“You aren’t the first woman to tell me so.”
“I probably won’t be the last either, judging from what I saw of your harem.”
His mouth quirked upward at one corner. “You seem oddly interested in my ‘harem’ for a woman who doesn’t wish to join it. Are you jealous, my sweet?”
“Of a man incapable of faithfulness to a woman? I’d have to be insane.”
But the truth was, those women of his did indeed annoy her. She was starting to like him—though she couldn’t imagine why—and it peeved her to think of being only one in a long string of women he had kissed and teased and—
“You’re dawdling,” Byrne said, jerking her back to the present. “The gown, remember? I’ve already seen you without it once today, so why be missish about removing it now?”
Because this was different. Because they were alone in a room of soft, lambent firelight, the heavy weight of night making her drowsy enough to loosen all her restraints.
Because if he looked at her tonight as he’d looked at her earlier, she might do something she regretted.
She shook off the thought. “You are such a beast.” Planting her hands on her hips, she cast him a foul glance. “Well? Don’t just sit there, for pity’s sake. I can’t take my gown and corset off by myself. Come help me.”
Chapter Eight
Men are cheats, both at cards and at love.
—Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress
Come help her? Did she have any clue what she was asking? He was liable to tear her gown off her. He’d never been this aroused in all his life, and his control was paper-thin.
He wasn’t alone, either. Judging from her quick breaths and flushed cheeks, she was just as aroused. Unfortunately, she didn’t want to be aroused. He wasn’t sure why she persisted in resisting him. Had Haversham made her skittish of all men, or was it just him she feared? Either way, he meant to have her.
He rose and rounded the table, stifling a chuckle when her gaze swung right to his drawers. His cock grew impossibly hard, a state that only intensified as he began to undo her gown. He took his time, relishing the moment, drowning in her exotic scent. How had a woman who claimed to be “inept in the feminine arts” managed to acquire such an intoxicating perfume?
It made him wonder what other intoxicating surprises she hid beneath her practical exterior. A hennaed mons? A jewel in her navel? Nothing she had or did would surprise him. And he meant to uncover every secret.
He was halfway down her gown when someone tried the door to the parlor. His arousal came to a crashing halt, especially when the intruder knocked and asked in a concerned voice, “My lady? Are you there? It’s very late, and I wanted to know if…will you be…” A low curse sounded in Spanish. “Should I retire?”
As Christabel stiffened, he gritted his teeth. Damn her meddling maid. Surely the chit knew they were in here together. Why didn’t she have the good sense to leave well enough alone?
Because the woman was protective of her mistress. And if he weren’t careful, Christabel would seize this chance to escape.
When she moved toward the door, Gavin slipped his arm about her waist, and growled, “Oh, no, you don’t, lass.”
“What?” she said in feigned innocence.
“No need to let her in.” Then Rosa might believe that her mistress wanted an excuse for ending the evening. “Tell her to go away.”
“I will.” She strained against him. “As soon as you let go of me, blast it.”
“Get rid of her first,” he commanded.
“Why should I?” Her uncertainty showed that she fought her own desires.
He made her choice easy. “Because the game isn’t over, as you well know.” The woman had an inherent sense of right, thank God. “You agreed to the game and the stakes. It would be dishonorable to renege simply because you’re losing.”
“What if I concede?”
“Then you’ll have to take off your chemise and walk out naked to meet Rosa. Are you ready to do that? When you can still win?”
She sighed. And he knew he had her.
“My lady?” Rosa demanded, shaking the doorknob until the door rattled.
“I’m fine, Rosa!” Christabel called out. “Mr. Byrne and I are playing cards. I don’t know how late we’ll be, so go on to bed, if you please.”
“Very good, my lady,” Rosa answered.
Gavin released a tense breath. For a moment there, he’d thought—
“Let go of me,” Christabel demanded. “As you said, the game isn’t over.”
He released her at once. They had plenty of time yet. And he’d use every minute to beat down her defenses. “You still owe me a gown and a corset.”
“Fine.” She shucked off her gown, but was forced to let him untie her laces. He took his time, making sure she felt every brush of his fingers against her back.
After she shimmied out of the corset and turned to face him, he was pleased to find her blushing. “Here,” she said with a gesture of defiance as she thrust the pile of fabric at him. “I wish you good use of it.”
He stared down at her vile black gown, then made a quick decision. Walking over to the fireplace, he tossed her gown into it, where it promptly burst into a most satisfying blaze.
“Are you insane?” she protested.
She dashed across the room to rescue it, but he stayed her with one hand. “It’s mine now, remember? And I pray never to have to see that ugly thing again. Come to think of it—” He tossed her corset into the fire, too.
“That was a perfectly good corset, I’ll have you know!”
“Which you don’t need tonight.” He faced her, then froze.
The leaping fire, fueled by her clothing, illuminated her chemise so thoroughly that her nipples—her dusky, plump nipples—showed through the thin cotton. Not to mention that the fabric clung to her, tracing the shape of her heavy breasts, hinting at the slight fullness of her belly…barely veiling the triangle of raven hair between her thighs. “In fact, there’s little that you do need, lass,” he said in a guttural voice.
She followed his gaze, her eyes going round when she saw what he’d seen. With a muttered curse, she turned on her heel and hurried back to the table, giving him only a flash of the pale buttocks outlined by her chemise before she took her seat. But that flash was enough to spur him on. He walked back to the table as she tapped her fingers impatiently.
“Come on, Byrne.” Grim determination now shadowed her features. “It’s your deal. Prepare to be routed.”
Routed? Not bloody likely. He wasn’t leaving tonight without seeing her naked. Without having her.
By God, the woman was magnificent, especially with her dander up. Settling back into his chair, he shuffled the cards without taking his eyes off her. What a female! That flowing hair, those gem green eyes…the sweet flesh barely veiled by her thin chemise. It was all he could do not to attack her where she sat.
Steady, man, steady. You’ll get your chance.
Bloody right he would. He handed the cards over for her to cut, and she did so with the fierce concentration of a player bent on winning. With a chuckle, he began to deal. Did she really think she could best him? He lacked only one point to have her where he wanted her.
But that one point eluded him. For the first time that evening, she focused her intelligence—which he’d already guessed was substantial—upon playing her cards to advantage. And luck was with her, too. By the end of that hand she’d gained four points, the most she’d gained all night.
Smug with her triumph, she settled back in her chair. “The garters and the stockings, Byrne. Hand them over. Or else give me your cravat and any combination of the rest.”
“Or…” He stood and reached for the buttons of his drawers. “Perhaps I’d prefer to leave my stockings on.” He lowered his voice to a teasing whisper, “So my feet don’t get cold.”
Her smile faltered. But then a sudden mutinous light glinted in her eyes. Leaning across the table, she growled, “Go ah
ead. I dare you.”
Her deliberate echoing of his earlier words tempted him, but he suddenly had a better idea. “I’d rather have you take them off me yourself, once I win.”
“If you win, then you won’t have to—” It suddenly dawned on her what he meant. “Oh.” She pursed her lips as she gathered up the cards. “I assure you, sir, that the only way you’ll be naked tonight is if you lose. In which case, you alone will be removing your drawers.”
“We’ll see.” Unable to suppress a smile, he removed his garters and stockings and tossed them across the table at her. “Your deal.”
Her deal gave him abysmal cards. He eyed her speculatively. Could the chit have cheated? Surely no random deal could give him a hand so full of nothing.
But judging from her earnest concentration, her hand wasn’t that grand either…which meant that all the good cards were in the stock. Damn.
The first thirteen tricks were a battle royal—both of them fighting to gain the best cards for their respective hands. She kept him on his toes, and he didn’t know whether to be pleased at her improved playing—or annoyed that he’d actually have to work at winning.
And work, it was. He could steel himself to ignore her tousled hair, or the translucent fabric of her chemise that allowed him to see her nipples plain as day whenever she leaned forward to gain a card. What he couldn’t blot out was the flare of excitement in her face when she gained a good card, or the satisfied purr she uttered every time she won a trick. Did she know how seductive that tiny little sound was? That he imagined her making it as he sucked those succulent breasts or thrust deeply into her—
“Stop dawdling, Byrne,” she broke in.
He jerked his attention back to the table. “What?”
Her smile was self-satisfied. “The game. Don’t be a sore loser. Play your last card, so I can claim my winnings.”
Startled, he glanced at her tricks. Bloody hell. While he’d been salivating over having her in his bed, she’d managed to win most of the thirteen tricks. Even if he won this one, she’d win the hand by three points.
And only his cravat and his drawers were left. And the knife he kept strapped to his calf. Which didn’t count.
He stared at her. She’d beaten him. The bloody chit had beaten him! He couldn’t believe it. If it got out that Bonny Byrne had let a female distract him into playing badly, he’d never be able to hold his head up at his club again.
Damn her. That’s what he got for giving her a lead at the beginning. If he hadn’t, he’d have another chance at getting her chemise.
No, that’s not what had sunk him. He’d broken one of his own rules—never start tasting the fruit of success before you’ve actually plucked it from the tree. And now he wouldn’t get to taste it—or her—at all.
The hell he wouldn’t.
He trumped her card and won the last trick, but that didn’t dampen her enthusiasm. She sat back, triumph lending a fetching glow to her features that sent hot need thundering through his veins. “Take it off, Byrne.” He reached for his cravat, and she said, “Wait! Not here.”
He raised one eyebrow.
With a decided smirk, she pointed to the dais where she’d been measured earlier. “Over there. Stand up there to take your clothes off.”
The way she’d done earlier today. He rose, smothering a laugh. She was so transparent. “Turnabout is fair play, is that it?”
Her gloating smile was her only answer.
He strolled to the dais, his mind racing. She thought to sit there safely distant while she watched him undress. That way she could dash from the room as soon as he was done, before he got any amorous ideas.
But he had an ace up his sleeve.
“Have you always had this flair for the dramatic?” He mounted the dais, then faced her. “Or do I just happen to bring it out in you?”
“My winnings, sir.” She snapped her fingers. “I want them now.”
Hiding his smile, he untied his cravat and held it out. “Come and get it.”
“Leave it there,” she said smoothly. “I’ll gather it later.”
“As you wish.” He dropped it on the floor. Clever girl. She knew exactly what she was about. But so did he.
He bent to his knife, and she said, “What are you doing?”
“You won by three points. The cravat is one, the knife is another, and the sheath a third. I’m giving you your winnings.”
Her smile vanished. “The knife doesn’t count, as you well know. It’s not an item of ‘clothing or adornment.’”
“It is for me. I wear it every day.”
“As a weapon! You said that weapons don’t count.”
“I’ve never had to use it as a weapon.” He unfastened the sheath and removed the knife. Come on, my sweet, let’s see that famous temper of yours.
“That doesn’t matter! You’re cheating, blast you!”
He said nothing, just laid the knife atop his cravat and unbuckled the sheath.
She shot to her feet. “You’re not playing fair! I demand that you take off your drawers!”
Placing the sheath on the cravat, he straightened. “No.”
Her mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. “What? But you have to! Those are the rules!”
He shrugged. “I interpret them differently.” He descended the dais, adding in a provokingly snide tone, “Now sit down and deal the cards like a good little girl.”
She flushed. “I will not! I won, fair and square, and you know it. So take those drawers off this instant!”
He walked up to the table, waiting until he was in reach of her, before murmuring, “Make me.”
Chapter Nine
If you do not intend to share your lover’s
bed on a particular visit, make your wishes
known immediately, even if you
must suffer his foul temper for the rest
of the evening.
—Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress
How dared he! After he’d made her send Rosa away and insisted that she play fair—“Take off your drawers, Byrne,” she demanded.
“Make me,” he said again, cool as you please.
She saw red. Ooh, that was so like a man—to cheat, then assume he’d get away with it!
With an oath, she strode up to him and seized the band of his drawers. “I’ll take them off of you myself, I will.”
As she worked loose the top button, the fabric began to bulge beneath her hands. That’s when her good sense finally kicked in. She jerked her hands back, but he caught one and flattened it against his half-buttoned drawers…and the erection beneath. His very solid, very dangerous erection.
“Go on,” he said in a guttural voice. “You want your winnings, don’t you?”
Her gaze shot to his, but that proved a mistake. Because his expression of rampant need was the last thing she saw before his mouth crushed hers.
Like a mare cornered by a stallion, she realized the danger only when it was too late. Curse her unruly temper. And curse him for taking advantage of it, for thrusting his tongue so deliciously between her lips, for making her forget why…she…ought…to resist…
And now his hand was sliding hers inside his drawers to cup the heavy length of him, and her gut was knotting in a welter of fear and excitement actually to be touching it. Him. His flesh.
Dear Lord in heaven, she must be mad. Yet her hand moved of its own accord, stroking, caressing—
“Yes, lass,” he whispered against her lips. “Yes, like that, yes…”
He returned to ravaging her mouth. But gone was the restraint he’d exhibited earlier in the day. He cupped her breast through the chemise, then slid her chemise off one shoulder so he could knead the naked flesh beneath with his warm, broad hand.
But when he squeezed her nipple, sending a shock of pleasure straight to her belly and below, she tore her mouth from his to murmur, “Byrne, please…”
She wasn’t sure if she was begging for him to stop or to go on. Taking her by sur
prise, he lifted her onto the card table behind them, forcing her to release her grip on his…his thing.
The flimsy table wobbled under her weight, and she grabbed for his arms to steady her. “What in blazes do you think you’re doing?”
His only answer was to tug her chemise down enough to expose one aching breast to his heavy-lidded gaze. “What does it look like I’m doing?” He bent his head to suck her nipple. Hard.
She nearly shot up off the table. “Oh, Lord,” she moaned, even as she clutched his head close for more.
He happily obliged her, teasing her nipple with teeth and tongue, making her gasp and sigh and yearn. She’d never felt anything this intense with her husband, never. What sort of wanton was she, that she could only feel it with this blatantly immoral scoundrel?
“Blast you,” she whispered. “You are such a…devious…devil…”
“I do try,” he rasped, sliding his hand inside her chemise to find her other nipple and roll it between his thumb and forefinger in a motion clearly designed to drive her insane. “Do you like that, lass?”
“Yes…oh…yes…” When he removed his wicked hands so he could shove her chemise down to her waist, she caught his hands before he could touch her again. “Wait a minute—I’m not supposed to be naked. Only you are, you…you cheater,” she accused him breathlessly.
His eyes glittered like the fiercest of foxes in some dark-forested night. “You won’t be happy until I concede defeat, will you?” He shoved down his drawers and kicked them away. “There—you’ve got your winnings. I’m naked as the day I was born.”
Her gaze shot inexorably to the flesh he’d bared, and her mouth went dry. Lord help her. She’d seen only one man naked in her entire life, and he’d been nothing like Byrne. Philip’s member had been long, sleek, and slender. Easy to manage.
Byrne’s didn’t look easy to manage. It thrust boldly forward like the impudent scoundrel that it was—hard and huge and heavy. And unmanageable. Exactly like its owner.
Who was presently inching up her chemise—
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