The Wagering Widow

by Diane Gaston

‘Piquet?’

  A difficult game. It required attention, computation, memory and skill. And he was damnably rusty at it.

  ‘As you wish,’ he said.

  She lifted her chin. ‘What stakes?’

  He took a sip of his brandy. If he wagered money and she lost, it might eventually support his request that she resist the lure of gaming. On the other hand, he could not count on his skill in piquet. He’d not played since being posted to the Peninsula.

  She knew he would play in earnest. If she won from him, would it not further fuel her passion for the cards? He must choose stakes which would leave him at least even, should he lose.

  ‘If I win the partie,’ he stated, ‘you will remove your mask.’

  Her hand flew to her face, as if needing to ensure the mask remained in place. She checked herself and slowly lowered her hands to the table. ‘That is too easy,’ she said. ‘Not exciting enough by half.’ She cocked her head, her eyes suddenly brilliant from beneath the netting of her cap.

  Her eyes were blue this night, he noticed, reflecting the blue of her gown.

  She lifted a finger in the air between them. He wondered if it could gauge the palpable excitement in the air, an excitement which had nothing to do with winning at cards. ‘I suggest…’ she began, but then left a pregnant pause. ‘I suggest the loser of each round must remove a piece of clothing. If you play well enough, I might be forced to remove my mask.’

  ‘And the winner of a partie?’ The blood already surged through his veins.

  She gave him a most seductive grin. ‘The winner of a partie does the removing of the article of clothing.’

  He was ensnared. He’d surely lose this game by virtue of being too addled by carnal desire.

  He made himself answer as calmly as she. ‘And does the winner of the partie choose the piece of clothing to remove?’

  She laughed and shook her finger at him as if he were a naughty boy. ‘No, indeed. You will not win my mask in that manner, sir.’

  He lifted his glass and she raised hers to clink against his. They both drank, gazing at each other, as the fire crackled in the grate and the lamp flickered.

  ‘Your deal or mine?’ he asked.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time the clock struck the next hour, Emily sat at the card table without gloves, without shoes, and with only one stocking remaining. Guy had handily taken all five rounds, once with repique, earning sixty points before she’d even played a card. One round he took all the tricks, earning a capot. Fully dressed, he dealt the sixth hand.

  Her third glass of champagne calmed her nerves somewhat, but her eyes suddenly went out of focus. Opening wider, she made out too many sevens and eights and not one ace. Holding her breath, she made her exchange. Luck was with her. She picked up the high spades, giving her a sequence of eight, and two more aces.

  She made her declaration with confidence. For the first time, the round was hers.

  Her husband grinned at her. With exaggerated drama, he removed one shoe, lifting it high in the air so she could see it was off his foot.

  ‘Do not gloat, my lady. I won the partie, you know,’ he said with a wicked grin. ‘Your rules require me to remove an article of your clothing. What shall it be?’

  She was so vexed at losing the previous rounds, she had not much heeded this part of their bargain.

  No matter. It was merely the first partie. The rest would be hers. Her luck would change.

  ‘You may remove my other stocking,’ she said. How bad could that be?

  He grinned and rose, twirling his finger to signal her to move her legs from beneath the table. She turned in her chair, but without a shred of graciousness.

  He knelt at her feet, which suddenly felt very exposed without shoes. She tucked her bare foot under her chair out of his sight.

  He placed her stockinged foot in the palm of one hand and covered it with the other, warming it in his hands. Then slowly he kneaded her foot, fingers digging into the sole and thumbs rubbing her arch. Not only did her foot tingle and throb and melt all at one time, but the sensations climbed clear up her leg, spreading a blanket of pleasure throughout her whole body.

  ‘This…this is removing my stocking?’ she managed, hoping her voice did not sound as breathless as she felt.

  His clever hands moved to her ankle. ‘No, this is for my enjoyment…and yours,’ he murmured. His hands worked their way up her leg, higher and higher, warming, massaging.

  Once, what seemed so long ago, he’d touched her even more intimately. The shock and the pleasure of that moment returned as if a mere hour had passed. She could not help but slide down in her chair, straightening her leg and giving him easier access. A long sigh escaped her lips.

  Would his fingers reach that very private spot? Would he dare touch her there again? Please?

  He fingered her garter, untying it. Perhaps all he meant to do, after all, was roll down her stocking and pull it off her foot.

  His fingers reached underneath her stocking, touching her bare skin. With his palms against her bare flesh, he pushed the stocking along. No matter, Emily longed to be rid of the lacy white silk. She wanted his hands to never cease this delight.

  But too soon he pulled the stocking from her skin and held it out to her. She grabbed it and threw it to the floor where her other one lay.

  He rose with a bit of difficulty and stood with his back to her for a moment while it seemed her whole body vibrated with an incongruous mix of languor and longing.

  Throat suddenly dry, she took a long sip of her champagne. It never occurred to her this weakness of hers towards him would ever recur. She’d trusted her fury to squelch it. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to remember that Guy Keating, Emily’s husband, touched not his wife’s leg, but Lady Widow’s.

  How could she have known it would be so difficult to care about the difference?

  He walked slowly to his chair and poured himself more brandy. ‘Shall we continue?’ he said.

  She dealt the cards.

  This partie was much more to her liking. She lost only one round, giving up her hat, hoping he was too enamoured of Lady Widow to recognise Emily without the netting that obscured her face.

  He, on the other hand, had lost his other shoe, his stockings, neckcloth, and coat. She kept a sceptical eye on his play, alert for any evidence he was giving her the win, but his play seemed as serious as her own.

  What did not appear to bother him, though, was the cost of losing. When he removed an article of clothing, he made a grand show of it, his blue eyes twinkling and a smile twitching at his lips. As Emily, she would have tempered her mirth, even registered shock, but Lady Widow need not be so missish. She laughed at his nonsense, and let herself enjoy the fun.

  ‘Now the partie is yours,’ he said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. ‘I wonder if I should ask you to remove my waistcoat, or my breeches?’

  Her face grew hot, but she quickly covered her embarrassment. ‘You must choose, sir,’ she said coolly. ‘I am sure it matters not to me.’

  He stared at her, one corner of his mouth turned up. Make haste and decide! she thought. The sooner done with the task, the better.

  ‘My breeches…’ he began.

  No… She swallowed.

  He grinned. ‘My breeches would leave me a bit chilled. You, ma’am, may remove my waistcoat.’

  She tried not to have her shoulders slump in relief. As she rose from her chair, he stood. Walking up to him, coming so close with her feet bare, reminded her too much of her wedding night and their first night in Bath. She took a fortifying breath and reached for his buttons, but she was so aware of his eyes gazing down at her, his breath caressing her, the scent of him filling her nostrils, her fingers fumbled.

  The moment she freed the buttons and parted the cloth of his waistcoat, he grabbed both her hands. ‘My lady,’ he groaned.

  He wrapped his arms around her, holding her hips flush against him. His hea
d bent not an inch from hers. ‘Kiss me, Lady Widow.’ It was more of a demand than a request.

  She wanted to heed it. She could feel the strength in his arms pressing her against him, could feel the bulge of his desire for her. She wanted to kiss him, to taste of him again, to let herself be transported to the time when she felt hopeful. It was so very, very tempting.

  No! a small voice inside her said. He does not want you. He wants Lady Widow.

  She forced her anger forward. She would not be weak. She would have her retribution.

  She gazed up at him, and made her lips curl into a cynical smile. ‘Why, sir, that is not in the cards, is it? You are preventing me from removing your waistcoat.’

  He released her, so abruptly she almost fell backwards.

  Somehow, winning this particular round of the game brought no delight.

  It was not that she did not intend to bed him. She very much intended to do so. He desired that of Lady Widow and that is what she would give him. But on her terms, not on his.

  He stood motionless, like a man awaiting his valet, giving no further hint of the passion that had previously provoked him. Surprisingly, his powers of restraint vexed her all the more.

  She folded his waistcoat and put it on a side chair nearby, hanging his coat on the back of the chair as well. He watched her every move, standing there with his brilliant white shirt loose about him and his breeches moulded to his thighs. She realised too late that Lady Widow would have tossed his waistcoat carelessly aside, not caring where it fell.

  ‘It is your deal,’ she said, returning to the card table.

  He dealt the cards.

  She took another sip of champagne. Her fourth glass? She focused on her fury. She ought to be angry that he had attempted to kiss her, as though she were a common harlot. Never mind that it had been she who invented the stakes of the game for just such a purpose. He had started it, after all, with the silly notion she should remove her mask.

  Lady Widow was of the quality, was she not? No man should trifle with her as if she were like whatever female company he and Sloane had entertained as part of their card party.

  She gave a haughty sniff. ‘I warn you, sir, I will not be treated like the other girls you’ve visited in these rooms.’

  He glanced up. ‘Other girls? There were no girls.’ His voice was low and steady and his eyes fixed intently on hers. ‘There was nothing but cards, I assure you. I have no interest in any woman but you.’

  She could not look away. His gaze captured her and held her as securely as when he’d pinned her against the banister the night before. The fire she’d fed and stoked inside her, calmed to a soft glow. He wanted her.

  No, not her. Lady Widow. The anger flickered back to life.

  ‘Your exchange, my lady,’ he said, breaking the contact and the spell.

  Guy watched Emily as she arranged her cards. He ought to cease this charade forthwith, ought to inform her of his knowledge of her identity, tell her he had known all along. He no longer cared if he taught her a lesson about gambling. He no longer cared why she engaged in this folly.

  He just wanted her.

  By God, he’d almost taken her when she came so close, when she’d touched him. She was so alluring, so captivating in the back-and-forth struggle inside her. One moment she was cool and detached, the next as bound up in desire as he.

  There was nothing stopping him now. He had the financial means to make up to her for tricking her into marriage. He had money enough for future generations to build upon. And he most definitely wished to risk conceiving an heir.

  He finished the brandy in his glass, tried to pour another, but the bottle was empty. No, nothing impeded him from forging a future with his wife. Nothing but this masquerade. Devil take it, he wanted to bed Lady Widow, even if it were just this one time. He did not know why she, as Lady Widow, was intent upon taking him into her bed, but he wanted to experience this side of her just once.

  He suspected, once the masquerade ended, Lady Widow would disappear.

  She threw down five cards, picking replacements from the deck. Luckily, piquet had come back to him as effectively as jumping back on a horse after a fall. She wished for a challenging game and this had been one.

  He exchanged his cards.

  ‘Point of six,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ he replied. He did not have six cards of one suit.

  ‘Quint,’ she said.

  She had five in sequence? ‘Good,’ he replied.

  ‘Quatorze,’ she said.

  ‘What suit?’

  She gave him a smug smile. ‘Quatorze aces.’

  All the aces? This hand was lost.

  ‘Repique.’ She grinned, automatically doubling her points.

  He lost the round as was inevitable, but the loss might work in his favour. Perhaps she would play badly if required to stare at his bare chest. Slowly, knowing her eyes watched every flex of his muscles, he removed his shirt and tossed it to the chair where she’d placed his folded waistcoat and coat. Though bare-skinned, her eyes were heat enough. He felt no chill.

  They played, speaking only declarations and points. Guy watched Emily drink the last of her champagne, her pink tongue licking a drop from her lips.

  Dear God!

  His breeches went next, removed without a flourish, best taken off under the table. His drawers, the only item of clothing left on his body, revealed too much from this arousing game.

  He won the next round and his heart accelerated. Emily stood and seemed to unfasten her skirt, but only the top gossamer layer of cloth came off. Her modesty remained largely intact.

  He won the next round as well, though he was amazed he could remember a knave from a ten. She removed a part of her bodice made of lace and ribbon.

  Her hands shook as they played the next round and her voice quavered as she called out her scores. They were nearly even on tricks, but he won again by only five points.

  She stood. ‘I cannot remove my dress without assistance,’ she said.

  He went to her, forgetting his own dishabille. ‘Allow me.’

  She turned her back and he unbuttoned the row of tiny pearl buttons lining her spine. Her hair, swept up in a knot on top of her head, revealed her long graceful neck. It would be delicious to place his lips at the spot where her hairline met her neck, but it seemed like taking unfair advantage.

  ‘All your buttons are undone,’ he said, stepping back.

  She let her dress slip from her shoulders and slide down her body to the floor. She stepped out of the puddle of silk at her feet and turned to him, dressed only in corset and shift. From beneath her mask, her eyes beseeched him, but he knew not for what she pleaded.

  ‘Do we continue to play?’ he murmured.

  She gave the ghost of a smile. ‘One more hand.’

  She played the next round badly, distractedly tossing down high cards when low ones remained in her hand. He could not say she intended to lose. Her choices seemed random; her mind elsewhere.

  Perhaps her mind travelled in the same direction as his own, to the bed in the corner of the room.

  The last card was played.

  ‘I lost,’ she said with little emotion in her voice. She lifted her head and steadily met his gaze. ‘You may remove my corset.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ He found it hard to speak.

  ‘Yes.’ Her words were like a sigh. She smiled a Lady Widow kind of smile. ‘We agreed upon these stakes, did we not?’

  She rose and walked over to his chair and again presented her back to him. ‘Undo my laces,’ she commanded.

  He stood. His fingers felt like clubs as he fumbled with the knot, finally untying it and freeing her of her garment. It seemed so familiar. He’d done the same on their wedding night, but without the emotions consuming him now. His feelings towards her were so altered, full of fascination, appreciation, gratitude.

  She turned to him, that imploring, almost despairing look again on her face. Her sheer muslin shift revealed
the shadow of her nipples, the dark triangle between her thighs. He gazed at her thirstily, wanting to plunder her, to take all his need of her in one glorious act.

  But he could not. Was he not being as false to her in this moment as he had been on their wedding night? He knew who she was. He must tell her.

  ‘We must talk—’ he began.

  She covered his lips with her fingers and twined her arms around his neck. ‘No talking, Guy,’ she whispered. Her lips closed onto his.

  Restraint vanished. Reason fled. He pulled her against him, deepening the kiss she offered, opening her mouth and tasting her with his tongue, savouring her sweetness, as effervescent as the champagne she’d consumed.

  He ran his hands over her breasts, her abdomen, her back, wanting to explore every inch of her. He lifted her into his arms, while she rained his neck with kisses. He carried her to the bed.

  She pulled the shift over her head and tossed it away. He made short work of his drawers, joining her on the bed, their naked bodies finally free of all barriers.

  This was what he’d waited for, what he’d worked for all those nights at the gaming table, a prize he had not realised he wanted. This was something for himself. And for her.

  He feasted upon the sight of her. ‘You are beautiful,’ he said.

  Through her mask her eyes winced as if his words had injured her. ‘Do not talk,’ she cried, reaching for him.

  This creature in bed with him was nothing like when he’d bedded her before. She had been quiet, passive then. Now she fully partook of the experience, touching him, kissing him, placing his hands where she wished him to touch.

  He obliged her. Would do anything for her. His heart swelled with hope for their future. For countless nights like this one where their love could run free. He let her set the pace, let her climb on top of him and explore him, stroking and kissing. Whatever she wished, he would oblige.

  His need grew with her every touch. Any coherent thought crumbled, until he felt only the desperate need to join his body to hers. He rolled them both over and rose above her. With her pliant and eager beneath him he entered her.

  She gasped aloud and met his every move, catapulting him to the heights of ecstasy. With his last shred of will, he held back, waiting for her to reach the heights with him.