WICKED
The Pack of St. James
NOELLE MACK
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 1
Light hems swirled over dancing slippers and polished boots stepped in measured time over the ballroom floor. Semyon Taruskin saw nothing else—he had to look down as he made his way through the crush to avoid the yearning gaze of a certain young lady who had pleaded with him just last night to ravish her, so in love was she.
He had refused her—gallantly, of course, telling her that she was too innocent and too sweet for him. But the truth of that statement had only aroused her more. He’d had to untwine her soft arms and unclasp the lovely hands that caressed whatever she could reach of him, before bidding her a soft adieu and beating a hasty retreat past the dozing aunt in the corner.
He straightened as he came in to the next room, a smaller chamber where male guests swilled punch from crystal cups and joshed each other in loud voices.
Semyon gave an inaudible sigh, hoping to find more interesting company.
Female, of course. Witty and pretty. There had to be one or two in attendance. Without thinking overmuch about where he was going, he went down a narrow hall, staying behind a footman in livery. The fellow walked slowly, his arms laden with winter cloaks trimmed in voluptuous folds of fur, plainer mantuas, and fine shawls woven in designs of infinite complexity. The things he held shifted with each stride, trying to escape his grip, seeming oddly alive.
But then it had not been long, perhaps only seconds, since each cloak and shawl had warmed the woman who wore it. The thought was pleasant. Semyon caught a whiff of the delicate scent of perfume and powder that the feminine garments exuded. Following idly to see where they would go, he imagined the bare, silky shoulders that had been caressed by the luxurious heap of stuff in the footman’s arms and smiled to himself.
At the end of the hall, the footman stopped outside a wall of shimmering fabric, its golden folds and swells illuminated from within and showing the silhouette of a woman.
No, it was not a wall, Semyon saw, but a double set of floor-to-ceiling curtains looped on a rod that were pinned closed by a most ingenious device—no, it was not a device but hands.
Semyon looked closer. Slender fingers with oval nails held the curtains together, fingers that undoubtedly belonged to the silhouette. When the footman announced his presence on the other side and his wish to be relieved of his burden, the hand let go of the brocade and pushed one of the curtains back.
The light from the candle sconces in the hall fell upon a woman of such surpassing beauty that Semyon almost gasped. A maidservant? Somehow that seemed unlikely. He drew back into the shadows. She did not seem to see him.
Her hair was pinned up in a delectable tangle of curls, glowing a flickery dark red in the candlelight. The shape of her body was clearly visible. With the inner light of the improvised chamber behind her, he could see her sensually small waist and the long, smoothly rounded thighs that brushed each other as she took a step forward to take the things from the footman.
Ah. He almost moaned aloud at that sight.
Were he by some fortunate trick of fate to become her lover, he would feel privileged indeed to lift her skirts and touch the inside of those fine thighs…he knew exactly how they would feel. The shoulders and bosom revealed by her diaphanous gown shone in the soft light. The lovely, immodest rest of her, no longer concealed, would be just as tempting, and the skin on the inside of her thighs like hot satin. It was far too easy to imagine his hand caressing her there.
Semyon pressed back against the wall, still watching as she exchanged a few words with the footman, who bent forward at the waist to tip the bundle of garments into her outstretched arm. One of the heavier cloaks escaped both of them in the transfer and slid to the floor, causing the footman to swear.
“Never mind, Jack. You must go back without delay. I am sure there are many more ladies waiting in the foyer.”
“Then let them wait, Angelica.”
So that was her name, Semyon thought. And how it suited her. In her plain gown of white with no adornment upon her neck or ears but the curling tendrils of her hair, she might well have passed for an angel in some low church.
Jack was about to disobey her request and pick up the cloak when a stern male voice called from the other end of the hall.
“That is Kittredge,” she said in a quiet, cultured voice, “and it sounds as if he is in a swivet. You must go, Jack.”
The footman scurried off, consigning all butlers to the flames of Gehenna under his breath. The swiftness of his departure caused all the candles but one in the hall to sputter and go out.
Excellent. He might observe her a little longer in peace, Semyon thought, without disturbing or frightening her.
Angelica left the fallen cloak upon the floor and moved back into the curtained chamber, putting each of the others in some place where it might easily be found. She chose the back of a chair for the light shawls, hanging the mantuas on a rack brought there for that purpose, and tossing the most splendid of the fur-trimmed cloaks over a dressmaker’s figure.
Then she went back for the fallen cloak, bending down to pick it up, her breasts nearly escaping the confines of her bodice. He longed to cup them. Just that would be enough, feeling the tender nipples in the very center of his palms and—
She was shaking out the cloak, sending a gust of air his way. It smelled sweetly of
