Regency Wagers

by Diane Gaston

  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 head 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.

  She did. With an impassioned cry she convulsed around him. He drove into her again and spilled his pleasure…and all his hopes…inside her.

  Emily woke, tangled in bed linens and a masculine arm and leg. The clocked had chimed. What time?

  She glanced at the room’s window. It still appeared dark outside. Her husband was very soundly asleep next to her, his face as peaceful and untroubled as a young boy. As handsome as an Adonis.

  What had she done? Somewhere in the last hands of the card game, things had gone awry. The more skin her husband exposed, the more her fury at him seemed to slip through her fingers, like so much water from a crystal pond. She had plunged in to their lovemaking as hungrily as a starving man would attack a long awaited meal.

  No matter what, she could never regret making love to him, could never forget the glorious experience of being joined with him as one. Now she felt all at sea, no compass to guide her. What was she to do next? How could she return to being just Emily?

  She slowly and carefully disentangled herself, wiggling out from under the arm and leg wrapped around her, freeing herself from the linens. She slipped out of the bed, the floor cool beneath her bare feet.

  By the light of the dying colza lamp, she gathered her clothes and dressed hurriedly, buttoning what buttons she could reach, knowing she’d missed some. She stuffed her dishevelled hair beneath her cap. If she were lucky, no one would see her leave.

  If she were lucky, her husband would not wake and profess his love for Lady Widow. She fingered the mask, still securely in place. This was the last night she would wear it. Lady Widow would disappear and somehow, someday, so would Emily.

  Emily had already disappeared, however, and she, like Lady Widow, would never return. Who would appear in their place?

  She smoothed her dress as best she could and tiptoed to the door. When she reached for the knob, she hesitated. Holding her breath, she glanced back at her sleeping husband, savouring one last look, saying a silent goodbye for what could never be.

  She peeked into the hallway, glad to see no one there. She reached the stairs and hurried down the two flights, reaching the hall without encountering the night’s clientele.

  Cummings was at his post by the door. She begged him to quickly fetch her cloak.

  He stared at her with a strange expression. ‘Yes, m’lady,’ he said and went off to do her bidding.

  A moment more and she would be free of Madame Bisou’s forever.

  Cummings returned with her cloak. If he noticed her undone but
tons while he assisted her into it, he gave no indication. She started for the door.

  ‘Lady Widow!’ a voice behind her called.

  Reluctantly, she turned. It was Sir Reginald, looking painfully distressed. ‘I beg a moment, ma’am.’

  She did not wish to tarry, not even for a second, but she felt caught.

  He rushed up to her and said, ‘Let me escort you to your carriage.’

  ‘Very well,’ she agreed.

  Once outside into the near freezing air, he fell to one knee, grasping her hands so tightly she could not pull away.

  ‘Lady Widow, I know that Lord Keating has won the wager, but I beg of you—’

  Her blood turned to ice. ‘Wager? What wager?’

  He gave her a look of chagrin. ‘The wager of who would bed you first, but I beg you will—’

  She jerked her hands away. ‘You wagered about me?’ Her voice escaped as cold as the night.

  Guy and Sloane and Sir Reginald and the others took bets on who would get her into bed first? Guy did this?

  He struggled back to his feet. ‘A friendly wager, nothing to signify.’

  ‘How…how…?’ Words escaped her. She wanted to run. She wanted to know. Her voice dropped to no more than a rasp. ‘Was it all about a wager?’

  All the admiration, the flattery, allowing her to win at cards—that was all flummery? All aimed at getting her into bed, so one gentleman would win money?

  Her husband’s admiration of Lady Widow—was that, too, nothing more than…than…gambling?

  ‘Don’t quite get your meaning,’ Sir Reginald said, dusting off his breeches. ‘The odds favoured Sloane, to tell the truth, but, I must say, I retained my hopes. Would have won a bundle.’

  He grabbed her hand again, but she quickly snatched it back and started for her carriage.

  ‘Wait,’ he called, hurrying to catch up. ‘Want to tell you I have plenty of blunt to lay on you. Want to offer you carte blanche. A gentleman like me would be dashed more attentive than those younger fellows.’

  She halted and spun towards him. He gave her a very hopeful smile. She swung her hand and slapped him across his cheek, the sharp smack resounding down the street.