The Earl's Wagered Bride: Christmas Belles, Book 1

by Cerise DeLand

“Chess.”

  Chapter 7

  When Griff rose from his chair hours later, he took to his bedchamber. Within minutes he returned with his gold pocket watch in his hand. “Thought I heard the hall clock mark the time. It’s one, not two.”

  “You look tired,” she said noting the faint blue around his eyes. “You should go to bed.”

  “And leave the field to you?” He grinned, slipping his watch into a pocket in his banyan. “No indeed.”

  “You’ve fought long and hard.” She swept a hand toward their board. Their game proceeded, slow as a turtle. He was too good. She, too hesitant. The result was mixed. She had taken one of his pawns with her knight. He’d seized two of her pawns and a bishop. “Why not take advantage of your opportunity to rest?”

  “I can sleep the rest of my life, Marjorie. Tonight I am focused on this game.”

  She chastised him with a shake of her head. Pulling the collar of her robe up around her throat, she shivered at the sultry lure of his bass voice. Then she crossed her arms.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  “No.” Tired. Fearing I could lose this game. My resolve to stay away from you.

  “I can stir the fire. Or pour you another brandy?” He indicated the tray filled with cold beef sandwiches and French creme pastries that Simms had brought them after Griff had rung and they’d begun to play.

  “No more for me.” Her head had swum when she’d drunk the first glass. That was bad enough, she didn’t need anything besides his presence to intoxicate her. He was too appealing, dressed in the casual elegance of his blue-black robe. She—having retreated to her chambers early on to have Mary help her out of her gown and underclothes—did not need any more inducements to relax with him. He was, by one fine move, winning. Not by much, but still, she was aware...all too well aware...of his nearness. And her own vulnerability. Her lack of stays to support her resolve. Her sleepiness. Her enjoyment of the hours with him, uninterrupted. The fact that when he leaned across the chess board, she could inhale his cologne. The subtle fragrance stirred her need to touch him or retreat.

  She shot to her feet and strode to the fireplace.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My legs are going to sleep sitting in the same position. I need to move.” Put distance between you and me. She stretched her arms toward the crackling flames. Heat from those were safer than being burnt to ashes with her desire for him. “Tell me about Wellington.”

  He stood beside her, gazing into the fire. “A good man to work for. A brutal task-master, devoted to details. I know a few officers in the Royal Engineers who have suffered tongue-lashings. Also a few of my colleagues in General Staff.”

  “How long will we occupy France?” The allies who’d forced Napoleon from his throne and off to St. Helena had carved up their former enemy into bits for everyone. But she wanted to learn how long Griff would be away from home. How long do I have here before I must go?

  “The Russians would like to remain forever, I do believe. They are bitter about the little man’s invasion three years ago. As for the others? I think they will relent and we’ll be gone soon. The occupation is set for five years, but I predict we will leave sooner. Three, two, one. I hope not long.”

  “A year.” Her heart ached to hear it. In a year, where would she be? In that little cottage in Crawley? Safe? Happy? With her sisters. Without him. “I wish it were now.”

  “So do I.”

  A note of yearning in his tone had her facing him. Her chin up, she admired him. His fortitude, his devotion. An aristocrat with vast estates, tenants and investments to manage, he had not had to go to war. But he deemed it his duty. “I’m proud of you.”

  With those expressive blue eyes, he caressed her. “I take the compliment, but assure you there are others who deserve your praise more than I. Bromley. Alastair.”

  “I’ll share my pride in them. You I applaud, nonetheless.” She put her hand to his forearm, the soft fabric of his sleeve counter to the iron of the muscles beneath her grip.

  He covered her hand with his own and drew her to him. Once more, she stood in his embrace, the heat of his body too intimate, the contours of his strength a wicked call to press against him more closely.

  “Must we play out this game, Marjorie?” He cupped her nape with one big hand and with his thumb induced her to raise her chin and look into his eyes.

  What game precisely did he refer to? Chess or...

  “Why not let me give you this money?”

  “Because then you’ll own—” She caught herself and bit her lip. “You’ll own what I long to buy.”

  “I’d give you the money freely, darling. You are of age. I was never your guardian, legally or otherwise. Why would I claim to safeguard your money?”

  “I want this so that Bee, Del and I can have a— Oh, why not?” She gave in to the impulse to confide in him. “You’ll know soon enough! A home, Griff. A home!”

  She hadn’t realized that tears escaped her eyes. Not until he brushed away those wending down each cheek. “I concluded as much. A house. A home. You are so earnest in your aspiration. They love you for it, I’m sure.”

  “They don’t know.”

  He cradled her close. “You haven’t told them. Well,” he said on a sigh and rested his jaw atop the crown of her hair. “What will you do if they do not wish to go with you?”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled against him. “Bee should marry Alastair. She’s loved him forever.” As I have loved you.

  “Bromley came with me to apologize and pursue Delphine. What if he’s successful? What if she marries him?” Griff pulled back and said, “Look at me. Answer me.”

  “If they want to marry, I’d be happy for them.”

  “Would you still leave here?”

  “I think it right. Yes.”

  Sadness darkened his eyes. “Alone?”

  The middle daughter, Marjorie had never experienced what it was to be alone. A gregarious creature, she’d always had friends. Even after their father made a mess of his life, none of her friends had ever deserted her as they had Bee and Delphine.

  She pulled away. Stared at the board. Bent over and moved one of her pawns. It was a bad move, exposing her to his conquest. Well, that was nothing new. “Let’s return to the game.”

  “I don’t want you to go, Marjorie.” He came to stand behind her, cup her shoulders and press her back into his embrace.

  “I’d live here if I could.” With you. “But it’s not possible.”

  He turned her around too easily.

  Why was she so readily swayed by his touch?

  He ran his fingers into her hair. His allure drew her as if he were a magician in the Lanes. He put his lips to hers and didn’t stop. She returned the ardor and at once she found herself on the settee, beneath him. He rained kisses down her throat, along her clavicle to the low neckline of her dressing gown and nightgown. He brushed his hand along her breast and at once, her breath deserted her when he closed his hot wet lips around her nipple. He was tender, licking her to a firm high point, and she gasped, wanting more, him, this, always.

  She grabbed his hair. “Griff, please. I must go.”

  His blue eyes were full of despair as he nodded. Then he pushed up and away to extend a hand to her. “Come.”

  She rose, aching with the need for more of him. “I hope we’ll finish this match tomorrow.”

  “Yes, anything you wish. Marjorie, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should not have—”

  Oh, but she wished he had. Yes. Done all that he wanted. Because she wanted it too.

  “Never apologize to me. I am to blame as well here.” She picked up her skirts and made for the door. “Tomorrow. Shall we say, ten o’clock?”

  “Ten. Of course.”

  He watched her go and cursed his inability to follow her to her bedroom. He mustn’t. She was his to protect. He’d prided himself on how well he’d done that. Never crossing the boundaries of the friendship that fo
rmed the rock of their relationship. Yet he recognized when last he was home that when he took her in his arms, she accepted without objection or remark the new territory of their bond. Yes, for all these years he’d wanted her and been unable to act on his desire.

  Decide.

  His mother had been right. He must. Decide how much he wanted Marjorie. For what. For how long.

  He poured himself another brandy, lifted it to his lips but set the crystal down with a thud. No answers hid in the glass.

  Only in his heart.

  Truth—that very essence he valued so highly in his men, his friends and family—had eluded him on this matter for too long.

  Decide.

  He hadn’t because he’d gone to war. Thought it his duty to his country to serve. His devotion had filled his every thought and Marjorie was far away. Then too, she was here, under his roof, under his care, and she showed no signs she wished to go. She’d been a hoyden, a torture and temptation to him. And to his knowledge, she’d had no beaus. Received no suitors or offers of marriage. The probability that she’d marry seemed small to nonexistent. If he’d anticipated one day she’d leave Marsden Hall for any other reason, he pushed that date to some indefinable future. That musing must now end.

  To desire her was a rogue’s emotion. To love her was a man’s.

  And I do.

  I do.

  He strode to the window, pushed back the drapes and considered the stars and the moon.

  Let’s be honest. To marry her was his ambition.

  But what was her desire? Oh, she could want him, his kisses, his caresses. He had evidence of that these past days. He understood passion. A moment’s infatuation. An evening’s entertainment. Titillating and enervating.

  Love—that which made his bloodstream flood with the need to laugh with her until the end of his days—that’s what he felt for her.

  But did she love him?

  He had to learn. In the process, he must prove to her his own intentions.

  But how?

  Chapter 8

  At ten the next morning, she ran down the upstairs hall. No one was about. Most were at breakfast. Since seven, she’d monitored the guests marching to and fro. She’d pretended to visit Bee or Del’s bedchambers, emerged into the hall to bid each one she met and after they'd passed, quickly returned to her own rooms.

  She pushed open the library door to find Griff standing over the chessboard. Though he had shaved—bathed too because he smelled delicious, he wore buff breeches, a flowing white shirt and a waistcoat of emerald brocade. She took no insult at his informality. The opposite.

  “I hope you excuse my attire,” he said as he smiled at her. “I had not realized how I’ve changed.”

  “You have.” She grinned at him, then tore herself away to ponder the board lest she eat him up like a hungry puppy. “In many ways.”

  “As have you,” he said, so softly she barely heard him.

  Levity was vital here. “I still want to win at this. That hasn’t changed.”

  “You always wanted to win at everything. Foot races. Cards.”

  “Mmmm.” She had the urge to blurt how she wanted to win him. But prudence and humility so rarely her guide, she tried for lofty aspirations. Griff was an earl, meant to take to wife an earl or duke’s daughter, not the offspring of a lowly and disreputable viscount.

  Hands on his hips, he chuckled. “Will you please make a move?”

  “Why? Are you in a hurry?”

  His half-lidded gaze declared he was in a wild rush. “Oh, yes. I want to put my hands all over you.”

  She caught her breath. “Griff.”

  “Put my lips on yours again.”

  She wanted the same. “Shouldn’t,” she squeaked.

  “Mustn’t,” he said but took a step to pull her against him. “Can’t stop.”

  She swallowed hard, but brushed her palms over the supple crush of linen and the warm planes of his chest. “I thought we stopped doing this.”

  “Last night we did,” he said between kisses of her lips, her cheek, the hollow of her throat. “But these are for this morning.”

  “Wonderful,” she said as she wended her fingers through the satin of his hair.

  “You are,” he said as he nuzzled the collar of her day dress. “Where did you learn to kiss like this?”

  “You taught me,” she said as she let him bend her backward in his arms and trail kisses down her chest.

  He paused to stare at her, flummoxed. “When?”

  “Last night. Now.” She wished she had more will power.

  He picked her up and walked with her to that same settee where last night they’d surrendered to the same passion. This time, he set her on his lap, cupped her chin and kissed her quickly. “No other man has ever kissed you?”

  “A few tried.” She ran the tip of her nose along the length of his cheek, then bit his earlobe.

  “Ha!” He pulled away. “Why not let them?”

  She flexed a shoulder. “Why should I?” They were not you.

  “I’ve kissed a few ladies.”

  She tweaked his nose. “Is that a confession or a boast?”

  “The former. I am no lothario.”

  “I never thought that of you. Most men must learn the arts of love from someone, isn’t that the way of it?”

  “The practice, yes. But for a young woman the art of kissing is learned how?”

  “Like this. With someone she—”

  Their eyes met. Held.

  She could not breathe.

  He set her to her feet. “Make your move, sweetheart. I’ll check the hall and you can leave.”

  Hungry for him, every muscle, every ounce of her being needing more of his hands and lips and endearing words, she tidied her hair, her skirts. Then she spun for the board.

  Her remaining knight could jump one of his pawns. So she let him.

  “Are you certain you want to do that?” He tipped his head, all feigned innocence.

  She grinned at him. “You are a devil, sir. You kiss me and caress me and think to muddle me so that you will win. Yes, I want to move that knight. Do as you will. I’m leaving.”

  “But wait!” Laughter rang in his voice.

  And she swung round to face him.

  “When will you return to finish this?”

  “Later. Shall we say every hour on the hour? You need not be here. In fact, it’s probably best you not be.”

  “I like being alone with you.”

  And I you. “That is dangerous as we’ve proven time and again.”

  “I won’t hurt you, Marjorie.”

  “But you can. I could want you too much, Griff. So much I would forget my modesty, my pride, my need for the money I could win here. But most of all—”

  He strode toward her.

  She put up a hand to ward him off. “Most of all, I could forget the need to give my sisters a home of their own. A home they need. One they can own themselves. One no one can take from them.” Or from me.

  At half eleven, Griff gazed down at what she’d done. She’d moved one of her pawns forward another space. He could capture that one too and ruin her approach to his bishop.

  At half noon, he grinned when he saw she'd taken one of his knights. But he blocked her easily and took another of her bishops.

  She wasn’t putting her best efforts into this game. She was angry with him. And why not?

  He’d been foolish to put his hands and lips on her again. Again! He would stop. He wouldn't have her compelled to wed him because he’d seduced her. Even if she all but admitted she cared for him. Her goal was to buy a house for her sisters. Noble goal.

  At half one, he could have captured her queen and ended this farce of a game. Instead, he did not move at all.

  Grumbling, he left the library and headed for his room. He’d go riding. Find out how nimble his horses remained without him around to monitor their development.

  Inside his stables, his groom and two stable boys talked with Mar
k Trevelyan and Riverdale. Both were bundled up in thick woolen attire.

  “Here to ride, Marsden?” Riverdale asked.

  “Hope so,” added Trevelyan. “Riverdale and I welcome good company.”

  Griff doubted he was that. “Tired of parlor games, are you?”

  “Ah,” said Riverdale with a hand to his neck and rolling his eyes, “there comes a time a man needs fresh air.”

  “I agree,” Griff said. “And I’d say we’ve got the mounts to give you a jolly afternoon.”

  “Going riding?” Lord Hallerton called to them from the open doors.

  “Do join us,” Griff invited him. He knew the man from consulting with him for years on local shipping issues. They’d been cordial, but never friends. Since Griff had been in the Army, he’d not visited with the man often. Perhaps once or twice a year in as many. But Hallerton was well-informed. If anyone nearby wished to sell a residence, he would know. But Griff would not sully his own principles to ask the man.

  "You've made a few drastic moves," Griff said to her that night during supper. Unknown to his step-mama or Simms, he'd changed the table assignments so that he might sit next to her—and scold her for her performance. "I've never seen you play so poorly."

  "I'm saving my best for later," she tossed back at him.

  "I don't want you to lose."

  She shot him a quelling glance. "You don't want me to win either."

  "A conundrum."

  "For you." She rolled her dinner cloth between her hands and rung the damn linen as if it were a poor chicken's neck. "You planned for me to lose. Choosing chess! Ha. You fixed the odds against me. If we'd played Hazard or cards, I would have had a chance. So do not insult me by deriding my choices. Just play the game."

  Casting him a frown, she turned her attentions on Mark Trevelyan who sat to her left.

  When dinner ended and his step-mama called the musicale, Griff caught Marjorie by her elbow. "You're right. I was unfair. I end the match."

  There was her beady-eyed look again. "I need the ten thousand. I refuse to concede."