by Darcy Burke
Jeremy’s stomach roiled and churned. Had Harlow sold him out for a pretty smile and a woman to bed? He could not let that happen. Mansfield Manor was his by rights. The Earl of Bridgenorth had denied him his birthright when he made him a bastard. He would not let the man’s daughter destroy his rightful future a second time.
He needed to think. He needed to plan. He needed to ensure Caitlin Southall did not win.
Whatever it took, he would become the owner of Mansfield Manor.
Chapter Six
Caitlin presented herself at Ashley House a little before seven in the evening. The Faro match would begin at seven-thirty. Thankfully, her father had gone to London the previous day.
Her body hurt with each step, her muscles drawn tight as a bowstring about to be released. Nerves jangled and her stomach churned. She wondered if the duke was regretting his behavior. Could she, perhaps, play on his conscience and get him to withdraw.
Either way, she wanted it over. She’d learned all she was going to learn of Faro in the last few days. Her nerve would either hold or it wouldn’t. She had just as much chance of winning as Harlow did.
However, just in case, she’d taken great care with her appearance tonight in order to give her an advantage. Her dress was cut indecently low. Very daring. Extremely daring, for her. She tried to ignore the chill settling on her chest. A good portion of her décolletage was prominently on display.
She needed the duke as distracted as possible if she was to have any hope of out-maneuvering his skillful wagers. She would create a diversion and hope his mind was on the bedding rather than the betting. If she won the first challenge, then the odds of winning the wager increased dramatically. Her baking skills could not be relied upon, but she had Ace of Spades. The horse race was hers for the taking.
Her cloak hid her “diversions” from view, but when Henry’s butler signaled for the footman to take it from her shoulders her instinct was to tug the garment tighter around her shoulders. It took everything she had in her to let it go.
She felt naked and exposed.
The butler led her along to the library where she’d been practicing all week. She hadn’t beaten Harlow once in their previous encounters. Surely tonight must be her night to win.
She asked the butler not to announce her and quietly slipped into the room. Marcus was laying out the Faro table. Henry was nowhere to be seen. Harlow stood facing the fire, a brandy balloon in his hand. It appeared as though he was trying to read the flames and, deep in thought, he did not hear her enter.
She stood watching him in that unguarded and somehow more human moment, the slightly stubborn jut of his chin pronounced. Despite her anger at being put in the position of having to barter herself in order to win back that, which was rightfully hers, Caitlin couldn’t fault the man in any other way.
He looked exceedingly handsome tonight and she was pleased that she’d made an effort to match him with her latest attire.
Her fascinated gaze traced the strong lines of his throat as they disappeared into a stark white cravat. His evening coat of midnight blue gave a bluish tint to his black curls. The cloth fit him like a tight glove molding a hand, stretching over his broad shoulders, tapering down to accentuate his muscled chest and lean waist, before curving over his derrière like a caress.
She scrunched her itching fingers into a fist. She mustn’t touch. The urge to move closer and somehow absorb his masculinity almost overpowered her. Look away.
She ran an assessing gaze down the length of her body. Would he be as captivated by her charms? At the very least Caitlin hoped her looks would unsettle him as much as he unsettled her. She took a few deep breaths and moved silently into the room, heading toward the rows of books on the opposite wall.
She needed time to compose herself. He was too good at reading people. Like any predator, he’d circle her fear and dart in for easy pickings.
She sensed the moment when Harlow first noticed her arrival. The fine hairs at her nape bristled.
“I’m pleased to see you know how to keep time. You’re early.” He was standing too close behind her, the low timbre of his voice coaxing her to turn round.
She did so. Slowly. Wanting the full impact of her dress to overcome him. When she finally faced him, she looked up into his eyes, her composure complete.
He gave a choked cough. “Good God, how’s a man to concentrate with those staring at him all night? And I thought I preferred you in trousers.” His eyes narrowed. “Well played, Lady Caitlin.”
“Thank you.” She felt a hint of smile crease her lips.
It soon disappeared—shattered—when he reached out and trailed his fingers over the creamy swells of her breasts. She batted his hand away. His fingers returned, sweeping over the skin.
“What do you think you are doing?” she asked breathlessly. “Stop it.”
“I’m evening the score,” he almost growled.
He moved closer and she stepped back until she hit the bookshelf behind her. He kept moving forward until the hardness of his chest crushed her breasts. She felt her nipples harden against the lace that was holding them discreetly hidden, just, from view.
“Can you imagine how good it will feel when my lips replace my fingers? When I lick every inch of your delectable, milky skin until you’re purring with pleasure? When I finally take your taut nipple into my mouth and suckle, you’ll scream my name.”
The husky words saw her wits scatter.
Her corset was too tight. She couldn’t breathe—and when she did, the scent of him invaded her senses, clouding her thinking. She felt her stomach flip, and heat pool between her thighs.
She was going to lose.
“When you come to my bed,” he whispered. “I’ll introduce you to such passion your head will spin.”
It was already spinning. The passion already burned. It was hot and needy, just like the tension pooling in her belly. She had never been so aware of her breasts, or of the way a man could worship her body with just his eyes. Her small breasts, for once, felt trapped behind her clothing, begging to be freed.
Begging for his bare hands to glide across—
She looked into his eyes and saw triumph. He knew he could make her body crave for, burn for, combust with want of his touch. And he knew—knew—she would be thinking of nothing else all evening.
“Harlow.” Henry’s stern voice broke the spell.
With shame filling her body, and any advantage now in tatters—like her pride—Caitlin slipped out from between his hardness and the bookcase, away from the disturbing essence of him.
She walked toward the faro table taking big gulps of air. She could hear Henry’s murmured chastisement… something about behaving like a gentleman. Gentleman? Harlow didn’t know the meaning of the word.
The game commenced on time and Caitlin couldn’t help the fleeting image of her house passing before her eyes. If she could only win this game. There was no way Ace of Spades would lose to Dangerfield’s horse Champers. She’d done her research. Champers was the fastest horse in his stable—in fact, the fastest horse he owned. Champers had also been entered into the Two-Thousand Guineas at Newmarket.
Her own lightweight and small size gave her added speed. A win tonight would take the pressure off the baking challenge.
She gathered her wits and, as the first turn played, remembered her strategy.
She started conservatively, watched Harlow, and matched his bets. However, as they got nearer to the middle of the pack, she knew she’d have to change strategy if she were to win. She needed more coppers than he before they got down to the last few cards. If she were well ahead, Harlow would have to risk more on the last few turns.
To her frustration, the rest of the turns progressed evenly. When she won big, the next hand she lost big as well. Harlow won consistently. Not large amounts, but enough to see him inch into the lead. She was not losing, but neither was she gaining enough ground on his winnings. He watched every bet she made and countered it accordi
ngly.
Finally they arrived at the moment of truth. The next turn would decide the game. They were down to the last three cards. She knew they were the Ten of Hearts, the Three of Spades and the King of Diamonds.
“I’ve taught you well,” he said affably. He stared at the pile of coppers in front of her and then at his pile of the same relative size. “But are you willing to risk it all at the end? Women are not known for their bravado.”
“I believe I’ve aptly demonstrated bravado by accepting this wager.” With that statement she looked at his current bet. Harlow had wagered his entire pile of coppers on the King of Diamonds.
Caitlin closed her eyes to block out the glittering dare in Harlow’s sinful eyes. He was goading her into making a mistake. If she simply matched his bet, then he would win as he had slightly more coppers than her. If she simply bet everything on the chance a higher card was dealt—a two in three chance—she’d win if the losing card turned up happened to be the Three of Spades.
There was only one way to beat Harlow if the King of Diamonds was the player’s card. She couldn’t simply match his bet. That would only prolong the game. She opened her eyes and steeled herself for what was to come. Ignoring his raised eyebrow Caitlin said, “I call the last turn.”
To call the last turn was to name the order in which the last three cards would play. Very risky, but this would see her trounce Harlow. It was the only way to win. All or nothing.
Harlow’s mouth curved up. “Risky. Don’t want to bet with me, sweeting?”
“It hasn’t worked at any of our practices. This way, if the King is turned, I will still have a chance to beat you.” She gave a mocking smile, “How’s that for bravado?”
Henry sighed. “Caitlin, don’t let him force you into taking risks.”
Caitlin hesitated for a moment before impatiently saying, “This wager is a risk and no one forced me into it.” She simply wanted it over. Her nerves were frayed and for once she felt the cards were on her side.
“So, what order do you call the last three cards?” Marcus asked, as the banker.
“Ten of Hearts, King of Diamonds, and Three of Spades.”
Harlow shifted his feet slightly. She gave an inward whoop of triumph. He was nervous. If the King was the player’s card, and she got her order right, then she’d win four times the amount he’d win and, more importantly, she’d win the game.
Win the first wager.
Marcus asked if they were ready, and when they both nodded he drew the loser’s card. It was the Ten of Hearts, and Caitlin couldn’t stop a squeal of delight. Henry clapped—before getting a cold look from Harlow.
The tension in the room was nearly audible as Marcus drew out the player’s card. He hesitated before turning it over and Caitlin’s heart rose to lodge in her throat. When she looked down the Three of Spades greeted her.
She’d lost.
But so had Harlow. Her shoulders slumped and she resigned herself to having to play another game.
“I win the first wager.” Harlow’s voice was filled with satisfaction.
Her head jerked up. “How so? You lost too, if I recall. You bet everything on the King.”
He raised his hand and twirled a copper across his knuckles. “I bet everything but this one copper. I believe that makes me the winner.”
Her mouth dried. She looked to Henry and saw her defeat in his eyes.
“I knew you’d be all in, it was the only move that would see you win. So I held one copper back. If I didn’t win with the King, neither would you.” Dangerfield leaned forward until his face was inches from hers. “But it wasn’t who won the last turn. It was who won the most money overall. You kept nothing back. I did.” He withdrew to his side of the table and held up the copper. “I win by one copper to none.”
Caitlin looked as though a mule had kicked her in the stomach and, when she rose to her feet, she swayed, her face pale.
Henry rushed to her side to offer support.
She straightened and turned to him, her head held high. “Well played, Your Grace. If you’ll excuse me gentlemen, it’s been a long night and I wish to go home.”
“I’ll escort you.” There was no way Harlow was letting her drive home alone at night, especially in this state. She was hiding her disappointment well, but he saw through her stoic countenance to the devastation underneath.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said with steel in her tone.
He moved around to stand before her. “I insist. It’s late at night and I’m responsible for you being here.”
He watched her fight for composure. Her breaths were short and sharp and her fists clenched at her side.
Henry urged her to agree. “Don’t let your pride drive your decisions. It would be safer to let Harlow see you home.”
She eyed him as if he were a fire-breathing dragon. “Safer than what, I ask myself,” she said, dryly.
“I assure you I will conduct myself as an utter gentleman.”
“Do you know how?”
Her witty reply made Marcus laugh, and something akin to annoyance heat Harlow’s blood. He was a gentleman. Only the hoyden standing in front of him ever made him forget that. Why was it so easy for her to bait him? He never usually cared what women—or for that matter, anyone—thought of him.
By the time she’d donned her cloak, Henry’s butler announced her gig was ready.
“I’m sure you’ll have better luck with the cake baking, Caitlin,” Henry said as he helped her into the driver’s seat.
Caitlin patted Henry’s hand and nodded goodbye to Marcus. Harlow secured Champers to the back of the gig before joining her.
The night was dry and warm, with a full moon above—the perfect setting for seduction and a romantic carriage ride with a beautiful woman. Except, of course, the woman was feeling anything but romantic.
The first mile flew past in stony silence with Caitlin sitting as far away from him as possible. He moved his leg sideways until it brushed hers, and felt her shiver at the contact. Whether in pleasure or dislike he wasn’t sure.
“Do you have to take up so much room?” she snapped at last.
Dislike. “Tsk. I’d never have thought you a sore loser.”
“Just because I do not wish to rub against your person does not make me a sore loser. Besides, I’m not stupid. You touched me on purpose.”
“Why do you have to make everything a battle, Caitlin? I did not challenge you to this wager. You approached me. I also did not have to accept your challenge. I won Mansfield Manor fairly.”
“Why?” The word seemed to sigh from her. “I do not understand why you hate my father. You don’t need Mansfield Manor. You deliberately went after it. Why? That’s all I wish to know.”
Harlow’s jaw clenched. What did he tell her? He’d promised Jeremy that he would never reveal the truth of Jeremy’s parentage to her. The boy was adamant. “You need to ask your father that question.”
“My father?” Caitlin gave an unladylike snort. “He won’t tell me either. Besides, my father rarely speaks to me unless it is to berate me. I’m a disappointment. He wanted a son.”
Harlow tried to keep the anger out of his voice. “If he wanted a son why did he not remarry? Your mother died when he was still in his prime.”
She finally faced him. “I don’t know. I’ve often asked myself that question. He was always looking for a wealthy heiress, or someone with a large dowry. Perhaps they saw that all my father was really after was money. A woman with means is unlikely to waste herself on a man who sees her as nothing but a way to procure a fortune.”
“You don’t like your father much.”
“How can I like him when I don’t respect him? He’s done nothing with his life. And now he’s taken from me the one thing that was supposed to be mine.”
The pain in her voice was a living thing. “Why is the house so important to you? You are young and beautiful. You could marry and leave your past behind you.”
She laughed, a
nd the desperation in the sound sent shivers down his back.
“How, Your Grace? How would I meet these men who may wish to marry me? Me, with nothing. My father forbade me a Season, because it was a waste of money. I’m sure he is already planning to auction me off to the highest bidder. His decrepit friend, Viscount Bassinger, has been sniffing around my petticoats almost since I left the schoolroom. Father is simply trying to wear me down into accepting him. He thinks that now Mansfield is gone, and I have nothing, I’ll surrender. If I had my home, if I had a way...”
He stiffened. Horror cloaked his skin in a slick sweat. This was why she wanted the house so desperately. Knowing Viscount Bassinger he could well understand it. The man was a pervert of the highest order and riddled with the pox.
His mouth firmed into a grim line. Bassinger would offer indecent amounts for an untouched beauty like Caitlin in his bed, and neither Bridgenorth nor Bassinger were beneath kidnap and coercion.
Now, more than ever, he needed to persuade her to marry him. “You’ve met me. Why not forget this silly wager? You can marry me.”
She gasped beside him, her head almost spinning in her haste to look at him. “But… But… Why? You have won the first wager, and are well on the way to winning the whole bet. Then I’d be forced into your bed. Why offer marriage for something that looks more like a sure thing? You can’t want me that much.” She shook her head, her eyes open wide. “I’ll never understand men.”
He’d expected a refusal. Even so, it hurt. “Why are you opposed to marrying me? I believe you’re the first female ever to decline a duke’s proposal. In fact, you’re the first woman I’ve ever proposed to.”
“You wouldn’t understand. You’re a man. Men view marriage differently.”
“Tell me,” he urged.
She was silent so long he began to believe she wouldn’t answer. Then—
“I want to marry.” It was a bitter whisper. “I want children and a family. But I want love too. My parents, believe it or not, had a love match. My mother loved my father, faults and all. He was a penniless Earl and she the daughter of a wealthy Baron. He didn’t marry her for Mansfield Manor. In his youth he could have had any wealthy heiress, but he picked my mother. He was very handsome, my mother told me. Cook says he really only started gambling when mother got sick. It took her two years to die—such a painful death—and watching her fade away broke his heart, Cook said. He could not cope with his grief, and used drinking and gambling as an escape.”