her play?”
He flinched. “On the contrary. I intend to close it down.”
“You’re not curious?”
“No.” Alaric prowled toward her with the effortless grace of a large cat. “I’m told Prudence characterized me as so terrified by water that I couldn’t save the missionary’s daughter from nearly drowning in a river.”
His tone was so offended that Willa couldn’t help laughing. “You showed no sign of hydrophobia when you helped rescue Hannibal,” she observed.
“I prefer to maintain a respectful distance from crocodiles, but water in itself? No.”
“I wish I could see it,” Willa said. “From what I’ve heard, the play enacts not just one, but two scenes in which you fail to save the missionary’s daughter.”
“First the flood, and then the cannibals.”
She nodded, watching his frown. He was a man who any woman would instinctively know would care for her. His strength and contained ferocity would be wielded to protect those he loved every time.
It made her think that Prudence had deliberately constructed the play to misrepresent him. But that implied that Prudence hated, not loved, him. “I begin to wonder whether Prudence wrote the play as revenge,” she said, thinking it through as she spoke. “Perhaps she meant the portrayal to shame you, to make the audience believe that Lord Wilde was not a hero, but a coward. But instead—”