A Rake's Redemption

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “You would—let me understand this-this wager.” His voice was hard and brittle, his expression enigmatic. “You would barter yourself for Fossey’s estate?”

  So that was how he saw it. Her chin went up. That was not how she had intended him to see it at all. “No. I will not sell myself. However, I will bet you whatever you want that I can win one game of euchre from you.” It was a fine distinction; maybe she was deceiving herself and there was no distinction. Nevertheless— “You set the price, my lord; I have faith in my ability to win when I need to. In exchange I want your pledge that, should I win, you will forgive Charles Fossey of his debt. I am not doing this for him, but for his mother and his sister, and—and one of whom you know nothing.” His eyes squinted. She thought of Deborah, and how improved her future would be if she could just win Charles’s freedom.

  His expression hardened. He shifted under the covers and appeared to think about it for a moment, but then he said, his voice like tempered steel, “All right. But let us be clear about the stakes. You said it’s my choice. I will not trick you this time with some pretty words about what I will take in exchange. I think, perhaps, you already know that I want you. I did not think you’d understand that. I thought you too innocent to understand a man’s lust, but it appears that I underestimated you. You have a fishmonger’s appreciation for and knowledge of her customer’s appetites.”

  She flinched at that rough assessment of her wager. Was she being cheap? Was this the bet of a whore? She took a deep, steadying breath, and would not allow her mind to fully digest what his words might mean. Her intentions were impeccable, and they must carry her through.

  He continued. “But you’re right. I have never had a pretty little vicar’s daughter.” He reached up and touched one curl that had loosened from her bun during their kiss, winding it around his finger and letting it go, watching it spring against her neck. His tone sardonic and cool, he said, “I find my jaded city tastes hunger for a country peach.” He touched her cheek and cupped her chin. “I assume you are innocent of experience with men, so let me be blunt. I wish to make love to you. If you lose this bet, I will expect you to spend one night with me, to lay with me, to give me what I want. I expect to explore your soft, pink body with my hands and other parts of me.”

  His voice was harsh and he grimaced, perhaps at the blunt sound of his words in the hushed quiet of the bedchamber. His voice gentler, he continued. “It will not be unpleasant, my dear, I guarantee you that; or at least not past the first twinge. I’m skilled and I genuinely like women, and I—” For the first time he faltered. “I like you very much, Phaedra, and I think you like me enough to enjoy the experience. If you do not, it will not be for lack of me trying. Understanding the full extent of the wager, will you still play me for Fossey’s estate? Knowing the price of losing is your innocence?”

  She would almost have thought, at that moment, that he wanted her to say no, despite just admitting that he desired her. “I—” She gulped back her hesitation, her fear. She knew him well enough to know that he would not hurt her. But still, she had been taught that her innocence was a precious cargo for a woman to protect, yielding it only to her husband on their wedding night. But she was seven and twenty and would likely never marry. What would one night spent in his arms cost her?

  But she did not intend to lose. In a game this important she felt sure of victory.

  “I understand what it means.” She took a deep breath and straightened. “So, it is Charles Fossey’s estate wagered against one night with you, to do as you bid.”

  She saw the surprise on his face and understood it instantly. “You didn’t think I would agree, did you? You thought that ultimately I would quail at the thought and would retreat in terror. That is why you made it sound so brutal and carnal. But this is important. If that is the only way you can let go of this wager, then we shall play one game for it. Shall we play now?”

  He shook his head. “I’m weary. You would not take advantage of me at less than my best, would you?” His tone had lapsed almost into sarcasm once more.

  “No, my lord. I will not take advantage of you.” She fully understood the irony behind her words, and expected he did, too. “Tomorrow evening, then. Will that do?”

  “That will do. Good night, Phaedra. Sleep well.” He gazed up at her in the darkness, and his voice was low and quiet. “If you should decide against the wager, you can back out at any time up to the moment we start playing. But after that—”

  She understood him. Rising from the bed, she said, “Good night, my lord.”

  • • •

  The next day was full of odd moments for Phaedra. Miss Peckenham came to call just as Lord Hardcastle was climbing gingerly down the stairs to take a turn in the garden. She gave a shriek and a moan, and almost fainted, but then ended up spending a pleasant half hour in the garden with the earl.

  He was at his most charming, and Phaedra watched with wry appreciation the way he mixed deference with flirtation in an alchemist’s brew to turn the nosy and sharp-tongued spinster into a giggling ninny. A rake, it would seem, knew just how to charm and please a woman, any woman! Even one as set against him as the former governess.

  He made a few sly, teasing allusions to bets and wagering, but Phaedra just frowned at him. If he was thinking to rattle her, then he was wasting his breath. She was sure that she had the power of right on her side, and that the evening would see her vanquish him and restore Charles to his birthright. She looked forward to the next morning, when she would be able to summon Charles and tell him he was free from his disastrous bet. Before nightfall he would be back on good terms with Deborah, and the two young people could start planning their future together.

  Miss Peckenham took her reluctant leave, eventually, and Lord Hardcastle, Phaedra and her father took their lunch together, after which the elderly scholar played the earl a game of chess. Then her father went back to his books, as the earl hobbled awkwardly back up the stairs, and Phaedra went about her household chores with Sally’s enthusiastic, if less than capable, hands.

  But she found, as twilight grew near and the time for her game of cards, her fateful game of chance, drew closer, her stomach began to flutter. Would she win? Surely, if she had right on her side and prayed and kept her attention on the game, then she would prevail. Right over might, so to speak.

  But what if he should win? Oh, Lord, what if he should? She knew him. She had no doubt he would claim his wager, and then she would join the ranks of “fallen” women, like Mrs. Jones, who had sold their innocence for lucre. For no matter how she dressed it up, it still came down to putting a price on her innocence. She had tried to find some other way to justify it, but it came down to the same in the end. And so be it. It was done. She would not be a hypocrite and mourn now.

  Dinner was over and the dishes were washed. Her father was comfortably ensconced back among his books, not knowing that his daughter was soon to mount the stairs and find out if she was to maintain her virginity or give it to a rakish earl. She shivered.

  She was made of sterner stuff than this, she told herself. It would not be the end of the world of she lost the wager. But she was not going to lose; on the contrary, she would prevail and emerge triumphant, and on the morrow Charles and Deborah would have their shining future as adoring husband and wife and Hardcastle . . . he would go back to London. He was well enough to travel now and had been for a couple of days. He could hire a coach and be back by the day after next, and she would be left to go back to her own comforting, safe, stultifying, boring—

  Phaedra shook herself mentally and told Sally she could walk down to the village if she wanted to. The girl flew up the stairs to change into her new dress, and Phaedra followed more slowly and entered her former room, soon to be her room again, for, one way or another, Lord Hardcastle would be leaving within the next couple of days.

  He was sitting up in bed waiting for her, the deck of cards in his hand already, and he was shuffling. He glanced up as she e
ntered. “So, the moment has come,” he said softly. “Have you thought about what I said last night, my dear? That you may back out at any moment up to the point of the first deal?”

  She paused in the doorway. “Will you release Charles from his rash wager?”

  “I cannot, Phaedra.”

  It almost sounded like sorrow in his voice. Would he change who he was if he could?

  “Then we are playing a game of euchre.” She glanced around. It was vitally important that she be comfortable during this game, and she supposed they should be downstairs playing in the parlor, in proper chairs. He was well enough to sit up for longer periods now, and there was no reason not to, she supposed. And yet—for some reason she would feel exposed down in the parlor, as if her wager was hanging in the air above them for her father or Sally to see, if they should wander through. No, they would play right here. It would end where it began.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and felt his legs behind her, touching her. She took a deep breath in, and noted that he was doing the same. The look in his eyes was smoldering, intense; his dark eyes almost glowed in the twilit room. She still did not understand why he wanted her, but thought that perhaps it was just male need reasserting itself now that his injuries were healing. Or maybe, as he had suggested, his appetite was piqued by her very difference from the courtesans and ballroom beauties he was accustomed to. With a pang of something like sadness, she admitted to herself that whatever it was, it was transitory; once he was back among his own kind he would forever laugh and shake his head, bemused at his lust for the country wren.

  She would never forget him. How much deeper would his impression be on her if she slept with him, if he became her only lover?

  “Shall you deal first, or shall I?” he said.

  “I shall deal first,” she said, determined to snatch at any small advantage.

  They played. It was going well, and Phaedra surged ahead to six out of the ten points she needed to win, while he was mired at two. She began to count the number of hands before she could announce herself the winner. Charles would have his estate, Anna and her mother would have their home, and Deborah would have her husband.

  “My point,” Hardcastle said, laying down his last card to claim hers.

  Her heart thumped. She had let herself get distracted anticipating her win, and he had taken a hand that should have gone to her, if she had been wiser. She couldn’t let that happen. “I must be more careful, my lord. I should have won that hand.”

  “So you should. If you had led with the ace on the third trick instead of the trump nine, that hand would have been yours. It is now six to three.”

  “Yes.” She moved back a little on the bed, and felt his long legs bump against her bottom. She felt his body jolt and cast a swift glance his way, wondering if he was in any pain. But no, his eyes were not shadowed as they became when he was hurting; instead there was that fiery glow within them still.

  She made a risky move in the next hand, and he euchred her neatly, gaining two points, bringing him up to five. They each in turn gained a point on the next two hands, and stood at seven to six, with Phaedra still leading.

  “You are a very good gambler, my dear,” he said, glancing down at her hands. He nodded toward them and continued. “They are steady, and you never give anything away by so much as a blink.”

  She dealt the hand and looked at her own cards. She felt a trickle of excitement. She could perhaps win two points on this hand, but it required concentration and logic. She looked at the card she had turned up, and shook her head. No, that would never do. And so she would have to turn it down and risk him making it something she could not defend against. In the end, she prevailed, but won only one point, so she stood at eight.

  The next hand went to him, with all of the tricks, so he took two points and they stood tied at eight apiece.

  Lord, please help me, she almost whispered out loud, but stayed silent. He must not know that a trickle of perspiration raced down her back, feeling like an icy finger.

  And then he won the next hand. He stood at nine, and she swallowed back a dry lump that sat in her throat like a fist. She must concentrate, she must win! The next hand went her way, but she gained only one point, and so they were both within one point of victory.

  “This hand does it, my dear. At the end of it, either Charles Fossey will regain his estate or you and I will become lovers, if just for one night.” His voice was velvety, throaty, with deep undertones of excitement.

  “I know that, my lord.” Her stomach clenched and she shifted uneasily, dizziness overcoming her for a moment. It was just anticipation of winning, she thought. It was the heady rush of knowing that Deborah and Charles would soon be able to plight their troth, perhaps a late-summer wedding in the garden at Thwicke House, when the chrysanthemums and the hollyhocks would be in full glorious bloom, and the new vicar would—

  But first she must win. It was his deal, unfortunately. It gave him the advantage for the moment, if he could make use of the card he had turned up as a trump suit.

  And he did. Damn and blast. Unpardonable language for a lady, even if it was just in her mind. She paused and hesitated over every turn of the card, watching his shadowed face, the hooded eyes making it impossible to read his expression. But long before the end of the hand, she knew the outcome. It was written in the cards, and came about.

  He had won. She had lost her innocence, and felt a thrill of fear and excitement, and loathing and longing all at once. He would touch her in ways no man had, and she would be changed forever, without benefit of clergy. Is this why she had wagered as she did? Was this a sop to her conscience? For she recognized a trickle of anticipation within the nervousness and shyness. Kissing him had been a revelation, and she had known for some days that in the long stretch between Albert Deaville’s kiss and the earl’s kiss she had ripened into a woman. She did not for a moment think she would hate what she and Hardcastle did, but she felt ashamed that she didn’t feel the horror that she should, being a well-brought-up young lady.

  And yet she mourned sincerely for Charles’s second loss. It seemed that he was not fated to be the master of his baronial estate for more than a little over the year since his father had died. And for generations to come he would bear the shame of the Fossey who had lost the ancient estate. There was no entail; family pride was all that had kept it in the Fossey name for four centuries. And now he had lost it. And she had lost it a second time, though he would never know that.

  He had not spoken. She looked up into his dark eyes, wondering if she would see pitiful triumph there, but there was no such poor emotion. He was watching her, with compassion, she thought, for he must know some of what she was feeling. If he thought her afraid, or reluctant, or bitter, she did not think he would force himself on her. She was sure he would not. He had shown himself to be kind and gentlemanly.

  But she was an adult, too. She was not afraid of him, even now, and would own up to her wager. “You have won, sir.”

  “So I have.”

  “Will you—” Her voice faltered, against her own efforts. She cleared her throat. “Will you claim your wager tonight, sir?”

  “No. I will not do you the injustice of making love to you while your father is down the hall. He is going to Oxford overnight soon, is he not? You and I will wait until then. I want you to myself, my dear, for the whole night long.”

  She shivered with a thrill of nervousness or anticipation, she was not sure which. “All right, my lord. We’ll wait until then.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  She was his. She was to be his lover, his mistress, if only for one night. As she closed the door behind her and darkness swallowed the room, he took in a deep shuddering breath. One month ago—no, one week ago—he would have laughed to think any woman could leave him breathless with anticipation, but so Phaedra had done. He had wanted her with a kind of hopeless passion, not expecting any more than stolen kisses and sly caresses, but now he would make love to h
er once, or twice, or thrice, however much he could manage in one night, and have to leave after that. He would be the only man in her whole life, perhaps, to touch her body and drink of her nectar-sweet lips. He lay awake all night in a fever of desire and barely restrained yearning, wondering what it would be like, knowing he would remember in years to come the first touch of her flesh, the first taste of her breast, the first heady sweetness of her surrender.

  He knew her well enough to know that she would pay her debt, and he didn’t think she would come to him with clenched teeth and a stiff body; he truly believed he could bring her to enjoy their lovemaking. It was why he had insisted on having her with him all night. The first time might be awkward; he could not remember the last time he had bedded a virgin. He rather thought it was in his teen years, and she a local barmaid, young but knowing and eager.

  He was not a fumbling youth now, but a man with some experience. He had never known this anticipation, and yet it was not unmixed with guilt. She had fought hard for her friends, and he knew she was devastated by the loss. If there was only a way he could go back, would he lose the game on purpose? No. He could not do that in good conscience whether there was a wager at stake or no. Cheating to lose would be no better than cheating to win, after all.

  And yet, there had been a point in the game when he looked up and saw her fierce concentration, her lip clenched between her teeth, her eyes fixed on her cards and her brow furrowed, when he wished she would win. There was every possibility that she might have, for she truly was a good and intelligent card player. One mistake had made the difference, the one point she needed to prevail. Just one point. But he couldn’t purposely give it to her. It went against every ingrained belief and hard-won conviction.