Seductive Wager

by Leigh Greenwood

  “You’re a blind fool. She’ll never have you on those terms.”

  Brett cursed.

  Chapter 3

  Brett pulled on his gloves with unnecessary violence as the first streaks of dawn showed through the trees; only Kate’s absence prevented his departure. Edward and Peter waited with him, but Martin had closed himself up in the library with another bottle of brandy, and Brett hoped he would stay there. As Feathers had so succinctly put it, “You shouldn’t have to speak to a cheater, but you can’t ignore the damned fellow when you’re his guest.”

  “I can and most certainly shall,” Edward had declared quite positively, but Brett was inclined to agree with Feathers, and he began to tap his foot impatiently, wanting to be gone.

  “Could you still your foot?” Edward complained with more than usual sharpness. “My much-abused head transforms each dulcet tone into a clap of thunder which threatens to deprive me of sight.”

  Brett complied with ill grace. His own head throbbed painfully, and his determination to leave at first light meant he would spend the greater part of the day in a swaying coach rather than a comfortable bed. He found himself trying not to blame Kate for his discomfort, not his usual response to a beautiful girl, but the contemplation of the pleasure her body could afford caused the blood to pound in his achingly sensitive temples and increase his agony twofold.

  He couldn’t see his way out of this tangle. Why hadn’t he refused the bet, or given the money back to Martin? He might not care what people said about him, but Kate couldn’t afford to ignore society’s sanctions. He had always avoided marriage in favor of arrangements he could slip out of when he became bored, yet he had allowed himself to be bullied into taking charge of an unmarried female without so much as a maid to give her countenance. He was not sure of the rules governing the maintenance of a young lady, but he did know that turning her over to his lawyers while he was in Algeria would only postpone the difficulties and possibly make them even worse. Yet, every time he made up his mind to refuse to take her with him, the memory of Kate’s body outlined under the nearly transparent gown would send a shiver of anticipation along his nerve endings. She was a worthy trophy and he could not let her slip through his fingers.

  Kate’s arrival interrupted Brett’s fruitless daydreams. She wore a bonnet which was more useful than fashionable, a heavy blue wool cloak over a navy pelisse, a gray wool dress, gray kid boots buttoned high above the ankles, and mittens rather than a muff. Whether by necessity or design, her clothes appeared to be chosen for the express purpose of making her look like a dowd, yet she was the most beautiful creature Brett had ever set eyes on, and she drew his eyes like a magnet.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” she apologized, “but I couldn’t find anyone to help with my valises. I had to leave one of them on the upper landing as it was.”

  “I’ll get it for you,” Feathers offered, his youthful gallantry filling the awkward pause.

  “I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble,” Kate told him thankfully, “but I couldn’t carry both of them.”

  “No trouble at all,” he smiled. “A lady should never be obliged to carry her own luggage.”

  “At least I’m not late,” she said, turning to Brett, “even if my valise is.”

  “Don’t give it another thought.”

  “You certainly haven’t,” she said with pointed emphasis. Then as Brett’s eyes narrowed in anger, she smiled sweetly. “If gentlemen can’t carry luggage, how are we to get it to the coach? You can’t mean to ask Mr. Feathers.”

  Edward’s eyebrows rose questioningly, but Brett was thoroughly angry. “There’s no need for either of us to carry luggage. My valet will see to it.” Almost as if he had been waiting for a signal, Charles appeared at Brett’s side.

  “This valise and the one Mr. Feathers has gone to fetch are to be loaded with Miss Vareyan’s trunk. We will leave as soon as they are secured.”

  Kate looked on enviously as Charles picked up the valise at her feet, relieved the just-reappearing Feathers of his burden, and quietly eased himself out the door without assistance or mishap. “It must be nice to have a well-trained servant to manage for you,” she sighed.

  “It ain’t nice,” Feathers stated in some surprise. “It’s essential. My mother won’t stir without at least six within the sound of her voice.”

  “We can’t keep the horses standing,” Brett said, anxious to be off; his proffered arm forced Kate to cut short her leavetakings.

  Kate felt her own temper begin to rise, but she thanked both Edward and Peter and then surprised everyone by standing on her tiptoes and kissing each of them on the cheek. Feathers blushed from head to foot and began to stammer; Edward accepted his salute with his usual calm, but he startled Brett by bending over to plant a kiss on Kate’s forehead.

  “God be with you, my dear,” he whispered softly.

  Good Lord, Brett thought, even Edward is acting like Sir Galahad. I’d better get her out of here before he demands to know my intentions.

  Unnoticed by anyone, Martin had watched the quartet from the library doorway, but when Kate turned to go, he stormed into the hall, a strange light in his eyes. “Are you so lost to all decency you would leave the house with that man?” he shouted in a menacing voice.

  His words fanned the flame of Kate’s already rising anger, and she hurled her reply in his face. “This show of outraged virtue suits you ill, dear brother. You lose me in a card game, yet you have the effrontery to ask if I’m going to leave with that man!” Kate paused for breath and then continued with increased vigor. “Yes, I’m leaving with that man, or any other man who offers. It’s not proper and it’s not the way I’d hoped it would be, but I’d crawl on my hands and knees rather than stay in this accursed place another day.” She spun on her heel and strode through the open door.

  Martin pushed past Brett, his face nearly purple with rage.

  “Go with your whoreson and be branded a jade,” he bellowed from the steps. “But understand me well. If you leave this house now, you’ll never return.”

  Kate was in the act of climbing into the coach, but she paused and turned back to face her brother. “Nothing will ever induce me to return to this house while you live.” She climbed into the coach and slammed the door behind her. Martin stormed back through the hall and closed the library door so hard the stag’s horns mounted above it crashed to the floor.

  “My, my, such a violent family,” Edward purred.

  “Quiet, you old fox,” Brett admonished, a reluctant smile banishing his frown. “Try not to get yourself murdered while I’m gone. I don’t know where I should turn for amusement.. Do what you can to keep this business quiet,” he said to Feathers. “I don’t think Martin will talk, but he’s too great a fool to know where his own best interests lie.” He shook hands with both men and went quickly from the house.

  Memories jostled each other in Kate’s head as the coach sped down the lane, and a sense of loss settled over her. Ryehill was the home of her birth; she had grown to womanhood there and it represented a sense of belonging, a feeling of permanence. The world she was about to enter offered no such haven.

  But Ryehill also held bitter memories, and more recently the twin specters of pain and fear. She was taking a desperate gamble, but it was with a sense of relief that she saw the castle towers disappear behind the trees. Now she could start anew. She didn’t know what the next days would hold, but if this strange man were to be a part of them, she was sure they would hold adventure and excitement. After years of virtual imprisonment, she eagerly looked forward to both.

  “I’ve been up all night and I’m extremely tired,” Brett announced without preamble. “My coachman has instructions to change horses as often as needed and to provide you with food and refreshment. Is there anything you want before I go to sleep?” He stared wearily at Kate, his expression not encouraging.

  “Not at the moment,” she replied, pinpoints of anger showing in her eyes. Reall
y, this man was abominably rude. “I promise not to wake you until the footpads are at the door.”

  “Not even then. There’s a loaded pistol on the wall behind you.”

  “But I’ve hardly ever used firearms before,” she said, startled.

  “It’s quite easy. You just point it and squeeze the trigger.” Without another word, he drew the sheepskin rug over him and leaned back against the thick upholstering of the seats. Within seconds Kate could hear the soft sounds of his even breathing.

  Conceited, thoughtless, and rude though he was, Kate couldn’t stay angry with Brett. Handsome and virile when he was awake, his face assumed an almost cherubic beauty in slumber, an appearance she found incongruous with his brusque, unemotional character. His black hair rose in thick waves from a high, broad forehead, his thick brows and long black lashes giving his eyes an unusual prominence in his face. His nose was finely chiseled, and his lips full and firm. His skin was dark and closely shaved without the mask so common to men with heavy dark hair.

  He had rescued her from Martin, and she would have felt drawn to him had he looked like a troll, but in her eyes he was Prince Charming, and he was even more handsome than in her dreams. She felt like a damsel in distress who had been rescued at the last minute by her knight in shining armor, but it would have been so much nicer if her knight errant had not fallen asleep the minute the rescue was over.

  With a barely perceptible sigh, she shifted her gaze to the desolate and uninviting landscape. The sky was nearly clear of clouds, but a white haze hung in the air and the wind was sharp and bitter, sweeping up hills and down valleys with the swiftness of a diving hawk; it tore its way into the coach and forced Kate to burrow more deeply under her rug. There were no animals or birds to be seen and only an occasional sign of a cottage or a more substantial dwelling. The leafless trees, their naked silhouettes spread against the hostile sky, gave no promise of the spring to come, and the threat of a blizzard hung in the air.

  Let it storm, she thought, trying to drive away the fear that threatened to weigh down her spirits. Maybe we’ll even get snowbound. At least that would give her more time to figure out what to do with herself. She had no idea how to go about seeking a position. She didn’t even know what kind of work she might do. Her mother had never taken the time to teach her how to manage a household, and her father thought it a waste of time to educate a girl. She would be lucky to be offered a position in a poor household, but even that would be preferable to becoming a ladies’ maid.

  The notion made her laugh. She had no idea what a ladies’ maid did, at least not much of one. Her mother had spent her time in London, and Kate had never had a maid. She would probably be reduced to being a companion to some horrible old woman or scrubbing pots and pans in the kitchen.

  Kate had some idea of what happened to unprotected girls, especially the pretty ones, and for a moment she wished herself safely back at Ryehill, but Martin’s features swam before her eyes and any regrets over her hasty departure died. Becoming some man’s mistress would be truly horrible, but if she were lucky she might be able to lay something aside for her future.

  Her future! The only acceptable future for a girl like her was to marry a substantial gentleman, bear his children, and manage his household. Martin had seen to it she had no dowry, had met few eligible men, and now bore a dishonored name. No man in his right mind would marry her; not even her beauty could compensate for such grave shortcomings.

  She fought against the tears welling up in her eyes, determined not to cry, certainly not in front of this brusque man who was so uninterested in her destiny that he had fallen asleep, but that only caused the tears to well up even faster until large drops streamed down her face like spring rain down a windowpane. She made no attempt to wipe them away, just closed her eyes and let them fall.

  Brett changed his position, and for a moment Kate held her breath, unable to stop crying, but after a brief pause, she could hear his steady breathing once more. She was furious at herself for feeling embarrassed about crying in front of him and called herself some harsh names as she searched for a handkerchief. Brett would have one, she thought, but she would let the tearstains dry on her cheeks before she would ask him, even if he had been awake.

  She finally found the lace-trimmed square and began to dab at her face. Why did women have to cry anyway? It never solved anything; it just made them look ridiculous and invariably made men angry. Why couldn’t she curse and challenge people to fistfights and foolish duels? She was tired of being bound by an outmoded code of behavior.

  She tidied her face and gave herself a mental shake. Feeling sorry for herself was not going to produce any answers. She knew she would have to discuss her plans with the sleeping hulk across from her, but she intended to have her thoughts in order before she did. She might as well be done with crying and start to rack her brain for ideas; it was obvious Brett wasn’t going to do it for her.

  She sniffed her annoyance. Brett Westbrook, the pride of English society, the darling of drawing rooms from London to Paris, lay slumped down in the corner of his coach looking very much like an ordinary man. Famed for his intrigues with titled women and feared for the haughty correctness of his polished manner, he now was sprawled over the seat, his face unshaved, his clothes rumpled, and his hair in disarray. She felt like laughing. He might be the most handsome man in the world—she had to admit she couldn’t suppress a thrill of excitement at being with him—but she wasn’t going to fall for a man who had already seduced half the women in London.

  But immediately her attitude toward him softened. He had come to her rescue. She had been so shocked and upset when Martin dragged her into that room she hadn’t felt the delicious tingle of pleasure she later experienced when she remembered how he knocked Martin down, the pleasure any woman feels when two men, any two men, fight over her. It made her feel beautiful in a way her mirror never could, and even the memory of the driving cloak held tightly around her nearly nude body could not rob the moment of its satisfaction.

  A lock of Brett’s hair fell across his forehead, and she had to resist an impulse to reach out and brush it back with her fingers. She trembled with excitement at the thought of actually touching him—the anticipation was delicious, but she was terrified of what would happen if he woke up. He was quiet now, but there was a kind of ferocious energy about him that frightened her a little, an energy that could reach out and ensnare anyone within its reach, and energy which could draw its victims into a maelstrom far beyond their understanding. Leaving Ryehill had already taken Kate beyond her experience, and she wanted to consider her next step carefully.

  She scrutinized Brett more closely, admitted to a tug of attraction which seemed to grow stronger with every passing hour, and became aware of the feeling that with such a man at her side, things could never be very wrong. But almost at once she closed her eyes and laid her head back on the cushions trying to stave off the tears that threatened to overwhelm her once again. He was not her man, and he was not standing by her side.

  Martin charged back into the library, his mind consumed with hatred for everyone who had helped bring about his disgrace. He ground his teeth in rage when he remembered Edward’s snide and belittling remarks and how that damned puppy Feathers had turned on him in his own house; however, it was on Kate and Brett’s shoulders that Martin placed the blame for his whirlwind of troubles, and he intended to take his revenge in the most ruthless manner he could devise.

  He could easily deal with Kate once he had her back at the castle. She was probably looking at Brett with sheep’s eyes right now, thinking he would protect her. The slut! It would give him great pleasure to destroy that illusion.

  He would have to kill Brett. He knew he couldn’t do it in a fair fight, but he wasn’t going to be held back by some outmoded code of chivalry; he would kill him if he had to stab him in the back.

  But first he had to do something about Kate, and just getting her back wasn’t enough; there must be some way to d
o it that would discredit Brett. In his frustration he uttered a loud oath, and his spaniel, once again lying near his chair and thinking he was talking to her, lifted her head. When Martin continued to pace, she settled her head back on her paws, but her eyes followed him as he moved erratically about the room.

  By now Martin had drunk so much brandy his head felt like a lead weight and his thoughts refused to come into focus without a tremendous effort of will. He leaned his head against the cool marble of the fireplace hoping it would help to clear his mind. He stood quietly for so long the dog forsook her vigil and closed her eyes.

  Suddenly Martin’s head jerked upright, and his eyes focused intently as his mind worked frantically to grasp the elusive idea before it could slip away. Tenaciously he held on, becoming more and more alert as the plan took shape in his fevered brain.

  “I’ve got the goddamned bastard at last!” Martin laughed wildly, and tossed off the last of the brandy. Now he could rest; there would be time enough later. In fact, it would be better if they were farther along the road, better still if they had spent the night at some inn.

  The spaniel had come to her feet at Martin’s shout, teeth bared and hackles raised. She quieted down when she found no one else in the room but remained on the alert. Something in his laughter triggered a primitive instinct deep within her brain; there was danger in that room, an evil she could not trust. She left by the open window, and from that moment she would not come into his presence without uttering a low growl and removing herself to the farthest corner.

  The afternoon sun scattered its last feeble rays across the barren fields and retired early to rest; by five o’clock a heavy twilight had fallen over the desolate countryside. The trees, some still stubbornly clinging to dried and useless leaves, grew closer to the road and branches brushed the side of the coach. To Kate, it seemed like a dark and endless tunnel to the ends of the earth, and unconsciously she drew her rug more closely about her. She withdrew her gaze from the window and lay back against the cushions, considerably comforted by the sight of Brett’s broad shoulders so close by, even if he was sound sleep.