The Wickedest Lord Alive by Christina Brooke

Author:Christina Brooke [Brooke, Christina]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Historical romance, Regency
ISBN: 9781466822283
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2014-06-30T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Something balled in Xavier’s chest, clenched tight like a fist. It constricted his breathing, pressed against his rib cage.

He’d thought Lizzie a singular female, so self-contained and calm and free from the vanities and petty concerns of most women in his life. He’d thought she understood the imperatives that drove him. She’d seemed to comprehend her duty to her husband at age seventeen.

But Lizzie was just like all the others, craving dominion over him, seeking to manipulate him into doing and being what she wanted.

Cold and unfeeling, was he? The blood in his veins pumped hot and hard when he thought about bedding her. He intended to feel every bloody inch of her.

It had been too long for him. Thoughts of bedding Lizzie Allbright had become an obsession.

He was well aware that he needed to prove himself to her. That night he’d taken her virginity, he’d behaved like a boor. He hadn’t meant to, but his rage and pain had been so great, he couldn’t bring himself to do more than the bare essentials.

Oh, he hadn’t been rough with her, but he hadn’t been very loverlike, either. The whole business was so abhorrent, he’d refused to cloak it in pretty words and kisses. He supposed he couldn’t blame her if she wasn’t eager to go through that ordeal again.

But when he took her this time, he would show her more pleasure than she’d dreamed existed. The driving need to possess her in every possible way made failure out of the question.

So she wanted tender wooing, did she? His jaw hardened at the thought.

Xavier strode into the library but stopped short at a sight that was hardly likely to gratify him in the circumstances.

His cousin Cyprian, the man who now stood second in line to inherit Xavier’s estate and title, languished on a daybed at the far end of the room.

The boy fancied himself a poet; certainly, he dressed the part. His tumbling fair locks were cut in the pageboy style he seemed to think romantic but actually made him look like a girl. Instead of a normal cravat, he wore a huge, silly paisley bow. The boy’s coat was made of bottle green velvet and his waistcoat was louder than a trumpet blast.

Cyprian lazed back on the green chaise longue with his fingertips pressed to his brow. Alone, the boy had probably been taking a nap but had snapped into his die-away attitude when he heard someone come into the room.

And this was the damned puppy who would step into Xavier’s shoes one day. After Cyprian’s wastrel father had drained the estate dry, that was.

Not if Xavier could help it.

“Hard at work, Cousin?”

“As you see.” Cyprian waved a lily-white hand toward a writing desk nearby. Stacks of paper covered in looping flamboyant script, ink, several quills, a scattering of sand, a penknife, and other detritus covered the surface. The floor beneath was littered with balls of crumpled paper.

Xavier would like to set the boy to digging a ditch or

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