by Christine Merrill/Marguerite Kaye/Annie Burrows/Barbara Monajem/Linda Skye
“The point being,” she replied, “that no matter how low you have sunk, your family still care about you. They love you, though you would deny the emotion exists. They want you to be there to celebrate the event with them.”
He knew that! His brother had done all he could to prevent his downward slide. Even when he’d sunk about as low as a man could get, Seb had taken pains to get word to him that the door would always be open.
And part of him yearned to go back.
If only she weren’t going to be there, this wedding would be the perfect opportunity to start mending fences.
“It would mean so much to them if you could just… ” She gave him an exasperated look. “… clean yourself up, and pretend, just for a few days, that there is still some remnant of the gentleman left in you.”
He glared into his empty tankard—a remarkably apt symbol of his life.
“Oh,” she said, in such a way that he braced himself for what was coming next.
“It has not occurred to anyone that you might not be able to afford to purchase decent clothes, let alone stand the cost of travelling all the way to Berkshire. Is that the case Crispin? If so, I can give you the money… ”
“Damn you, Caro,” he growled, slamming the empty tankard down on the rough table that separated them, his face contorted with fury. “Do you think I would touch a penny of the money that bastard Fallowfield left you?”
“Probably not,” she conceded. “But I had to at least try.”
“Why?”
“You know why. You would not have gambled away your entire fortune, and be living like this if I had not… ” She could not look him in the face, any more than she could end that sentence.
And so her eyes were gazing into the fire as he ended it for her, in a low voice that throbbed with hatred. “Shown yourself to be a mercenary, scheming, deceitful jade?”
She opened her mouth to refute the allegations he’d levelled at her before. But would he be any more willing to hear her side of the story now? She’d been a widow for the best part of two years. If he’d really wanted to know the truth, he’d had plenty of time to find her and ask her to explain. But he had not.
Which meant he didn’t really care.
And if he didn’t, then neither did she.
“If I am so worthless, then there is nothing to keep you away, is there?” She smiled at him with the smile she had perfected through the years of her marriage. The one that told the world she cared nothing for its opinion—that, in fact, she rather despised it.
“There is no reason you should not be reconciled to your family. Even if the wedding itself is so offensive to you, remind yourself that it is also Christmas. The one time of year when even someone who has sunk as low as you can be justified for attempting to make a fresh start.”
My God, but she was patronizing. He laughed harshly. “Did you really think preaching me a sermon would have any impact upon me?”
She leaned back and sighed.
“Not really. But I had to try.”
He leaned forward and glowered at her. “You thought you would only have to stroll in here and crook your little finger, and I would come panting to heel, like some kind of… lap dog, didn’t you?”
“No… I… ”
“Listen to me, Caroline, and listen well. I am not your plaything. It will take more than a few words and a couple of coy smiles to bend me to your will these days.”
She sat forward, too. “How much more? What would it take, Crispin? What could I do to make you consider putting aside your animosity to me, and travelling to Hatton Hall for your brother’s wedding?”
Stay away from it. So that he wouldn’t have to pretend that the sight of her wasn’t wrenching what was left of his mangled heart out of his chest. If only he could think of some way to run her off, without letting her suspect the truth…
And then it hit him.
And he smiled.
“Well, isn’t that just what I should have expected from you?”
“What?”
But after only a second or two, the lascivious way he was looking her up and down revealed exactly what he had thought she’d meant. He had assumed she was offering herself to him.
And he was interested. For he had that hooded, hungry gaze men got when they were imagining what you’d look like naked.
The hard smile that followed when they started thinking about what they would like to do once they got you into that state.
It didn’t look as though it would be anything pleasant, at least not for her. He was probably thinking up ways he could punish her. For all that he denied believing in love any more, at one time he’d accused her of breaking his heart by marrying another man, after she’d vowed she loved him. And would only ever love him.
No wonder he was thinking up ways he could make her pay.
“If you really want me to come to Hatton Hall,” he said, “and play at being a functioning part of one big, happy family, then you are going to have to make it worth my while.”
Something shrivelled up and died inside her. Something she had not even known still existed, until this moment. The belief that he was different. That he was not like other men. To be specific, like her husband.
“Am I, indeed?” Years of practice meant her voice showed no trace of her disappointment. She might have been discussing the weather, her tone was so bland.
“Oh, yes. If you want to change my mind, what you ought to do is offer me something that interests me.”
“Like what?” Though she knew. And the very thought of it chilled her. What men liked best was dominating and humiliating a woman to compensate for what they considered the weakness of desiring them in the first place.
“A wager,” he said.
A wager? That was not what she had expected him to say at all.
“You say I have become a notorious gambler, so what other way did you expect to impress me, but by offering a wager that would interest me? Something… a bit different. Something that will provide me with adequate compensation for giving up a large portion of my time in order to please our respective siblings. And something to compensate me for spoiling my plans for this evening, too.” His eyes flickered across the room to where Molly was draping herself over another potential customer.
She hadn’t brought enough money. She’d thought it sensible to bring only a very little with her, so that if she was robbed, at least she would not lose much.
“I… I have little to stake,” she confessed.
He shook his head, his mouth slowly widening into a cruel smile.
“I have already told you I don’t want your money,” he reminded her. “What I want you to stake is just one hour of your time. Upstairs, in the room I would have used with Molly.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “And just to be sure we understand each other, I would like to remind you of the fact that you never let me see any part of you unclothed. So now you will have to agree to stand before me completely naked.”
“Wh—what?”
“You heard.” He leaned back, and repeated, in a louder voice, “Your stake is to be one hour,” he lifted his index finger, “upstairs,” he lifted his middle finger, “in the room I would have shared with Molly,” he lifted his ring finger, “with every single inch of you on show.” And if that didn’t make her run for the hills, he didn’t know what would.
The word “naked” in conjunction with the word “wager” not only shocked her, but provoked a ripple of interest throughout the men already intrigued by her appearance in their midst. She could feel them turning toward their corner of the room, jostling one another as they moved closer, forming a natural ring—just like the men who’d clustered round the arena in which Arbuthnot had been reduced to human mincemeat.
Proudly, she lifted her chin, and stared Lord Sinclair straight in the eye.
“You would wager one hour of my time, against your attendance at the wedding of my sister to your brother?”
“One hour of your time
, naked,” he said, causing the wall of men behind her to rumble their appreciation.
My God, how he must hate her, to deliberately humiliate her in front of this rabble.
“And how do you propose we determine a winner?”
Dear Lord, but she was going to accept his wager. When any decent woman would have backed down.
But then she wasn’t decent, was she? Or she couldn’t have tossed him aside and let him founder. And no decent woman could have cheerfully married a man like Lord Fallowfield. From what he’d heard, the earl made what went on in a thieves’ den like this one look like nursery games.
“I have no intention of sitting here half the night playing cards with you, when we could be far more gainfully employed.” He let his eyes drift down her body, to make sure she understood the nature of his insult.
“Besides, neither of us could be sure, given the company we have been keeping of late, that the other would not be cheating.”
She shot him a look she hoped he could read as the fury she felt at that accusation. She might have been compelled to marry a villain, but she’d never permitted his vile habits to taint her own soul.
“But we could draw cards,” he suggested. “Or toss a coin.”
“Cards,” she said defiantly.
A buzz of excitement swept the room. She could distinctly hear rough voices making side bets on Sinner Sinclair or the “green goddess.” Herself, she presumed. Then somebody slapped a pack of grimy cards down onto the table in front of her.
“Since you are the nearest thing to a lady that has ever set foot in here… ” Laughter rumbled through the crowd. “… you may shuffle the pack, and spread them face down on the table. And then we shall take turns in drawing one card each. Highest card wins. Best of three. And,” he said, reaching out to stay her hand as she went to pick up the pack, “remove the aces first. So there will be no occasion for argument about whether they count as high or low.”
She looked at the deck of cards. She looked at Lord Sinclair. And she looked into her heart.
She could get up and walk out. She could return to her sister and admit defeat.
But when had she ever been ready to admit defeat? Especially when the odds stacked against her seemed impossibly high.
“Very well,” she said. “I accept your terms.”
CHAPTER TWO
SHE TOOK A deep breath and willed her hands not to tremble as she flipped through the deck, removing the aces. Three draws of the cards, and if she won, he would go to Hatton Hall for the wedding. He might have sunk very low, but no man, not even one of these drunkards and thieves, would dream of welching on a bet.
Men described gambling debts as debts of honour. Her mouth compressed with bitterness as she shuffled the pack. She didn’t think very much of men’s idea of honour. It certainly did not march with her own. What was so honourable about a man selling his daughter into a marriage that he’d known would make her miserable, just so that he could hold his head up in his clubs?
Realising what her face might be betraying, she forced it back into a mask of hauteur. By the time she spread the cards out in a fan, face down on the table, she was able to dart a challenging smile Lord Sinclair’s way.
If he went to his brother’s wedding it could well be the first step on the road to restoring him to his rightful place in society. A place he’d lost because of the damage she’d inflicted on him when she’d married the Earl of Fallowfield. So it was fitting that she was the one taking a risk, here, tonight.
And if she lost…
Her heart skipped a beat. She would pay him, of course. Exactly what he’d asked for. Exactly.
“You first,” said Lord Sinclair, gesturing towards the cards.
She took a card. The three of spades.
The entire room held its breath as Lord Sinclair slowly leaned forward and drew… a two of diamonds.
She looked into Lord Sinclair’s eyes. Eyes that had once blazed with adoration, but which were now cold and hard as chips of wet slate.
The sound of her blood pounding through her veins almost obliterated the babble of men’s voices, urging on whichever one of them they’d backed. That had been an amazing stroke of luck. Or had it been luck? Was there something more powerful at work here? Had she won that draw, against all the odds, because she was trying to right the wrong she’d done—albeit against her will?
“Draw again,” grated Lord Sinclair, his eyes holding hers. “And let’s get this over with.”
Her heart pounded. Was she imagining it, or did he, too, think she was going to win? And was there just the tiniest hint of relief in his expression? Then… if she was reading him aright, it must mean he had only challenged her because he needed an excuse to back down about attending the wedding, without losing face. Without admitting that somehow, she had reached him when nobody else could…
She drew the ten of diamonds, convinced she was going to win. It was meant to be. He would go home, and stand up beside his brother.
He drew the king of hearts.
A hubbub of voices rumbled behind her as her heart plunged to her boots.
Why had she thought, even for one moment, that there was such a thing as divine justice? She was not going to win because what she was attempting to do was right! It was just down to luck. The random distribution of numbers.
“Best of three,” Lord Sinclair reminded her.
His eyes were hard. But he was breathing just as rapidly and unevenly as she was.
It was all down to this last draw.
The arc of cards spread across the table had grown ragged as they’d pulled out their previous choices. For some reason, she did not want to pick from the ones that stuck out like jagged teeth from the mocking grin that leered up at her from the table.
So she simply turned over the one at the very far end. The nine of clubs.
Lord Sinclair held her gaze as he turned over the card which had been under hers. He flipped it face up on the table.
The crowd went wild.
They both looked down at the same instant.
And saw the ten.
Lord Sinclair got to his feet and extended his hand to her across the table.
“Upstairs, now,” he commanded her sharply.
Was it significant that he didn’t look as though he was glad he’d just won? Or was she clutching at straws?
She got to her feet and took his hand anyway. Whatever might be going through his head, she had to escape this room. The atmosphere was suffocating. Most of the men were baying like a pack of hounds in their excitement at seeing her brought down. The rest—the few who’d lost their money on her—jeered as Lord Sinclair led her to the staircase.
She gathered her skirts in one hand, hitching them deftly so she could climb the stairs, pausing only once she reached the landing.
Perhaps, once they were alone, once it was just the two of them, he might relent. Surely he knew that obliging her to strip naked was more of an insult than she deserved?
She abandoned that faint hope as he pushed her roughly along the corridor that lurched drunkenly towards the river. What she could see in his face, whenever she glanced over her shoulder, was chillingly merciless.
“In there,” he said, opening a door at the very far end.
The room they entered was pretty much what she would expect to find in such an establishment—apart from a fire which blazed in the hearth, dispelling most of the chill, if not managing to make the atmosphere exactly cosy.
He shut the door and shot the bolt home.
“Is that to keep the rabble out, or me in?” She feigned a light, jocular tone, vowing she would not let him see how sick and frightened she felt. “If the latter, you need not worry. I have no intention of attempting to defraud you, sir. I shall pay you exactly what we agreed upon.”
Mustering a smile, she drew off her gloves and dropped them onto a table which stood beneath an uncurtained window. No fear of anyone seeing in, she ascertained with one swift glance through its
grimy panes. The room looked directly over the river.
“Is there no clock in here?” She looked round the room in vain and frowned. “I would rather not have to get into a dispute about the length of time you keep me in this room.”
He had to admire her courage. A woman with less pride would be begging for mercy by now. Oh, he was still angry with her. And now he’d got her up here, he was going to take the opportunity the fates had given him to exact some revenge. Didn’t she deserve to suffer for so casually breaking his heart? For walking back in here and imperiously demanding he do as she told him? For treating him as though he was just… nothing?
Yes, she did. And so he would make her squirm like a worm on a hook before he offered her, as though it was a compromise, the outcome he’d wanted all along.
But for now…
He settled his features into a mask of vengeful triumph, got his father’s gold hunter watch from the pocket of his sadly shabby waistcoat, checked the time, showed it to her, then put it back.
“Very well,” she said, undoing the ribbons of her bonnet. “Let us commence.”
She tossed her bonnet onto the table with her gloves with what she hoped was an air of insouciance.
He might have won the wager, but he had not beaten her.
And she had no intention of allowing him to do so.
“I am afraid I have not dressed for the occasion,” she said, unbuttoning her coat. She slid out of it, looked round for somewhere to hang it up, then, with a moue of distaste, walked to the tester bed and draped it over the footboard. Then she turned round, and shot him a rueful smile as she hitched her dress up, and extended one foot.
“These boots are suitable for the weather, but not for… seduction.”
“So long as they come off,” he said grimly, “I don’t care what the hell you are wearing on your feet.”
She noticed a low stool in front of the fireplace. Sashaying over to it, she lifted her skirts to allow some freedom of movement, placed one foot on its surface, and set about unlacing the sturdy calf-length boot. Every now and then she shot him a provocative look from under her eyelashes. His eyes were greedily sweeping the amount of leg she was showing.