Even for a widow with her impeccable reputation, Lady Beth Allerton’s wager with Marcus, Earl of Trevithick was outrageous behavior. If she won, her prize would be Fairhaven, an island her grandfather had forfeited to the previous earl. But if she lost, the penalty was to become his mistress! And most shocking of all was that a small part of Lady Allerton secretly hoped she might lose….
“One throw of the dice. The winner takes all.”
Marcus hesitated. It was clear from Elizabeth’s words that she would be his prize if he won, and it was very sporting of her to offer her services free. The reckoning would come later, of course, if they suited each other: the villa, the carriage, the jewels. But if she won the wager…
“I like your terms, but what do you want from me if I lose?” he drawled. He waited for her to name her price. A necklace of diamonds, perhaps.
She moved closer until he could smell her perfume. It was a subtle mix of jasmine and rose petals, warm as the sun on her skin, and it sent his senses into even more of a spin. Damn it, whatever the price, it had to be worth it.
“I don’t want a fortune, she said sweetly. “I want Fairhaven Island.”
Lady Allerton’s Wager
Harlequin Historical
Praise for Nicola Cornick’s previous titles
The Virtuous Cyprian
“…this delightful tale of a masquerade gone awry will delight ardent Regency readers.”
—Romantic Times
“A witty, hilarious romp through the Regency period.”
—Rendezvous
The Larkswood Legacy
“…a suspenseful yet tenderhearted tale of love…”
—Romantic Times
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To the girls.
Thank you.
This one is for you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter One
T he Cyprians’ Ball was scarcely an event that featured on the social calendar of any of the debutantes of the ton, although more than one bitter chaperon had observed that it was the only place outside the clubs where all the eligible bachelors could be found. The most unobtainable of gentlemen, who would scorn to step inside the doors of Almack’s Assembly Rooms for fear of ambush, showed far greater alacrity in striking up an intimate acquaintance of quite another sort, and a masquerade was ripe with all sorts of possibilities.
It was late in the evening when Marcus, sixth Earl of Trevithick, joined the crowds of revellers milling in the Argyle Rooms. Being neither a callow youth nor particularly requiring an inamorata, he had seen no need to hurry to be first through the door.
The room, with its elegant pillars and lavish decoration, seemed as gaudy as the birds of paradise that flocked there. Marcus knew that he was already drawing their attention. With his height, stature and wicked dark good looks it was inevitable, but he felt little pride in the fact. Once his name was whispered amongst the Cyprians he knew that some would lose interest and hunt for bigger game, for they were motivated by cupidity rather than lust. He had the looks and the title but he had little money, for he had inherited estates that had gone to rack and ruin.
‘Been rusticating, Marcus? I had heard you were still in northern parts!’
It was his cousin, Justin Trevithick, who had clapped Marcus on the shoulder. Justin, the only child of a scandalous second marriage between Marcus’s Uncle Freddie Trevithick and his housekeeper, was a couple of years younger than his cousin. The two had never met as children, for Marcus’s father, Viscount Trevithick, had disapproved of his brother’s morals and had steadfastly refused to acknowledge his nephew. When Marcus was twenty-two he had bumped into Justin at White’s and they had hit it off at once, to the amusement of the ton and the despair of the strait-laced Viscount and his wife. Now, eleven years later, they were still firm friends.
Marcus and Justin shared the distinctive lean Trevithick features, but whilst Marcus’s eyes and hair were the sloe-black of his pirate forebears, Justin’s face was lightened by the fair hair and green eyes that in his mother had captured the attention of Lord Freddie. He turned and took two glasses of wine from a passing flunkey, handing one to his cousin. Marcus grinned, inclining his dark head.
‘I have just returned from Cherwell,’ he said, in answer to Justin’s enquiry. ‘I was there longer than I had intended. The tenant there has been fleecing the estate for some time, but—’ he gave a sardonic smile ‘—it won’t be happening again!’
Justin raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t believe our grandfather ever visited that house. Towards the end he never even left Trevithick. It led the unscrupulous to take advantage.’
Marcus nodded. He had inherited from his grandfather a bare fifteen months before and had swiftly discovered that people had indeed taken advantage of the late Earl’s infirmity in his last years. It seemed ironic that his grandfather, whose soubriquet had been the Evil Earl, had himself been cheated in his old age. The Trevithick estates were huge and the subsequent confusion had taken until now to sort out. There were still places that Marcus had not had the time to visit, business that remained unfinished.
‘Do you intend to stay in London for the little Season?’ Justin asked.
Marcus pulled a face. ‘I should do, as it’s Nell’s debut. I would like to, but—’
‘Lady Trevithick?’ Justin enquired.
Marcus took a mouthful of his wine. ‘It is damnably difficult to share a house with one’s mother after an absence of fifteen years!’ He grimaced. ‘I have already asked Gower to find me a set of rooms—preferably on the other side of town!’
Justin smothered a grin. ‘I saw Eleanor at Almack’s earlier this evening,’ he said, tactfully changing the subject. ‘Pershore and Harriman were dancing attendance, to name but two! She seems to have taken well, which is no surprise since she has all the Trevithick good looks!’
Marcus laughed. ‘I do believe that Mama is uncertain which of us to make a push to marry off first, though I believe she will have more success with my sister! I don’t look to take a wife just yet!’
‘Well, you certainly won’t find one here,’ Justin said, turning back to scan the crowds. ‘Women of another sort, perhaps…’
‘Perhaps.’ Marcus allowed his gaze to skim over the ranks of painted faces. ‘It is a complication I could do well without, however.’
Justin grinned. ‘There’s one that would be worth it!’
Marcus turned to follow his cousin’s gaze. The ballroom was packed and the dancers were executing a waltz, which was the excuse for much intimate and provocative behaviour. Yet in the middle of the swirling crowds, one couple stood out, for they danced beautifully but with total decorum. The gentleman was tall and fair, but he did not have much of Marcus’s attention. The lady in his arms was another matter, however.
She was taller than most of
the women present and only a few inches short of his own six foot. She wore a silver mask and her silver domino swung wide as she danced, revealing beneath it a dress in matching silk that clung to a figure that Marcus could only describe as slender but voluptuous. Her face was pale with a hint of rose on the cheekbones and her ebony black hair was piled up on top of her head in a complicated mass of curls that was just asking to be released from its captivity. Marcus grinned. Her hair was not the only thing that looked as though it would benefit from being given its freedom—the silk dress hinted at all sorts of delightful possibilities and he was already entertaining the idea of peeling it off her like the skin of a ripe fruit. Glancing around, he realised that at least half the men in his vicinity were thinking along the same lines and his grin broadened. Perhaps they had tasted the fruit already, for the very fact that she was at the Cyprians’ Ball marked her as no lady. Marcus shrugged. It mattered little to him who had been before him, but he had every intention of being next in succession.
‘Setting your sights, Marcus?’ Justin Trevithick enquired, a smile in his voice. Like the Earl, he was watching the dancing couple. ‘From what I’ve just overheard, you are at least tenth in the queue!’
‘I don’t like waiting in line,’ Marcus murmured, not taking his gaze from the girl’s face.
‘Who is she, Justin?’
‘Damned if I know!’ Justin said cheerfully. ‘No one does! The guesses are inventive and range wide, but no one can put a name to the face!’
‘What about the lady’s escort?’
Justin was laughing at his cousin’s persistence. ‘Now, there I can help you! The fortunate gentleman is Kit Mostyn! A shame we are not on terms with the Mostyns and cannot beg an introduction!’
Marcus gave his cousin an incredulous look, then laughed in his turn. ‘Mostyn! How piquant! Then it will be doubly enjoyable to take the lady away from him…’
Justin raised his eyebrows. ‘Is this love or war, Marcus?’
‘Both!’ his cousin replied promptly. ‘They say all is fair, do they not? Well, then…’
The dancers were circling closer to them now. Marcus thought that the lady looked very comfortable in Lord Mostyn’s arms, for she was talking eagerly and smiling up at him. Marcus’s eyes narrowed. He had nothing against Kit Mostyn personally, but there had been a feud between the Mostyn and Trevithick families for centuries. Marcus knew little of the detail of it, and just at the moment he had no interest in healing the breach. He waited until the couple were directly beside him, then made a slight movement that attracted the lady’s attention. She looked up and their eyes met for a long moment before she deliberately broke the contact. Marcus had the impression of a wide, smoky gaze, a slightly deeper silver colour than her dress. A moment later, she looked back at him over her shoulder, with what he could only interpret as a gesture of invitation.
Justin laughed. ‘A result, I think, Marcus!’
Marcus thought so too. He watched as the music ended and the lady and her partner strolled to the edge of the dance floor, then, without haste, he made his way towards them through the crowd.
‘Your servant, Mostyn.’ There was a mocking edge to Marcus’s drawl and he saw the younger man stiffen slightly before he returned his bow with the very slightest one of his own. Marcus’s attention had already moved to the lady, which was where his real interest lay. At close quarters she looked younger than he had imagined, but then he realised that it was not so much a youthful quality but an impression of innocence. Her eyes lacked the knowing look that characterised so many of her profession. Marcus reflected cynically that that air of innocence must be worth a great deal of money to this particular lady. Gentlemen would pay over the odds to possess so apparently unspoilt a beauty. It amused him, for in his youth he had become entangled with a Cyprian who had pretended to a naïveté she simply did not possess and had tried to sue him for breach of promise. Such can-dour was appealing but ultimately an illusion.
He held out his hand to her and after a moment she took it in her own.
‘Marcus Trevithick, at your service, ma’am. Would you do me the honour of granting me a dance?’
Marcus felt rather than saw Kit Mostyn flash the girl a look of unmistakable warning. She ignored him, smiling at Marcus with charm but absolutely no hint of coquetry. Grudgingly, Marcus had to admit that she might have been at a Dowager’s ball rather than a Cyprian’s masquerade. She had an inherent dignity. As she smiled, a small, unexpected dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth.
‘Thank you, my lord. I should be delighted.’
He bowed slightly and led her on to the floor, where a set was forming for a country dance.
She carried herself with a poise that contrasted starkly with the flirting and ogling that was going on all around them and Marcus found it oddly touching—until he thought that this was no doubt all part of the act. Innocence, dignity…It was a clever way to set herself up as out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, her artfulness mattered little to him and he was confident that they could come to an understanding. Sooner rather than later, he hoped. He was beginning to want her very much. He studied her bent head and the way that the ebony curls brushed the nape of her neck. He wanted to touch her. Her mouth was as sultry as her figure, promising sensuous delight. He felt a powerful impulse to kiss her where they stood.
‘Will you give me a name for a name?’ he asked softly. ‘You already know who I am.’
Her smoky grey gaze brushed his face and made him feel suddenly heated. She smiled a little, the dimple flashing. ‘My name is Elizabeth, my lord. In fact, I am known as Beth.’
‘Yes? And…?’
She considered. ‘That is all I wish to tell you. There are no names at a masquerade. You have already broken the rules once by telling me your own identity.’
Marcus laughed. He had no problem with breaking any of society’s rules that he did not agree with.
‘What is Mostyn to you?’ he asked, as the music brought them together again. ‘I would like to know—before I attempt a trespass.’
He felt her fingers tremble in his before she freed herself and stepped away from him. She danced most gracefully.
‘Kit is very dear to me,’ she said, when eventually they came back together.
‘I see.’
‘I doubt it.’ Once again that silver gaze pierced him. ‘He is a friend. Closer than a friend—but that is all.’
An old lover, Marcus thought, with a vicious rush of envy. That would explain why they looked so comfortable together, yet had none of the heat of sensuality between them. Old passions had burned themselves out, leaving only the flame of friendship. It made him jealous to think of their past relationship, yet it also implied that there might be a vacancy…
‘And is there anyone else?’ Foolish question, when she probably had a dozen admirers paying for her favours! Yet her cool gaze searched his face and she answered quietly.
‘I do not care to discuss such matters here, my lord.’
Marcus allowed his gaze to hold hers for several long seconds. ‘Then may we discuss it in private? I confess that would suit me very well…’
He felt that he might reasonably have expected some encouragement at this point, even if it was only a smile, but Beth gave his suggestion thoughtful consideration, and then inclined her head.
‘Very well. There is a study off the hallway—’
‘I know it.’
She nodded again. The dance was finishing anyway, but no one paid any attention as she slipped from the line of dancers and went out into the entrance hall. Marcus waited a few moments before following her, pausing to see if he was observed. It seemed that everyone was too preoccupied with their own amours to be concerned about his.
He picked his way through the entwined couples and crossed the checkerboard black and white tiles of the hall. He vaguely remembered that the study was the third door on the left and he was just in time to catch the faintest swish of material as Beth whisked through the doo
r, leaving it ajar for him.
Marcus smiled to himself. The situation was most promising and, despite his cynicism, he had to admit that there was something intriguing about the lady’s air of aloof mystery. Perhaps it was all assumed simply to whet jaded appetites, but it was working on him and he was more world-weary than most. He quickened his step, went into the study and closed the door behind him.
It was a small room with a mahogany card table and chairs in the middle and matching mahogany bookcases about the walls. Long amber curtains shut out the night and the only light came from one lamp, standing on a side table.
Beth was standing beside the window. She had taken the dice from their box on the table and was tossing them lightly in one hand. She did not look up when Marcus came in and for a moment he thought he sensed something tense and wary in her stance, though the impression was fleeting.
He took a step forward. ‘Would you care to indulge in a game of chance, sweetheart?’ he asked.
She looked at him then, a stare as straight and protracted as the one she had first given him in the ballroom. Marcus was amused. He knew of few men and even fewer women who were so direct. Her eyes were a shadowed silver behind the mask, her gaze as deliberate and fearless as a cat.
‘If you are sure that you wish to play, my lord.’
They were talking in double entendres now and Marcus appreciated her quick wit. It made the pursuit even more enjoyable. He wondered if she knew who he was, even though he had given only his name and not his title. It was entirely possible. She had focused on him from the first and he did not flatter himself that it was simply because she was attracted to him. She might well consider that his status and physical attributes outweighed a lack of fortune. And fortune was relative anyway. He could pay her well enough.
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