Kitabı oku: «A Regency Courtesan's Pride: More Than a Mistress / The Rake's Inherited Courtesan»

A Regency Courtesan’s Pride

More Than a Mistress

The Rake’s Inherited Courtesan

Ann Lethbridge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

More Than a Mistress

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

The Rake’s Inherited Courtesan

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Endpage

Copyright

More Than a Mistress

Ann Lethbridge

Chapter One

January 1820

Only a man dedicated to duty travelled to Yorkshire in January. Hunkered against the cold, high on his curricle, Charles Henry Beltane Mountford, Marquis of Tonbridge, couldn’t miss the irony in his father’s proud words. What choice was there for Charlie, other than duty, if Robert was to be accepted back into the family? If he was found. No. Not if. When he was found.

Face stinging and ears buffeted by the wind, he lifted his gaze from the road to the leaden sky and bleak stretch of moors ahead. Three years and not one word from his wayward twin. While on some deep level, he knew his brother hadn’t come to physical harm, every time he recalled Robert’s face as he left, Charlie’s gut twisted with guilt.

He should not have said what he did, imposed his own sense of duty on his brother. They might look alike, but there the similarities ended. Their lives had followed different paths and each had their own roles to play.

Finally, after three years of arguing and pleading, he had sold his soul to bring his brother home. He would visit Lady Allison and begin the courtship his father demanded. The weight of duty settled more heavily on his shoulders. The chill in his chest spread outwards.

Damnation, what in Hades was the matter with him? Lady Allison was a modestly behaved, perfectly acceptable, young woman of good family. She’d make a fine duchess. Marriage was a small sacrifice to bring Robert home and banish the sadness from his mother’s face. Sadness he’d helped cause.

He urged his tired team over the brow of the hill, eager to reach the inn at Skepton before dark.

What the hell? A phaeton. Sideways on. Blocking the road. Its wheels hung over the left-hand ditch, its horses rearing and out of control. Coolly, Charlie pulled his ribbons hard right. The team plunged. The curricle tilted on one wheel, dropped and swung parallel to the obstruction. It halted inches from catastrophe, inches from a slight young man in a caped driving coat bent over the traces of the panicked animals of the other equipage, unaware of the danger.

Damn. What a mess. Charlie leaped down. Nowhere to tie his horses. He clenched the bridle in his fist. ‘Need help?’ he yelled against the wind.

The young man spun around. ‘By gum, you scared me.’

Not a man. A woman. Charlie stared, felt his jaw drop and could do nothing to stop it. Her eyes were bright blue, all the more startling beneath jet brows. Her cheeks were pink from the wind and black ropes of hair flew around her oval face in disgraceful disorder.

A voice in his head said perfect.

Her arched brows drew together, creasing the white high forehead. ‘Don’t just stand there, you gormless lump. If you’ve a knife, help me cut the bloody traces.’ She hopped over the poles and began sawing at the leathers on the other side with what looked like little more than a penknife.

Charlie snapped his mouth shut, pulled the dagger from the top of his boot and slashed the traces on his side. ‘Here, use this.’ He passed her his knife, handle first.

She grabbed it, cut the last strap and proceeded to untangle the horse’s legs with very little care for life and limb.

Charlie grabbed the bridle of her horses while hanging on to his own.

The young woman straightened. She was tall, he realised, her bright sapphire eyes level with his mouth. ‘Thank you.’ She dragged strands of hair back from her face and grinned. ‘The damned axle snapped. I must have been going too fast.’

Another Letty Lade, with her coachman-style language. ‘You were lucky I managed to stop.’ He glanced around. ‘Where is your groom?’ No gently bred female travelled alone.

‘Pshaw.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I only went to Skepton. I don’t need a groom for such a short journey.’

Reckless, as well as a menace on the road. ‘It seems on this occasion you do.’ He huffed out a breath. He couldn’t leave her stranded on the side of the road with night falling. ‘A broken axle, you say?’ It might be a strap, in which case he might be able to fix it. ‘Hold the horses for a moment, please.’

With a confidence in her abilities he didn’t usually feel around females, he left her holding the horses and went to the back of her carriage. He crouched down beside the wheel and parted the long yellowed grass on the verge.

Blast. No fixing that. The axle had snapped clean in two near the offside wheel. She must have hit the verge at speed to do so much damage.

He returned to her. ‘No hope of a makeshift repair, I’m afraid. I’ll drive you home.’

‘That’s reet kind of you,’ she said, her Yorkshire accent stronger than ever. Then she smiled.

It was as if he’d looked straight at the sun. The smile on her lips warmed him from the inside out. Lovely.

A distraction he did not need.

He glared at her. ‘Where do you live?’ His tone sounded begrudging. And so it should. The careless wench could have killed them both, or damaged some very fine horses. She’d been lucky. And she should not be driving around the countryside without a groom.

Her smile disappeared. She cocked her head on one side. ‘No need to trouble. I’ll ride.’ She jerked her chin towards her team.

‘One is lame. And the other is so nervous, it is sweating and likely to bolt. It is my duty to see you safely home.’

And his pleasure, apparently, from the stirring in his blood.

Damn it.

He looked up at the sky, took in the fading light. He’d be finding his way to Skepton in the dark if they didn’t get started. ‘I insist.’

‘Do you, by gum?’ She laughed, probably at the displeasure on his face. ‘I’ll not deny you your way, if you’ll tie these beasts on behind.’

Kind of her to oblige him.

Leaving her with his horses, grateful they were tired enough not to protest a stranger’s hand, he led her team to the back of the curricle and jury-rigged a leading string.

Returning to the girl, he shouted over the rising wind, ‘I’m going to push your vehicle further off the road.’

He strode to her wrecked equipage, put his shoulder to the footboard and pushed. The phaeton, already teetering on the brink of the shallow ditch, slid down the bank, its poles tilted to the sky. No one would run into it in the dark.

‘Strong lad,’ she yelled.

Good God, he almost felt like preening. He suppressed an urge to grin, climbed up on to his box and steadied his team. The perfectly matched bays shifted restlessly. Probably feeling the chill, as well as the panic of the other horses.

‘Can you climb up by yourself?’ he asked, controlling the beasts through the reins.

She hopped up nimbly. He caught a brief glimpse of sensible leather ankle boots and a silk stocking-clad calf amid the fur lining her driving coat before she settled herself on the seat.

A very neatly turned calf, slender and sweetly curved.

Bloody hell. ‘Which way?’

‘You’ll have to turn around. I was on my way home from Skepton.’

Skepton was at least five miles on. A mill town. Not a place a respectable female went without a groom. Just what sort of woman was she? Not gently bred obviously, despite the fine clothes. Apparently, he was soon to find out. He manoeuvred his carriage around in the road, the prospect of a warm fire any time soon receding.

He cast her a sidelong glance. She was as lovely in profile as she was full face. She had a small straight nose and full kissable lips. If Robert was in his place, he’d be enjoying himself by now, making love to her.

But he, Charlie, was a dull dog according to his last mistress. A prosy bore. Robert’s parting shot rang in his ears. Try to have a bit of fun, for once.

That was all right for Robert. He wasn’t the ducal heir with hundreds of people relying on his every decision. Hades, the last time he’d done as he pleased it had ended in disaster. For everyone, including Robert. Never again.

He’d do well to keep this woman firmly at a distance.

Mindful of the lame horse following behind, Charlie walked his team. He raised his voice to be heard over the wind’s howl. ‘As travelling companions, I believe introductions are in order. Tonbridge, at your service.’

‘Honor Meredith Draycott,’ she said. ‘Call me Merry. Thank you for stopping.’

As if he’d had a choice.

‘Tonbridge,’ she said. ‘That’s a place.’

He felt slightly affronted, as if she’d accused him of lying. ‘It is also my name.’

She considered this in silence for a second, perhaps two. ‘You are an of.’

He blinked. ‘Of?’

‘Something of Tonbridge. Duke or earl or some such.’

He grinned. Couldn’t help it. ‘Marquis of,’ he said.

‘Oh, my.’

The first thing she’d said that hadn’t surprised him, he realised. Which in and of itself was surprising.

‘What are you doing in these parts?’ she asked.

‘I’m going to Durn.’

‘Mountford’s estate. Oh, you are that marquis. You still have a long way to go.’

‘I do. I plan to put up in Skepton for the night.’

They reached the top of hill and the road flattened out. The clouds seemed closer to earth up here, the wind stronger, more raw, more determined to find a way beneath his coat.

She inhaled deeply. ‘It’s going to snow.’

Charlie glanced up at the sky. The clouds looked no more threatening than they had when he set out earlier in the day. ‘How can you tell?’

‘I’ve lived on these moors all my life. I can smell it.’

He tried not to smile. He must not have succeeded because she huffed. ‘You’ll see,’ she said. ‘I can smell when it’s going to rain, too, or feel it on my skin. You have to feel the weather or you can get into trouble out here on the moors.’

He chuckled under his breath. ‘Like running off the road?’

‘That was not my fault,’ she said haughtily. She glanced back over her shoulder at her horses. ‘I think his limp is getting worse.’

Charlie didn’t much fancy leaving the horse out here, but he might be forced to do so if the animal became too lame to walk. He slowed his team down a fraction. ‘How much further?’

‘Two miles. Turn right at the crossroads.’

At this rate it was going to be midnight before he reached the next town. Blasted woman wandering around the countryside alone.

‘You can leave me at the corner,’ she said.

Had she read his mind? More likely she’d seen the disgruntlement on his face. Clearly, he needed to be more careful about letting his thoughts show. ‘I will see you to your door, Miss Draycott.’

‘Pigheaded man,’ she muttered.

Definitely not a lady. Most likely bourgeoisie, with lots of money and no refinement.

As they turned at the crossroads, white flakes drifted down and settled on the horses’ backs where they melted and on Charlie’s coat where they did not.

‘See,’ she said.

He shot her a glance and realised that she didn’t look all that happy about being proved right. ‘Should we expect a significant amount?’

She shrugged. ‘Up here on the high moors? Like as not. The wind will drift it, too.’

Hardly comforting. The few flakes turned into a flurry, and pretty soon he was having trouble making out the road at all. Only the roughness at the verge gave him any clue he was still on track since there were no trees or hedges. Even that faint guide wouldn’t last long. There was already a half-inch of pure white blanketing everything in sight. In the growing dusk, he was beginning not to trust his vision.

She gave a shiver and hunched deeper in her coat.

The cold was biting at his toes and fingers, too. If it came to a choice between the lame horse and the two people in the carriage, he was going to have to choose the people, even if he valued the horses more.

‘There,’ she said, pointing.

A brief break in the wind allowed him to see the outline of a square lump of a house. A monstrous ugly house. Not what he’d been expecting. Though he should have, given the expensive clothes, the fashionable phaeton and the mode of speech.

‘Good,’ he said. He glanced back. The lame horse didn’t seem any worse though it made him wince to see how the animal favoured his right front leg. ‘I assume you have someone who can care for that animal?’

‘Yes.’ She turned in her seat, her knees bumping slightly against his and sending every nerve in his body jangling.

Her eyes widened as if she, too, felt the shock.

It was the cold. It couldn’t be anything else.

‘You will stay the night, of course,’ she said.

He opened his mouth to refuse.

‘Don’t be an ass,’ she said. ‘You won’t find your way back to the main road.’

He raised his gaze. All sign of the house was gone. The snow was blowing in his face and it seemed a whole lot darker than it had a minute or two before.

‘It looks as if we will not find your house after all.’

‘Let the horses have their heads. They will keep to the road. Since I’m expected, someone is sure to be waiting at the gate with a lantern.’

They should not have let her drive out alone, and he intended to tell them so, but he did as she suggested. It felt odd, handing control of their lives to a couple of dumb beasts, but their ears pricked forwards as if they knew where they were going when he let the reins hang slack. After only a minute or two, he saw a light swinging ahead of them, a faint twinkle rocking back and forth. Within moments a wizened man in a coachman’s caped coat was leading them between the shadowy forms of a pillared gate. They rounded a turn in the drive and more lights glowed through the swirling snow. They pulled up at a magnificent portico.

Two more men rushed out of the dark with lanterns.

‘We’ll see to the horses,’ the coachman bellowed over the wind. ‘Get yourselves inside afore ye perish, Miss Draycott.’

One of the grooms helped her down.

Charlie jumped down on his side.

‘This way,’ Miss Draycott called, hurrying up the steps.

Charlie followed. The blast of heat as the front door opened let him know just how cold he’d become.

Merry stripped off her coat and handed it to Gribble, whose smile expressed his relief.

‘We were beginning to worry,’ he said.

‘Gribble, this is the Marquis of Tonbridge.’ She gestured towards the stern dark man who was looking around him with narrowed eyes. She suppressed a chuckle. Grandfather’s idea of the style of a wealthy industrialist was a sight to behold. ‘My rescuer will need a room for the night.’

Tonbridge’s gaze shot to her face, dropped to her bosom as he took in the low-necked green muslin gown. It barely covered her nipples. She’d worn it quite deliberately today. Clearly her guest did not approve, for his firm lips tightened, before his gaze rose to her face again.

She cast him a flirtatious sideways glance. ‘You don’t have a choice, my lord.’

‘The green chamber is ready, Miss Draycott,’ Gribble said. ‘I’ll have Brian bring up your valise, my lord. He will serve as your valet while you are here. May I take your coat?’

Still frowning, Tonbridge shrugged out of his fashionably caped driving coat and handed it over, along with his hat and gloves. The lack of a coat didn’t make him look any less imposing. His black morning coat clung to his shoulders as if it had been moulded to his body, an altogether pleasing sight. Or it would be if she cared about that sort of thing. Without his hat, his jaw looked squarer, more rugged, but the smooth wide forehead and piercing dark eyes surprisingly spoke of intelligence. She doubted their veracity, because although his thick brown hair looked neat rather than fashionable, his cravat was tied with obvious flare. It must take his valet hours to turn out such perfection.

Merry knew his sort. An idle nobleman with nothing to do but adorn his frame. And there was plenty of frame to adorn. A good six feet of it, she judged. Tall for a woman, she still had to look up to meet his gaze. But she’d known that already. He’d loomed over her out there on the moors. And made her heart beat far too fast.

And the odd thing was, it was beating a little too fast now, too. And grasshoppers in hobnail boots were marching around in her stomach.

Surely she wasn’t afraid of him?

Or was it simply a reaction to the events of the past few hours? The disappointment at the mill owners’ intransigence, followed by the accident. It had not been a good day. She straightened her shoulders. She wasn’t beaten yet.

She needed to talk to Caroline. ‘Where is Mrs Falkner, Gribble?’

‘In the drawing room,’ the butler replied. ‘Awaiting dinner.’

Blast. She’d have to change, which meant no time to talk over what had happened with Caroline until later. She turned to Lord Tonbridge. ‘Gribble will see you to your room. When you are ready, please join us in the drawing room.’

She ran lightly up the stairs. Dandies took hours at their toilette. She stopped and turned. Tonbridge was watching her with an unreadable expression.

‘Dinner is in one hour. Please do not be late.’

His slackened jaw made her want to laugh. He must think her completely rag-mannered. And so she was.

She continued up the stairs to her chamber. If she was quick, she could speak to Caroline before their guest arrived downstairs.

A frown gathered beneath the chestnut curls on Caro’s brow. Her hazel eyes filled with sadness. ‘There is no help from that quarter, then,’ she said, at the end of Merry’s swiftly delivered report.

No matter how drably Caro dressed—tonight she’d chosen a dark blue merino wool with a high neck and no ornament—or how serious the expression on her heart-shaped face, the petite woman was always devastatingly lovely.

‘None at all, I believe,’ replied Merry, who always felt like a giant next to her friend. ‘Do not worry, the women can stay here for as long as is needed.’

She paced the length of the drawing room and came back to face Caro. ‘I’m so sorry I could not convince them.’

Caro gently touched her friend’s gloved hand. ‘It is not your fault. We will find another way.’

‘I wish I knew how.’

‘We will think of something. What is our visitor like?’

A generous change of topic given Caro’s disappointment. Merry filled her lungs with air. ‘Tonbridge? Handsome, I suppose. Rather disapproving of me, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s because he doesn’t know you.’

If he knew her, he’d be more disapproving than ever. She sat beside her friend. ‘I hope he doesn’t take too long. I’m starving.’ She looked at the clock. In one minute the hour would be up.

Tonbridge stepped through the door. He had shaved and changed from his driving clothes into a form-fitting blue evening coat, starched white cravat and ivory waistcoat. His tight buff pantaloons fitted like a second skin over muscle and bone. One would never guess from his languidly fashionable form he had recently heaved a wrecked carriage off the road single-handed.

He’d looked magnificent, like Atlas supporting the world.

‘Come in, Lord Tonbridge,’ Merry said. ‘Let me introduce you to my dear friend and companion, Mrs Caroline Falkner.’

‘I am pleased to meet you, Mrs Falkner.’ Tonbridge made his bows, gracious, elegant and formal. Coolly distant. The highborn nobleman meeting the unwashed masses. No wonder Caroline looked thoroughly uncomfortable.

‘I hope my unexpected arrival is not a dreadful inconvenience,’ he said, moving to stand beside the fire.

Polite blankness hid Caroline’s thoughts. She sounded calm enough when she spoke. ‘I am so grateful you were on hand to help Miss Draycott.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I hope the servants took good care of you?’ She went to the console on the far side of the room.

‘Excellent care,’ he said.

‘And your quarters are to your liking?’ Merry asked.

‘Indeed.’

A consummate liar. Merry hid her smile. Like the rest of the house, the green guest chamber was a nightmare of ostentation.

‘Let me pour you a libation to warm you after your ordeal,’ Caroline said. ‘Sherry for you, Merry?’ She turned to look at Tonbridge. ‘A brandy, my lord?’

Tonbridge was looking at Caroline with a frown of puzzlement. And no wonder. Caro’s ladylike airs and modest appearance would seem at odds with this house of gross opulence.

Oppressive scarlet velvet curtains, gilt scattered with abandon, garish fabrics on the floors and wildly patterned silk on the walls—she could almost see Tonbridge wince as he looked around.

Grandfather had wanted no one to underestimate his wealth.

‘Takes a lot of brass to fill a room like this,’ she said.

His gaze came back to her face. ‘Beauty needs no adornment.’ Mischief gleamed in his eyes. Not the reaction she’d expected. The man had a sense of humour lurking beneath that haughty lift of his deeply cleft chin.

Dash it. She did not want to like him. It would only lead to embarrassment. He was simply being polite. A gentleman. No doubt when he joined his friends, he would have a mocking tale to tell.

Oh, how she’d like to peel off the polite veneer and reveal his true nature. Prove she was right and stop her foolish heart’s flutters every time he sent that cool dark glance her way.

‘A pox on your sherry,’ Merry said with a quick laugh. ‘'Tis brandy for me. I vow I am still chilled to the bone. Perhaps you would prefer a dish of tea, my lord?’

As she’d expected, Tonbridge turned with a frown. Clearly she’d shocked him with her teasing. Blasted nobility. They thought everyone who didn’t conform to their idea of polite society to be beneath them. While they gambled away their fortunes, men like her grandfather accumulated great wealth by hard work. He could look down his nose all he liked, she wasn’t ashamed of her background.

A small smile curved his lips, a brief softening of his harsh features and her heart gave a lurch, the kind that hurt and felt good at the same time. Not a feeling to have around such a powerful man. If he sensed it, he would see it as weakness.

‘Brandy would be equally welcome to me, Miss Draycott,’ he said.

Did nothing put him out, or did he just never show it? Too well bred. Too reserved. ‘Call me Merry,’ she said, as she had on the moors, an inner wildness overcoming good sense. ‘Everyone does. I hate formality, don’t you?’

He looked more than a little startled at that, which gave her a moment of satisfaction.

He responded cheerfully enough. ‘As you wish, Merry.’ He didn’t offer his own first name. She guessed he’d already placed their relative stations in life and knew he was far above their touch.

Caroline poured the brandy. Merry took both glasses and handed one to Tonbridge. ‘To my knight in shining armour,’ she toasted boldly and tossed off the fiery liquid. It burned its way to her stomach.

She really didn’t need any more heat. The proximity of this man made her skin glow. She cocked a challenging brow.

He raised his glass, a smile curving his finely drawn mouth. ‘To a lovely maiden in distress.’

More devastating charm. He must practise in front of the mirror, the way the girls practised simpering before the glass at school.

He took a cautious sip and then nodded. ‘Excellent.’ He swallowed a mouthful.

‘My grandfather kept a very fine cellar,’ she said, not without a little pride. Grandfather might have lacked town bronze, as the ton called it, but he knew quality. Unfortunately, he had no sense of style. Hence the costly but dreadful décor.

Gribble opened the door. ‘Dinner is served, miss.’

Tonbridge held out both arms. ‘Ladies?’

Gribble’s grey brows shot up, wrinkling his forehead.

Speechless, Merry looked at Caroline, who lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. As usual her hazel eyes gave nothing away. Merry had found Caroline serving at an inn in York and had instantly seen her predicament. A well-bred lady brought low. She’d offered her the position of companion on the spot. But Caroline never talked about her past. And she rarely offered an opinion.

Not that Merry relied on anyone else’s judgement. Grandfather would never allow it. She made her own decisions.

She placed her hand on his right forearm and Caroline did the same on his left. As they walked, she glanced at his face and saw nothing but bland politeness. And that made her nervous. Because politeness hid lies and knives in the back.

She had a strategy for dealing with practised deceit, developed after years of misery. Frontal attack.

Chapter Two

‘Is this your first visit to Yorkshire, my lord?’ Caroline asked when the food was served and the butler had withdrawn.

Tonbridge paused in his carving of the roast duck and smiled politely. ‘Not at all. I came here often in my youth with my family. It has been some years since my last visit, I must say.’

‘Lucky for me you chose today,’ Merry said, fluttering her eyelashes in a fair emulation of the girls she’d despised at school.

Caroline cast her a startled look.

Tonbridge continued carving. ‘It seems we were both lucky. I doubt I would have made it to Skepton in the snow and I would never have found hospitality on so grand a scale elsewhere in the wilds of the moors.’

Grand meaning horribly bourgeois, no doubt.

‘May I help you to some of this fine bird, Mrs Falkner?’ he asked.

‘Thank you,’ Caroline said.

‘Not for me,’ Merry said, then waved her fork and the carrot on its tines airily at the picture behind her. ‘That is my grandfather, Josiah Draycott. He rose from shepherd boy to owning one of the largest wool mills in Yorkshire.’

‘Impressive,’ Tonbridge said. He put the best slices of the bird on Caroline’s plate and took the remainder for himself.

Merry wasn’t sure if he referred to the portrait in which her grandfather, with his full-bottomed wig and eagle-eyed stare, looked as if he could eat small boys for breakfast, or his accomplishments. Strangely enough she had the impression it was the latter when she’d expected the former.

She cut her roast beef into bite-sized pieces. ‘He left it all to me.’

He stilled, his duck-laden fork hovering before parted lips. Lovely full lips. The kind of lips that would cushion a girl’s mouth. No awkward clashing of teeth for him, she felt sure.

His eyes widened. ‘You are a mill owner?’ he asked.

Hah! She’d managed to surprise him. At least he’d managed not to sneer. ‘Owner of Draycott’s Mills.

His gaze met hers. ‘I recognised the name, of course. I just didn’t expect

‘A woman in charge?’

‘We sell Durn’s wool to Draycott’s,’ he said, neatly sidestepping her question. He put the duck in his mouth and chewed. How could anyone look so scrumptious, just chewing?

She dragged her gaze from his mouth. ‘And very fine wool it is.’

‘The best,’ he agreed.

‘But not producing as much in recent years.’

He blinked and she felt a little glow of satisfaction. She wasn’t just a mill owner, a reaper of profits. While she rarely visited the mill because the blunt Yorkshire men felt uncomfortable around their female employer, she received weekly reports, statements and accountings. She knew her business. Grandfather had insisted.

‘We’ve seen revenues fall off,’ Tonbridge admitted. ‘One reason for my visit.’

One reason? What would be the others?

He turned to Caroline. ‘Are you also involved in Draycott’s, Mrs Falkner?’

For a man of such an exalted position, he had exquisite manners. Merry found herself warming at the way he included Caroline in the conversation. But he’d not get carrot juice out of that turnip.

Caroline shook her head. ‘Oh, no.’

‘I don’t know what I would do without Caroline’s companionship,’ Merry said on her friend’s behalf.

Caroline smiled at her with gratitude.

Tonbridge’s dark eyes looked from one to the other. A question entered his gaze, a dark thought that caused a slight tightening at the corners of his mouth. More disapproval? ‘You are lucky to have such a good friend,’ he said quietly. The words seemed to hold more meaning than she could work out.

What on earth was he thinking? She found she couldn’t hazard a guess and that was annoying. Accompanying her grandfather on his business dealings had taught her how to read men very well. This one, however, was a bit of a mystery. A challenge.

‘What do you do when you are not visiting the outposts of the Mountford empire?’ she asked.

He laughed. ‘You are nothing if you are not direct, Merry.’ He held up a hand when she began to apologise. ‘I like it. It is refreshing.’

Refreshing meant naïve. Ignorant of the social niceties. She flashed him a sultry smile. ‘I’m glad you find it stimulating, my lord.’

Glints of amber danced in his eyes. ‘You have no idea.’

Oh, but she did, because her blood was stirring and her pulse fluttering in places she shouldn’t be aware of in polite company. She felt more alive than she had for months, perhaps years. For the first time since her fall into disgrace, she felt her body tingle with interest and excitement.

Lust.

Thank goodness she knew it for what it was and could resist it.

Caroline cast her warning glance, an admonition that the flirtation was getting out of hand.

What did it matter if she flirted a little? It wasn’t as if she could be ruined. And this man with his icy reserve deserved a little shaking up. Pretending not to notice Caroline’s unspoken message, she raised a brow. ‘Well, Lord Tonbridge? You didn’t answer my question. Perhaps you are a gambler or a rake?’

‘Both,’ he said, his expression suddenly darker. ‘Have you a wish to test my skills? ‘

Caroline coughed and picked up her water. ‘My throat is dry,’ she muttered after a sip.

Merry only knew one way to deal with a man of his sort. Call his bluff. ‘La, sir, where would we start? With a wager? Or a seduction?’

Dark eyes observed her intently, then flicked to Caroline, who was bright pink and looking mortified. ‘I bow to your wishes,’ he said, his deep voice a silky caress on her ears.

Her stomach did a long slow lazy roll that left her breathless. And speechless. Blast him, he didn’t scare easily. Most of the noblemen she’d met in the past would be running a mile by now at the thought of an entanglement with Merry Draycott.

Gribble entered quietly with his minion at his heels to clear the table for the remove, affording her the opportunity to marshal her defences.

‘Do you plan a long stay at Durn, my lord?’ Caroline asked, covering an awkward silence as the servants went about their business.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said, looking at Merry. ‘It depends on several factors.’

Merry really didn’t like the thrill that rippled through her at the thought that she might be a factor. Did she? He might be the handsomest man she’d ever seen, but he had an arrogance about him, a sense of entitlement, put there by wealth and position. There was also a coldness. It wafted from him like a chill wind. He’d judged her instantly and sensed his superiority. Perhaps he thought she should be honoured to fall at his feet. The thought jangled her pride. A need to take the wind out of his sails was pushing her into outrageous behaviour she could not seem to stop.

Finished with their tasks, the servants withdrew.

‘Can I offer you some of this very fine aspic, Mrs Falkner?’ he asked.

Caroline inclined her head. ‘Yes, please, my lord.’

He raised his gaze to her face. ‘Merry?’

She should not have given him permission to use her first name. It put her at a distinct disadvantage. ‘A small amount. Thank you.’

He served Caroline first. He had large strong hands. The fingers were elegant, yet not at all limp or fluttery. Grandfather always knew a man’s nature from the way he shook hands. Most of the time, men bowed over hers, so she never got the opportunity to judge their grip. She’d found other ways to assess their worth.

The way a man handled his knife and fork and the business of eating told her a great deal. This one used his implements with casual ease and ate with firm elegance and a pleasing economy of movement. The Marquis of Tonbridge exceeded all her standards.

He’d been good with the horses, too, she recalled, firm, yet gentle. Not once had he pulled on their delicate mouths while keeping firm control.

Was she letting her biases lead her astray in regard to this man? Was he merely following her lead out of politeness? If she truly believed so, she should simply bid him goodnight after dinner and retire. It would not be difficult to declare a headache or weariness from the day’s events.

But she didn’t believe he was just being polite for a minute. He wanted to put her in her place. She could see it in his eyes.

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he said, raising a brow.

Clearly, he needed a lesson in humility. ‘Why don’t we start with a wager?’

He raised a brow. ‘Cards? Or do you prefer dice?’

‘Billiards,’ she said. ‘If you play?’

He nodded. ‘Billiards it is.’

The conversation passed on to more mundane topics and it was not long before Caroline was making her excuses, leaving Merry to deal with the fruits of her challenge.

The billiard room was, without a doubt, the most comfortable room Charlie had entered so far. Linen-fold panelled walls of oak provided a warm background for comfortably heavy wooden furniture dating back to the last century. An equally impressive green baize-covered slate table stood in the centre of a red-and-green-patterned rug.

Not a scrap of velvet or gilt in sight. A relief to his weary eyes. The only glitter beneath the overhead light was Miss Draycott herself. Merry. What an apt name for such an unusual female.

She eyed the balls, running her palm up and down her cue. Her fingers were long and fine and the action brought other images to mind. Sensual images.

The simmering arousal he’d been fighting all evening made itself known with a disgruntled jolt.

He’d never before felt such instant attraction for such a—how did one describe this woman? Statuesque, certainly. Gloriously so. She didn’t have to crane her neck to see his face. He’d thought he liked his women small and delicate. Until now.

He certainly wouldn’t worry about hurting her when romping around in a bed. His body stirred in approval. He tamped down his desire. The last thing he needed was a distraction like Merry Draycott.

For an unprotected woman, she was far too bold for her own good. Many men would have no qualms about taking advantage. He had to admit he found the prospect tempting.

Her behaviour had him thoroughly off kilter, too. On occasion, her manner of speech left much to be desired. At other times she seemed almost genteel. She confused him. And, unfortunately, intrigued him.

For an instant at dinner, he’d suspected the two women of being more than platonic friends, that they might worship at the altar of Sappho, but as the meal progressed he had not sensed anything warmer than friendship.

Not that he was averse to the special friendships some women preferred. It just put those particular women out of reach, and, in her case, he’d felt disappointed.

The truth was, he wanted her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so urgent about having a woman. He fought to control the impulse to seduce her. As her guest, good manners required he accommodate his hostess’s wishes. A part of him wished those desires included more than a high-stakes game of billiards. The undercurrents swirling around them suggested they might. And no matter what he thought, his baser male nature wanted to oblige.

A man about to become betrothed did not enter into an entanglement with another woman. Hell, he’d just got rid of his long-term mistress for that very reason.

Meeting this particular woman on the road was, without a doubt, a confounded nuisance.

She played a damned fine game of billiards, too. She’d won the first game, mostly because he had been focusing too much on her sweet little bottom when she’d leaned over the table. A quite deliberate ploy on her part, no doubt. Not unlike a Captain Sharp plying his mark with gin.

He watched her saunter around the table with a jaunty swing of her hips and clenched his jaw. She was deliberately tormenting him with a gown that skimmed her breasts and revealed every curve when she walked. While her gown wasn’t any more provocative than many respectable married ladies of the ton wore to a drum or a rout, on her, it seemed positively decadent.

The woman was a menace. Teasing a man came with consequences she might not like. Perhaps she needed a lesson in acceptable behaviour. A warning.

He covered his mouth and yawned widely. ‘Excuse me. It’s been a long day. I think I am ready to retire.’

She frowned. ‘Afraid you will lose again?’

‘Not at all,’ he drawled. ‘My interest is waning. I’m afraid I need more of a challenge.’

She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Fifty guineas a point and a hundred for a win is reasonably challenging.’

‘I’m not trying to fleece you, Merry, but I think both of us can lose a few hundred guineas in a night and not turn a hair.’

Her eyes widened a fraction. ‘Do you want to make it thousands?’

He grinned and leaned on his cue. ‘That is more of the same, isn’t it?’ Oh God, he was going to hell for this. ‘In this next game, how about for each point we lose, we remove an article of clothing?’

It was the kind of thing he would have proposed during his misspent youth, before his stint in the army. Before he became duller than ditchwater, more sedate than a spinster walking a pug. The sharp voice of his handsomely paid-off mistress rang in his head.

Merry was staring at him wide-eyed, shocked to her toes.

A rueful smile tugged at his lips as he waited for her to retreat in disarray and leave him to take his brandy to his empty bed.

‘An article of clothing per point?’ she said, a little breathlessly, her cheeks flushing pink, but her shoulders straightening.

A breath caught in his throat. By thunder, she wasn’t going to back down. The naughty minx. Someone ought t o put her over their knee. He drew on every ounce of control, the kind a man needed going into battle.

Clearly there was only one way to teach this young woman not to play with fire. Singe her eyebrows.

‘Anything on your person,’ he said as if the whole topic bored him.

‘Including jewellery? Because it seems to me I have far less clothing than you do.’

‘Certainly.’

She boldly ran her gaze down his body as if considering whether seeing him disrobed would be worth the risk. He pretended not to notice the heat of desire flaring in the depths of her summer-blue eyes and let her look her fill.

She parted her lips and his body hardened to granite. He forced himself not to shift to find ease for his confined flesh.

Some women found him too large, too overpowering physically, when the fashion was for lisping mincing dandies. In her case the thought of doing a bit of overpowering made the prospect all the sweeter.

If she dared take his challenge.

She drew in a deep breath. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Fifty guineas and an article of clothing per point to twelve points. The hundred guineas for the win remains unchanged.’

She expected to win. It was writ large on her face. He took a slow inward breath, controlling the surge of heat at the thought of seeing her naked. ‘That sounds fair,’ he said coolly.

And then she laughed. A low chuckle in the back of her throat. ‘Perhaps I should ask Gribble to have the fire stoked before we start. So no one catches a chill.’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Our blushes will keep us warm.’

Her shoulders tensed. ‘Your blushes, you mean.’

What a surprise, this woman—the first who had dared challenge him for years. They usually simpered and flattered. If he was any kind of gentleman he would stop this right now, but he wouldn’t. Not if his life depended on it. He was having too much fun. He smiled at her, a sweet, but slightly devilish grin. ‘It seems you are first, my dear Merry.’

She missed her first shot. Nerves. Not as blasé as she pretended.

‘Bad luck,’ he said. ‘A one-point penalty.’

She removed the pearls at her throat and placed them on a side table with a little toss of her head. ‘You will not be so lucky in future.’

He eyed the board, and played his shot carefully. His ball missed hers and came to rest temptingly close to the pocket.

‘You missed. One point for me,’ she said.

He bowed and removed his coat and draped it over a chair back, while she walked around the table, looking at the balls from all angles.

He waited, leaning nonchalantly on his cue.

With a small smile of triumph she lay across the table and eyed the balls. An easy shot. Just as he’d planned. He and Robert had actually orchestrated one of these games with a couple of the village tarts at Durn. It was all coming back.

The sweet curve of her bottom as she stretched over the table tempted unbearably. From this angle, the draping fabric left little to the imagination and put her at just the right angle to receive his attentions. Two steps closer and he could slide his hands over the soft flesh and press his groin against the full roundness of her buttocks.

He drew in a swift breath. Brought his body under control. Passion, strong passions, led to nowhere but disaster. And even if she was wriggling that little posterior on purpose, she was doing it as a distraction, a way of putting him off his own shot.

She knocked the white ball with a swift jerk of her elbow. It caromed off the red and hit his ball with a crack, sending it into the corner pocket.

He smiled. ‘Good shot.’

She lowered her feet gracefully to the floor. She cast him a glance over her shoulder. ‘I know.’

He grinned.

She raised her brows.

He removed the diamond pin from his cravat, adding it to her pearls, then unknotted and slowly unwound his cravat. She looked highly pleased with herself, but he couldn’t help wondering if it was because she wanted to see more of him, or because she’d won. The former, he evilly hoped. He had no qualms about removing his clothes before a woman, despite the scar.

He draped the long strip of cloth over his coat. He glanced down at himself. ‘What next, do you think? Ah, yes.’ He toed off his shoes and, standing first on one leg, then the other, divested himself of his stockings. He did not miss her sidelong glance at his feet and bare calves, or the quick swipe of her lips with her tongue.

Heat flowed to his groin.

Ignoring his burgeoning arousal, he sauntered around the table, replacing the balls, while he felt the touch of sparkling eyes on his body.

‘How many pieces of clothing do you think you are wearing?’ she asked.

‘Less than the number of points required to finish the game,’ he said, instantly guessing the direction of her thoughts.

‘Good,’ she said, but there was an undercurrent of nervousness behind her bold front. An unease. Unless he wanted her to be better than she appeared? Surely not?

‘You didn’t tell me you were an expert at this game,’ he said, rubbing the end of his cue with chalk.

Her gaze flew from the cue tip to his face. ‘I used to play with my grandfather all the time. It passed the long winter evenings and while we played he taught me about the mill.’

‘He sounds like a grand old gentleman.’

‘He was. A darling.’ Her face brightened. It was as if she’d lit a candle inside, she became so dazzling. The brightness wasn’t true, he realised. It flickered and wavered as if a sharp gust of wind would blow it out. But why would he care? He had enough baggage to shoulder of his own without delving into hers. She’d made it quite clear from the beginning of the evening that she was interested in a dalliance. The idea became more attractive as the evening wore on. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt quite so enlivened.

Her ball was easily accessible. His guarded the red. She played her next shot with consummate skill, knocking his aside and giving her access to the red ball.

He leaned in for his shot. A flick of the wrist and he struck the red and white in quick succession. They fired off into the centre pockets. ‘Seven points,’ he said calmly, straightening.

Her mouth dropped open. Her blue eyes were wide with shock, staring at the table. ‘You cheated.’

He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Oh?’ He raised a brow and stared down his nose. His ducal-heir-look, Robert always called it.

She flushed. ‘I mean, you pretended you were not very good at this game. Only an expert can make a shot like that.’

‘Are you wishing to forfeit the game?’

She stiffened, her gaze meeting his with blue sparks of anger. ‘Certainly not.’

As he’d suspected, Merry Draycott did not back down from a fight. The small qualm of contrition for goading her wasn’t strong enough to make him concede. ‘Seven items, then, Merry.’

She tugged three hair ornaments from her artfully arranged curls. Long black silky tresses fell to her exquisite sloping white shoulders. She placed the ornaments on the table with her pearls. Her bracelet followed. Her wince said that was the last of her jewellery.

She sent him a resentful glance and he tipped his head on one side as if completely unaware of her concern.

She glanced at his bare feet, sat down on a chair and started untying the ribbons around her ankles. Her hair fell forwards as black as a raven’s wing, hiding her face.

‘Do you need any help?’ he asked.

Chapter Three

Merry felt a blush crawl up her face. ‘I can manage.’ She ducked her head, untied the bow at the back of her ankle and slipped the shoe off.

Oh Lord, seven points, he only needed four to win. And what would she have left to remove if he won another seven points? She should never have let him convince her to play such a shocking game. He had cheated. He had let her think he was a hopeless player.

And then, when he’d offered her a chance to forfeit, she’d let her pride speak instead of common sense. But a Draycott never backed down, be it in a bargain or a game.

The ribbon snagged. She tugged at it. The knot drew tighter.

His bare toes appeared within her vision, which was restricted to her feet, the hem of her gown and the carpet. He dropped to his knees. ‘May I help?’ he asked again.

The sound of his voice was like a taste of hot chocolate, warm and rich and wickedly tempting.

‘I can manage.’

He sat back on his heels. Sweeping her hair back, she glanced up at his face. His gaze remained fixed on her foot, on the knot. She let go a huff of impatience. ‘Very well. See if you can untie it.’

She couldn’t breathe. She had a huge fluttery lump stuck in her throat. Her mouth dried.

The wretch grasped her ankle and lifted her foot to rest on one knee. The heat of his hand, the feel of those long strong fingers taking the weight of her leg, sent ripples of pleasure through her body. She swallowed a gasp.

‘Such a pretty ankle,’ he murmured as he worked at the ribbon.

A melting sensation weakened her limbs. Oh, dear. If he made her feel this way with a touch on her extremity, how would she feel if he wanted to help her with her garter? She could not, nay, would not let him undo her like this. ‘La, thank you, sir,’ she said and was infuriated by the breathy note in her voice.

He glanced up at her face with a smile. ‘No need to thank me. I speak only the truth.’

The man was impossibly handsome when he smiled like that. A dark inscrutable devil with the expression of an angel. In her heart she knew it for what it was, an act, a flirtation, but he played his part so well he almost had her convinced.

She pointed at her foot. ‘The slipper, my lord.’

He bent his dark head to the task. His dark brown hair fell in thick luxurious chocolate-brown waves. She had the urge to touch it, to feel its texture. She gripped the chair arm instead.

He untied the ribbon around her ankle and slid the shoe from her foot, his palm caressing the arch. Delicious. Intoxicating. She wanted to wriggle her toes. She kept a bright smile fixed on her face. Bright and teasing, when inside she wanted to weep at the tenderness in his touch.

Gently he placed her foot on the ground. She wished she had a fan close at hand instead of a cue. She was glowing from the inside out. How could this be? She wasn’t some innocent schoolgirl to have her head turned by a handsome man. Particularly not one with a title. And yet she wanted to melt into this man’s arms. Feel that broad chest pressed against her breasts. Run her fingers through his hair and feel his strength beneath her fingers. Utter foolishness.

‘I don’t need your help with the garter.’ Her voice sounded strangled.

His head snapped up. ‘You disappoint me.’

She managed a quick calming breath and a light laugh. ‘Intentionally, sir. To allow such familiarity would be more reward than you have earned. Turn around.’

He stood. His rueful gaze made her heart beat just a little too fast. ‘Saving your life is worth so little, then?’

‘Unfair,’ she cried, laughing a little herself at the neat way he’d tried make her feel guilty. Oh, this man was a rake indeed and she was a fool to continue their game. ‘Am I not feeding you and giving you lodging as well as helping you wile away the hours before bed? ‘

His lips twitched, but he bowed and turned his back.

The clock on the mantel struck midnight. She glanced at it to make sure. She could not believe so much time had passed so quickly.

She leaped out of her chair, turned her back, in case he should decide to peek, and untied her garter, a pretty thing made of the finest lace from Nottingham she’d bought on a visit to look at their mills. She walked to the chair and laid it on top of his cravat. The rug felt odd under her stockinged feet, the silk no barrier to the rougher nap of the woollen tufts.

‘Let us finish our game,’ she said, trying to sound as if it didn’t matter that one of her stockings was slowly sliding down her calf, or that the heat inside her seemed to have reached the temperature of a furnace. He’d been right when he said their blushes would keep them warm.

Or her, anyway. He seemed remarkably unaffected.

‘It is my turn.’

He bowed and gestured for her to continue.

She inhaled a deep breath, forcing her unruly thoughts back in control. She needed seven points to have any hope of winning this game. She had done it in the past. Not often. And not for a very long time. She looked at the table, the balls back in position. It would not be an easy shot.

She steadied herself against the table and lined up her cue. Her mouth felt terribly dry and her hands were shaking. The hit on the red was clean, it cracked nicely and shot across the table spinning, while her cue ball downed his ball in the nearby corner. The red ball hovered at the edge of the centre pocket and stopped.

It stopped. Surely it would topple over. She stared at it. Willing it to move. A fraction.

She could not believe it.

‘Oh, too bad,’ he said and sounded sincere.

She shrugged. ‘I won four points.’ She’d wanted seven.

‘We could take it as potted. It is so close.’

Her back stiffened. ‘I’m not a child, sir. I haven’t lost yet.’ She brushed her hair back from her shoulders. ‘You have four items to remove, remember?’

He smiled and shrugged. He took off his waistcoat and watch, then slowly released the buttons of his shirt, all the while keeping his gaze on her face.

Heat blazed in her cheeks. She was having trouble breathing and she couldn’t look away.

He tugged the shirt free of his waistband and pulled it off over his head, tossing it on his growing pile of clothing.

He was beautiful. ‘Oh, my,’ she whispered.

Merry had never seen such a virile gorgeous male. Not out in the fields at haymaking or in the mills, where the men often discarded most of their clothing in the heat of the summer. And certainly Jeremy had looked nothing like this. Although she’d been fascinated at the sight of his body, she’d not been in awe.

The lean and heavily muscled Tonbridge, with his skin of pale gold as if he sometimes exposed it to the sun, left her breathless. The scar, puckered and white, ravaging tight sculpted flesh from breast to hip, emphasised the perfection of his form.

She felt a strange urge to touch the scar, to run her fingers along its length, to press her lips to it as if somehow she could make it disappear. A little shiver ran down her spine. Pleasure. Lust. She knew it for what it was, but had it firmly under control. Didn’t she?

She raised her eyes once more to his face. He was watching her closely as if trying to read her reaction. Perhaps other women were repulsed by the sight of his ruined flesh. A tension that had not been there before invaded the room.

Oh, there had been tension, between them. The sort of electricity one felt before thunderstorms as they fenced verbally. She had found it quite exciting. This, however, felt more like the undercurrent in a fast-flowing river. An irresistible tug of unseen emotions.

She forced a bright smile. ‘What will you remove next?’

He chuckled. A deep sound in his lovely broad chest. ‘Not much left for either of us.’

And it was his turn to play. This was going to be very embarrassing. Four points would be bad enough. Seven would have her completely disrobed.

‘Do you want to stop here?’ he asked.

Why did he have to be so gentlemanly? And yet there was a knowing look in his eyes as if he guessed she would never forfeit a game. ‘That would be cowardly,’ she managed.

Her gaze darted from his face to his chest. ‘What happened to you?’

‘A sabre.’

‘Duelling?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I think duelling is a foolish pastime,’ she said, frowning at the scar. ‘Real men resolve their problems without hacking each other to pieces.’

The hobnail-booted grasshoppers had returned. This time they were running around in a frenzy. Out of self-defence she turned her attention to the table. It didn’t help, because he walked around retrieving the balls from her last shot, his upper arms bulging and stretching as he replaced them on the table.

She took a deep breath and realised with horror her hands were shaking and damp.

He leaned a hip against the edge of the table. ‘My shot.’

His shot. This was going to be a disaster.

He leaned over the table and his elbow slid smoothly forwards, but he dropped his shoulder. His ball missed the red by such a small fraction, for a moment she was sure he was about to get another seven.

Relief flooded through her body in a hot wave.

He stood staring at the table as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. ‘By Jove,’ he said, frowning.

‘You lowered your shoulder at the last minute,’ she said.

He grimaced and removed his signet ring. It tinkled against the other jewellery as he set it down with a snap.

He took a deep breath and the underlying bones in his chest expanded, drawing attention to the narrowness of his waist and lean hips, though she tried her best not to let him see she had noticed.

She was going to win. He had almost nothing left to remove. She wiped her hands on her gown. She ought to stop now. She really ought to.

But he needed taking down a peg or two.

And she wasn’t going to look when he removed the last of his clothes.

Not one peek. He would remove them and leave.

‘Your turn, Merry.’

For some reason, she loved the way he said her name. It was as if he savoured each syllable and consonant. As if he tasted them on his tongue.

‘Yes,’ she said. Her hands trembled. She didn’t need to do anything fancy. Put his ball in the corner pocket.

‘Whenever you are ready,’ he said quietly.

She jumped. Desperate to have this over and done she took her shot quickly, neatly caroming off the red, the ball ricocheting into the pocket at the end of the table.

He made a sound like a laugh quickly stifled.

A second later she realised why. She’d downed her own ball.

‘Hell,’ she said.

‘Oh, dear. I believe that is three points to me.’

‘I know that,’ she said, staring at the table where his ball happily rested to the right of the red. Blast. She hadn’t made a mistake like that since she’d been a young girl.

She looked up at his face and saw his broad grin. Damn it. The sight of him half-naked had scattered her wits.

A smile pinned on her face, she let her eyes sparkle and fluttered her lashes. ‘Might I ask if you have a preference?’

His look of astonishment, quickly followed by a flare of heat in those dark eyes, was all the reward she needed for her daring.

Her satisfaction didn’t last long, because he was eyeing her like dinner had finally arrived. What on earth had made her give him the choice?

‘The other garter, I think, and both stockings. And then it is my turn to shoot.’

And she would be the one who was naked. Her stomach dipped down to her feet.

‘I will forgo the rest of the game,’ he said, his eyes gleaming wickedly, ‘if you will permit me to remove those items.’

Her stomach sank even further, dropping away in a rush. As if she’d fallen from a high place, or dropped into a well.

He raised his brows.

Dash it all. It was the only way to retain a shred of propriety and honour. Letting him take off her stockings and feeling those wonderfully strong warm hands on her naked flesh all the way to her knee sounded dreadful. Dreadfully delicious.

And not nearly as awful as being required to undress, should he down his next shot. He had missed once. He might miss again. Her mind went back to that odd drop of his shoulder, when usually he moved with such elegant grace and surety. He’d done it on purpose. Missed his shot. To give her a chance to win. And she’d muffed it.

No wonder he’d laughed.

She closed her eyes briefly. Then he deserved his reward. Her insides quivered. Excitement. Anticipation. Wicked. She was nothing but wicked.

She nodded.

She sat on the nearest chair. ‘Your hands must go no further than the top of my knee, nor your gaze.’

The corners of his mouth curled in a sensual smile. ‘Do you play the part of Portia, now?’

She lifted her chin. ‘And will you play the part of fair Antonio or be the lesser man?’

‘A hit,’ he said and bowed. ‘I will abide by your rule most cheerfully.’

She carefully arranged her skirt so that no more than the top of her left stocking showed below the hem. It had slid below her knee.

He dropped to his knees in front of her and sat back on his heels. ‘A delectable sight.’

‘I trust you to keep your word.’

She could not see his face, but his shoulders shook a little as if he was trying not to laugh. She saw no humour in the situation, for he had cheated. She was sure of it.

Her skin tingled with the anticipation of his touch. She bit her lip as he hooked one finger into the fine silk and rolled it down over her ankle. He eased it over her heel and off. ‘That is one.’

There. Not so bad. No caresses or touches driving her mad.

His fingers went to the hem of her gown, gathering up the fine material until he reached her knee. She tried not to look, or to guess at his reaction. A rake like him would have seen lots of ladies’ limbs. Her legs were long and well muscled from striding about her property like a man, when she wasn’t conducting business, also like a man. He would find no feminine softness beneath her skirts. He’d probably find her unappealing.

She stared at the wall opposite and gritted her teeth.

The tug on the bow of her garter was like a tug at her centre. Wicked sensations pulsed in her core. She felt naked, exposed, yet when she glanced down to watch, her hem had risen only on one side and not a fraction above the edge of her stocking. But he knelt so close, concentrated on his task with such focus, she could feel his warm breath brush her thigh through the layers of gown and chemise. It tickled unbearably.

He pulled the garter free and dangled it before her face. ‘Two,’ he said.

She swallowed. Resisted the urge to pull down her skirts. Ignored the fire she could feel burning on her face. She did not fear him doing anything she did not permit. She feared she might permit him to take liberties. But she would not be so cowardly as to go back on her word, not after his generosity. ‘Well, go on.’

He cast a swift glance upwards. ‘Your wish is my command.’

Oh, how she wanted to hit him. She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and yawned instead. But as soon as he returned to his task, she lowered her lashes, pretending to close her eyes, and watched as he ran a finger beneaththe edge of her stocking. A second finger joined the first. He made great play of stretching the fabric over her knee. Her insides turned liquid as if they had melted. Her limbs grew languid. She hauled in a deep breath.

He leaned down and placed a kiss on the bared skin. A swift brush of warm dry lips.

She gasped and gripped the chair arms tighter. ‘You go too far.’

‘Such beauty deserves worship.’

‘You tease me, sirrah.’

He looked up, his eyelids heavy, his lips sensual. ‘Not about something as lovely as this.’

A warm glow suffused her skin. Her body clamoured for more than a whisper of touch. She must not succumb to him. She’d sworn never to let a man take her for a fool. She was her own woman. Now and always. Only with him she seemed reckless. Dangerously so.

Was it reckless to keep one’s word?

She bit her lip. ‘Continue.’

He rolled the stocking, as neatly as any maid would, careful not to damage the cobwebby silk. Another inch of skin, another kiss. Thrills coursed through her blood. She held herself rigid against their temptation, but she couldn’t stop watching.

He continued to roll and kiss every inch until the stocking reached her ankle. He shaped her calf with his palm, lingering there as if he’d exposed a treasure. Her insides tightened with desire and longing.

He sighed, a waft of warm gentle air against her skin, then pulled the stocking off. He rubbed the ball of her foot with his thumb. Her body hummed with pleasure. He massaged her arch. She wanted to purr like a cat. Her back stretched. Her shoulders loosened. Dazed, she stared down at his broad naked shoulders, the curve of his back, the movement of muscle beneath. He was lovely.

She yearned to touch him. If only she dared.

Gently he lowered her hem, and rose to his full height, smiling down at her. Clearly waiting for sign from her as to where they would go next.

When she said nothing, he gave a slight nod. ‘I think it is time I bid you goodnight.’ He put on his ring, tucked the rest of his jewellery in his coat pocket and slung his discarded clothing over his shoulder.

He looked just like a pirate carrying off his booty.

She half-wished the booty included her.

Her heart knocked against her ribs. Her body trembled with the urge to join him in his chamber. To enjoy his beautiful body and the pleasure he would give.

It had been a long time since she’d known the pleasure of a man. But she never expected to be attracted to a man like him, a nobleman who no doubt would mock her in his clubs and to his friends. Blast it. Pricked by her pride, she’d let him push her too far and been tempted by his beautiful body. What a fool.

Thank goodness he’d be gone in the morning and leave her in peace.

‘I’ll collect the rest of my winnings tomorrow,’ he murmured.

Her heart lurched.

Money. He meant the money. ‘It will be waiting for you,’ she said with a calm she did not feel.

She acknowledged his sweeping bow with an inclination of her head.

He closed the door softly behind him. She sat still, imagining him climbing the stairs. Would he walk slowly? Lingering, hoping she might follow? Or would he run, glad of his escape? Or had it all been one great joke?

Did he know she was his for the taking had he persisted? Did he know she’d lie awake all night, reliving his touch on her flesh?

Shame sent more heat to her face. Her stomach fell away. Would she never learn? She inhaled a deep breath, pushed to her feet and looked up at Grandfather’s portrait beside the hearth. A gentler one than that in the other room. ‘I certainly made a pig’s ear of that, didn’t I?’ No doubt more scandal would attach to her name when he gossiped to his friends.

Thank God, he would be gone in the morning.

Chapter Four

Voices. Female voices. As consciousness returned, Charlie lay still, eyes closed, his cold naked body rigid. One movement would be his downfall. A laugh chilled his soul.

‘Do you think he tupped the missus?’

‘Why else would she bring him home?’

Odd. Charlie cracked an eyelid. Peered at the two women at the end of a monstrous four-poster bed and remembered. He was in Yorkshire, not a war-torn field in Europe. He let go of his breath, relaxing his body.

The women were dressed modestly, like chambermaids, one a chubby young blonde with an inquisitive expression, the other a sallow-faced brunette past the first blush of youth. Their eyes perused his body as boldly as a farmer sizing up a bull at the market.

Flipping the sheet over his groin, Charlie sat up and smiled. ‘Good morning, ladies.’

The blonde one squeaked. The other put her hands on her hips. ‘Sorry, your lordship. We didn’t mean to wake you. Your fire is made up and we stopped to admire the

‘You should draw t’curtain,’ the younger one said defensively, ‘if you don’t want us looking.’

He choked back a laugh. Miss Draycott had the most unusual of staff. But then there was nothing about Merry Draycott that was usual.

The dark one lowered her lashes a fraction and her gaze to the sheet, which hid little of the evidence of his morning arousal. ‘I could help you out with that for a shilling.’

‘I wouldn’t charge you at all,’ the blonde said, licking her lips and smiling. ‘I’d bounce on that any day of t’week.’

Good God, what sort of house was this? Charlie tried to keep his jaw off his chest. ‘Thank you, but no.’

The hopeful smile faded. ‘You won’t say nowt to missus, will you? About us waking you. We are supposed to be quiet.’

With a sense of unreality, Charlie shook his head. ‘Thank you for the fire.’

The older of the two narrowed her gaze. ‘How come you left all the candles burning? Not scared of the dark, are you?’

Scared didn’t come close to describing the insidious panic he felt in the hours before dawn. He grinned. ‘I fell asleep reading.’ He gestured to the book on the night table, placed there in case of such questions.

‘Waste of good beeswax, that is,’ she muttered and flounced out of the room.

The other girl followed, lugging the coal bucket and a dustpan and brush.

Charlie collapsed against the pillows and let out a laugh. There was no mistaking the sort of fires those women preferred to light and it had nothing to do with hearths and coals.

He should have guessed from the style of Merry’s dress and her lapses of speech that the damned woman was a brothel keeper.

An abbess. And one with enemies? Overnight he’d been thinking about that broken axle.

Another look at her carriage was required, but this latest piece of information added to his suspicions about her supposed accident. It wasn’t one.

He glanced around the room. The candles augmented by light from the window illuminated a carved and tapestry-hung nightmare of a room in every shade of green. It looked worse than it had the previous evening.

He threw back the covers and slipped from the bed. He strode to the window. He’d left the curtains open, too, as well as the bed curtains. Unending white accounted for the unnatural light. He frowned at the sky. While the clouds seemed less lowering, he doubted the roads would be passable.

And he was stuck in a house of ill repute. A joke Robert would have loved. Charlie didn’t find it in the least bit humorous. She should have told him last night instead of her pretending to be respectable—well, almost respectable.

A vision of Merry’s lovely slender leg in his hand popped into his brain. The arousal that had tormented him the previous evening, and upon awakening, started anew. He cursed. He’d behaved like a perfect gentleman with a woman who kept a bawdy house. What a quixotic fool she must have thought him.

He turned away from the window at the sound of the chamber door opening. Brian with boots in hand. The lad bowed deeply. ‘Good morning, my lord. Mr Gribble said to tell you the snow on the moors is really deep.’

‘I guessed as much. You don’t need to stay. I can manage.’

The lad looked so crestfallen at the dismissal, Charlie relented. ‘Brush my claret-coloured coat and then iron my cravat, if you wouldn’t mind.’

The lad touched his forelock. ‘Reet gladly, my lord.’

In less than an hour, Charlie was hunching his shoulders against a wind stronger than the previous evening and holding fast to his hat brim. The drifting snow came close to the top of his boots as he slogged down a hill to the stables. Set around three sides of a square courtyard, the building offered welcome shelter from the gale. He entered through the first door he came to and almost bumped into a fellow coming out. Not a groom. Of course not. It was Miss Draycott in a man’s low-crowned hat and her mannish driving coat.

Charlie raised his hat and smiled. ‘Good morning. I didn’t expect to see you up and about at this early hour.’

After the startled look faded from her expression, she frowned. Not pleased to see him. ‘I didn’t think London dandies rose from their bed before noon.’

‘Mr Brummell has given us all a very bad reputation,’ Charlie said mournfully. He knocked the snow off his boots against the door frame. ‘I came to see how the horses were doing.’ No sense in alarming her, when he had nothing but vague suspicions.

‘Don’t you trust my servants to take proper care of your animals, my lord?’

My, her temper was ill today. ‘If I didn’t trust your servants, Miss Draycott, I would have come out here last night.’

She acknowledged the hit with a slight nod.

‘I also wondered about your team. How is that foreleg?’

Her shoulders slumped. ‘Not good. Jed poulticed it, but it is badly swollen.’

‘Do you mind if I look?’

‘Not at all.’ She sounded quite doubtful. Probably thought he wouldn’t know one end of the beast from the other. Nor would he indicate otherwise. The fact that he liked working with horses was no one’s business but his own.

They walked along the stable block. A single row of stalls built along each back wall, nice drainage, fresh straw and a surprising number of mounts, both riding and draught. He nodded his approval.

The carriage horses were in the middle block. The wrinkled wizened man who’d met them with the lantern the previous evening stood leaning on a broom, watching the injured horse eat.

‘Jed, this is Lord Tonbridge,’ Merry said.

He knuckled his forehead. ‘Aah. Yours are reet fine animals, yer lordship. Two stalls down they are.’

‘Thank you. Miss Draycott is concerned about this one. May I see?’

The old fellow ran a knowing eye down his person. ‘Well, if you don’t mind mucking in the midden, you’re reet welcome.’

Charlie inched in beside the horse and sank down on his haunches. The groom had packed a mixture of warm mash and liniment around the injured foreleg. ‘How bad do you think it is?’

‘No more’n a strain, I reckon.’

‘He got hooked up in the traces,’ Miss Draycott said. ‘I hope he didn’t do any permanent damage.’

So, she’d followed him back. That was going to make his questioning of the head groom difficult.

‘Have you tried packing it with snow?’ Charlie asked.

Jed scratched at the grey stubble on his chin. ‘Never heard of that for a strain.’

Charlie grinned. ‘Nor I. My groom discovered it takes the swelling down faster than warm mash, if you want to try it. Little else to be done apart from plenty of rest.’

‘It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it, Jed?’ Merry said quietly. ‘I feel so badly. Not once in my life have I ever injured one of my horses.’

She sounded dreadfully guilty. Charlie wanted to put an arm around her shoulders and offer her comfort, then press her up against the stable wall and offer a bit more than that, she looked so starkly beautiful with her hair tucked up under her ridiculous hat.

‘'T’was my fault,’ Jed said. ‘I should have seen somat were up wi’carriage. I should never have let you drive alone.’

‘No, you should not,’ Charlie said. ‘The carriage could have turned over. The horse’s legs might have been broken rather than strained. Not to mention Miss Draycott’s safety.’

The groom’s wrinkled face looked grim. ‘Aye.’

‘It was not Jed’s fault,’ Miss Draycott said. ‘And it is beside the point. That poor creature is in pain.’

‘Nowt to worry your head about, missy.’

‘I’ll check again later,’ she said, rubbing her upper arms.

He hadn’t thought her so sentimental a woman. Yet on their drive she had kept turning back to look at the injured beast. Perhaps, beneath her hard brittle shell, she’d a soft centre. Hopefully, the head groom wouldn’t let her rampage around the countryside alone in future. He’d have a word with him in private. Later. When Merry left.

‘You’d be better off staying warm by the fire,’ the groom said.

‘I’ll take a look at my cattle while I’m here, Jed.’

‘Sixteen mile an hour tits, I’m thinkin', my lord,’ Jed said.

‘On a smooth road downhill.’ Charlie patted the injured horse’s rump and exited the stall. He exited further along the stable block.

‘I was going too fast,’ Merry said, following him. ‘I was angry and hurrying because of the weather. I must have hit a rut.’

He’d seen no signs of a rut large enough to damage an axle. ‘Fretting won’t change it.’

Her chin quivered. ‘No. It won’t. But that horse is in pain. I can see it in his eyes.’

Charlie didn’t quite know what to say, so said nothing. He strode along the block until he found his team. They huffed a greeting. He spent a moment or two going over their hooves and their limbs. Someone had brushed them and their brown coats shone.

‘You have a good man in Jed,’ he said.

‘He worked for my grandfather.’ She spoke as if the words answered all.

They walked side by side along the alley in front of the stalls.

‘It seems you are to be burdened by my company for a while longer,’ he said.

‘It is no burden,’ she said absently as if she had something else on her mind. ‘It won’t be the first time we are snowed in for a few days.’

‘Thank you for your hospitality.’

His voice must have sounded just a little dry, because her head turned, her eyes meeting his gaze.

She gave a rueful smile. ‘Did I sound dreadfully rude? I apologise. I meant to say that it will be an honour to have you stay as long as you wish.’

Somehow he preferred the earlier offhand invitation to this lavish courtesy, because the first was pure Merry and the second pro forma.

‘You must allow me to perform some service for you while I am here,’ he said just a little mischievously, thinking to test the waters.