Her Wanton Wager

by Grace Callaway

  Beneath his smart tall hat, Lord Charles' grey eyes warmed. "No need to apologize, Miss Fines. 'Tis only natural and admirable that a lady should have delicate sensibilities. Indeed, your sensitivity to the clime does you a compliment—would you like me to send for the carriage?"

  He looked behind them, where her maid and his groom followed at a proper distance.

  "Thank you, but it won't be necessary. I think I can manage for a while longer." Note to self: do not let on that you have the constitution of an ox. She lowered her lashes in what she hoped passed for a demure manner. "I have been so looking forward to this, after all."

  "How delightful of you to say so," Lord Charles said.

  He paused to tip his hat at an acquaintance.

  His merest gestures were like poetry. One never felt unsettled around Lord Charles; he was all that was proper and good. Precisely the type of gentleman Papa would have wished for a son-in-law. And utterly unlike that other dratted someone who intended to ruin her family. She resolved not to think of Hunt again for the remainder of the outing.

  Yet as the viscount led the way down the path, she found herself short on conversation. Just perfect. Most of the time, she couldn't keep her tongue still. Being a chatterbox was practically a family trait; unfortunately, most of that chattering involved bickering or debating inappropriate topics, neither of which was fit for present company. She concentrated on the tips of her half-boots, noticing the layer of fine dirt coating the teal leather.

  Think of something clever to say, else he'll think you a graceless Cit …

  "I do so like your hat," she blurted. "It is very fine."

  "Thank you," he said. "I should say the same of your ensemble. Madame Rousseau, I believe?"

  She looked at him in surprise. "How did you know?"

  "I make it a point to know quality." Stopping, he made an elegant leg. "And that you possess in spades, Miss Fines."

  His compliment boosted her self-confidence. She was glad she'd taken great pains with her toilette today, choosing a white sprigged muslin trimmed in sky blue satin. Beneath the high waist, the front of the walking dress parted to reveal a lovely tiered underskirt. A fitted spencer and a fashionable leghorn hat completed the outfit.

  "Thank you, sir." She dimpled up at him. "I'm afraid I spent quite some time in front of the looking glass. I didn't wish to be put in the shade by my companion, you see."

  He rewarded her with a smile. "Your candor is most refreshing, Miss Fines. If I may return the compliment, I quite enjoyed our waltz last week. You follow beautifully."

  With relief, she surmised that he had not noticed her restrained and rather wooden movements during the set. She'd exerted laborious effort to refrain from an unfortunate tendency to lead. As her beleaguered dancing master had put it, You must accompany your partner like a butterfly, signorina, and flutter softly behind … flutter ... flutter ... Per l'amor di dio, I said flutter, not charge ahead like a Pamplonian bull!

  Luckily, she had pulled it off. Take that, Signor Dancing Master.

  "And I must return the returned compliment," she said impishly. "You dance divinely, my lord. And I've heard that is only one of your many accomplishments."

  "I do try. Being a gentleman, one has so much time on one's hands. I've always said that leisure is wasted, if it is not spent in the pursuit of beauty."

  "How romantic, my lord," she said. "You write poetry, do you not?"

  "I have tried my hand at verse. In point of fact, a publisher is considering my work," he said. "He likens it to the style of the poet Shelley."

  "Oh, I adore Mr. Shelley's poems," she breathed.

  Before she could say more, they had to stop for him to greet a giggling lady and her mama. Percy took the moment to discreetly gaze upon Lord Charles. He was perfection. He possessed a noble forehead and nose, the refined lips of an artist ... Out of nowhere, the memory of another mouth assailed her. Hard, sensual lips made not for poetry, but for sin. Heat flooded her insides, her nipples prickling beneath her bodice as awareness throbbed in her blood ...

  "Miss Fines, are you ready to go on?"

  "Yes, of course." Her breath not quite steady, she took his arm, still trying to shake the memory of Hunt's kiss. Peeking over at the viscount's flawless, placid visage, she felt the tiniest niggle of uncertainty. Surely I'd enjoy kissing Lord Charles far more, wouldn't I? Why, if he were to kiss me, surely I'd forget Hunt altogether ...

  "Now where were we?" the viscount asked.

  She flushed at the direction of her thoughts. "Um, discussing poetry," she said. "Mr. Shelley's, in particular."

  "Ah, yes," he replied, his walking stick making an elegant arc. "Which one of his poems do you most admire?"

  She slid a look at Lord Portland's fine figure. A man couldn't be too perfect … could he? A puckish notion caused her to blurt, "Love's Philosophy."

  The viscount's brows jumped at the mention of the racy verse. "Indeed."

  Knowing she was being an awful flirt and yet unable to help herself, she said, "I find the poem's sentiment affecting. Do you, my lord?"

  Though she knew it was not fashionable, she'd always dreamt of a passionate, loving marriage. The kind Papa and Mama had shared and that Nicholas had found with Helena. She'd assumed that beneath Lord Charles' polite breeding lay an ardent soul. Nicholas, after all, could appear quite stoic on the outside, and yet she had caught him stealing kisses from his marchioness when he thought no one was looking.

  Percy's breath held. Surely Lord Charles understood passion. He was a poet—he had to.

  A tinge of color touched his high cheekbones. "In theory, certainly."

  In theory? What on earth does that mean?

  Clearing his throat, the viscount consulted his watch fob. "My, it's grown late. It seems we shall have to postpone our conversation to a later time. Shall we return to the carriage?"

  *****

  The door to the carriage opened, and the urchin clambered in and onto the opposite seat.

  "Fill me in, Alfie," Gavin said as he observed the scene beyond the window.

  "She an' that carroty-pated git been wearin' their 'eels down for an hour or more. 'Im's a stuffed shirt, if I e'er saw one." The boy snorted. "Walks wif a stick up 'is arse an' bends 'is 'ellos more times than a ha'penny whore."

  Gavin released the curtain, bringing the carriage into darkness once more. As usual, Alfie's description was spot on. The boy had got Lord Charles Portland down to the last priggish detail.

  "And Miss Fines?" he said. "How would you describe her manner during their exchange?"

  Beneath his grimy cap, Alfie's eyes swung heavenward. "Like a moon-struck booby, that's 'ow. Makin' eyes an' spoutin' 'eaps o' rubbish." Fluttering his lashes, the boy mimicked, "Ooh, my lord, you're so 'andsome. I ne'er seen a gent so 'andsome. Why, you're the 'andsomest—"

  Gavin held up a hand. "I get the idea, Alfie."

  His jaw clenched. He told himself it should come as no great shock that Percy would fancy herself in love with Lord Portland. Half the chits in Town would give their eyeteeth to wed the bloody viscount, and the other half would give much more than that. Aye, Gavin thought with disgust, he understood the workings of the ton. Thus, he should not be surprised. Nor should he wish to tear Portland's head off and dismember the rest of the niff-naff limb by limb.

  What the devil did Percy see in that bloodless fop?

  A title and loads of blunt, that's what, the cynical voice in his head answered. 'Tis what all middling class chits aim for. Percy may honey coat it with talk of romance, but in the end she's no different from the rest of her kind and don't you forget it.

  The anger focused him. While Percy might have delusions of love where Portland was concerned, Gavin was the one she'd kissed with unbridled enthusiasm. He could still taste her lips, sweet as spun sugar, melting against his. He could feel her eager hands and the way her soft curves had molded with perfect pliancy to his own hard form, which grew instantly harder at the memory.

 
Portland wanted her heart? He could have at it. That organ was useless as far as Gavin was concerned; what he meant to have was Percy's delectable body. And his revenge. Raking a hand irritably through his hair, he told himself to stay fixed on the goal. In a nutshell: ruin her, take her brother's shares, and destroy Nicholas Morgan, all in one fell swoop.

  "You want me to keep tailin' 'em, guv?"

  "No, I have it from here." Gavin flipped the boy a coin. "You go on."

  Alfie caught the guinea mid-air and saluted. "Pleasure, sir, an' won't mind if I do. Plenty o' pigeons in the park today, an' all o' 'em ripe for a pluckin'." With a grin, he hopped out of the carriage and melted into the crowd.

  Having seen enough of Percy and her beau cavorting in the sunshine, Gavin instructed the driver to proceed home. The route took him through the Covent Garden market, and he stared pensively out into the bustling piazza, formulating his strategy. Coercion would only elicit Percy's rebellious streak, so the way to seduce her was to let her think she was making her own choices. To lay out the lures and let his curious (and more than a little competitive) adversary take the bait.

  Having a competitive nature himself, he had to admit he found their games ... entertaining. His lips twitched, thinking of the grudging manner in which she'd held her side of the bargain. She hadn't wanted to yield that second kiss, yet when she had, she'd participated with a pure passion that had roused him utterly. With her, the innocent act of touching lips had fueled his lust more than the most debauched acts with other women in the past.

  He wondered if Percy had thought about their kisses. Wondered if she—like him—had done more than just think about it. The notion of Percy frigging herself made him hot all over. Of course, proper young misses did not do such things, but a man could dream, couldn't he? By the time he arrived at the club, his trousers had gotten uncomfortably tight again. So he was not especially pleased to see Kingsley's velvet-clad figure at the front steps of The Underworld.

  "Hunt, well met." Kingsley waved a greeting.

  Gavin buttoned his jacket over his front. Thank God he'd not worn a cutaway today. "To what do I owe the honor?" he said.

  "I'm following up on my promise to lend a hand," Kingsley said pleasantly. "The wife's off in Bath for a few weeks so I thought you and I could talk. Man to man, eh?"

  "Shall we meet in my office?" Gavin said without enthusiasm.

  He led the way up the steps into the circular atrium. Sunlight streamed in from the windows, gleaming off the black marble floors and the crystal tiers of the chandelier. Like spokes of a wheel, six lavish hallways extended outward toward the gaming salons. Industrious servants cleaned and swept; Davey paused in the act of polishing a mirror to bow low.

  Gavin noted the envious slant to Kinglsey's gaze. Let the bastard look. But if he tries to take what's mine, I'll do more than pummel him into the dirt. This time, I'll wring his bloody neck.

  They entered the office, and Gavin waved Kingsley into the chair facing the desk. He poured the man a drink, knowing the other wouldn't touch it. If the tables were reversed, he wouldn't either. Sitting back against studded leather, Gavin eyed his uninvited guest and slowly sipped his whiskey. "What sort of assistance are you offering, Kingsley?"

  The Adonis smiled, showing perfect white teeth. "A proposal of mutual benefit. The way I see it, there's only two men deserving of the riches Covent Garden has to offer, and they're both sitting in this room."

  "I'm certain the other proprietors would disagree."

  "Who—Lyon? The O'Briens?" Kingsley made a scoffing sound. "They're uncouth and uncivilized, not fit for greatness. And the attack on your patrons? I wouldn't put that cowardly action past any of the three."

  Or you. "What are you proposing?" Gavin said.

  "We join forces, Hunt. Between the two of us, we have more men, more power than the rest combined. I say we use it to put the others out of business. Then we expand our clubs and split the riches." Leaning forward, Kingsley said, "Covent Garden, fifty-fifty between us."

  There was truth to Kingsley's words: they were the two most successful of the bunch. If they banded together, they could likely run the others out of the area. Or make them disappear, which, Gavin guessed, was what the other would prefer. Though there was no love lost between him and the other club owners, Gavin had no desire to murder the competition. He knew where that path led: carnage begat carnage. And the last thing he wanted was to be sharing a blood-splattered throne with the Judas across the table.

  "Why me? If it's more power that you're after, why not band with your father-in-law?" Gavin said. Teamed with Bartholomew Black, Kingsley might become an unstoppable force.

  Anger flashed across the other's man features before he tucked it away, leaving nothing but a smooth, unperturbed surface. "I'd like to make a name for myself without the old man's help," he said easily. "Never liked mixing family with business."

  So the rumors were true. Gossip had it that Black had never taken a shine to Kingsley, whom he considered a fop. The old man had consented to the marriage only because he could deny his daughter nothing. Mavis was the apple of Black's eye, and any man fool enough to marry her had better keep her happy … or suffer the consequences.

  Gavin stood. "I've never liked mixing my business with another's. So I must decline your offer."

  "Consider my offer with care, Hunt." Kingsley rose as well, his lips pulled tight. "You're not the only one I can ally with. There are many players in this game, and you'll want to choose the winning team."

  "I don't need a team to win. I'll do so on my own." Gavin made a mocking bow.

  Kingsley's mouth turned white. He gave a stiff nod and stalked from the room. Gavin continued to sip his whiskey. Magnus' advice floated into his head. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer ... but too close and they'd slit your throat. In the end, a man was a fool to rely on anyone but himself. Having lived with that reality for as long as he could recall, Gavin wondered why it now left him cold.

  TWELVE

  At ten minutes to ten on Friday night, Percy climbed over the window sill. She grabbed onto a sturdy branch of the oak tree outside her bedchamber and descended nimbly into the garden. Looking up, she saw no glow in the windows of the servants' quarters, and Tottie had gone to bed hours ago. No one would miss her. Heart racing, she let herself out the back gate and, pulling her hood closer around her face, hurried through the mist toward the street corner.

  Moments later, a gleaming black carriage emerged from the fog, the enormous wheels rolling to a stop in front of her. The door opened, and her breath hitched. Having so recently experienced the refinement of Lord Portland's company, she could only marvel at how primal Hunt seemed in comparison. Moonlight glinted off his burnished eyes, limned the huge and menacing shape of him. He wore unrelieved black, the same color as the brutish four-in-hand stamping at the ground.

  "Good evening." His voice was as deep and dark as the netherworld. "I trust you haven't been here long."

  He held out a hand, and she had no choice but to take it. Even through the layers of leather, his touch scorched her. She snatched her hand away the instant she was aboard.

  "I arrived only moments ago myself," she said, scooting to the farthest corner.

  To her relief, he took a seat opposite. His presence seemed to fill the plush velvet and leather interior, his clean, masculine scent curling in her nostrils. In the flickering light of the lamp, his features were rendered in harsh relief, his scar raised by shadows beneath it. Her lungs stretched to fill themselves as the enormity of the situation suddenly struck her. I've a date with the devil. By then, he'd shut the door, and the carriage spun into motion. Percy had the sensation of gliding into dark and uncharted waters.

  The River Styx, perhaps.

  "A lady who doesn't keep a man waiting," he said. "How unusual."

  His mocking tone annoyed her and dispelled some of her nervousness. "When I sign my name to something, I follow through with it," she said tartly. "Where are we he
aded, Mr. Hunt?"

  "I think we're better friends than that. Let us drop the formalities. Agreed ... Percy?"

  "I repeat, Mr. Hunt, what is our destination this evening?"

  "You wound me, Miss Fines." He sighed, not at all convincingly. "The fact of the matter is, where we are going is a surprise, so you will just have to wait."

  Dash it. Had waiting turned into some sort of national exercise? If she got a penny for every time ... Disgruntled, she lifted the corner of the curtain and peered out at the passing darkness. They were headed down Pall Mall; they could end up anywhere.

  She turned to him in exasperation. "Can't you at least give me a hint?"

  "I suppose I could," he said. "But I have a better idea."

  She gave him a wary look. "What sort of idea?"

  "Quid pro quo. I'll tell you the destination if you'll answer a question of mine."

  "Which is?"

  He studied her with fathomless eyes. "Who is this gent you're infatuated with?"

  Blood pulsed in her cheeks. "That is none of your business. And I'm not infatuated—I am in love." She quelled a quiver of uncertainty, raised her chin. "There is a difference."

  "Either way, you want to kick up your heels for him, correct?"

  "I do not want to ... to do that, you vulgar swine!"

  "You don't wish to bed your gentleman, then?" Hunt said in innocent tones. "There must be something wrong with him. He's balding, perhaps ... or fat as our newly crowned King?"

  "He is none of those things! Lord Portland is perfect—" Too late, she realized her error.

  "You wouldn't mean Viscount Portland?" Hunt let out a low whistle. "For a merchant's daughter, you set your sights high."

  Do not let him goad you. Remain calm.

  "Can't say I blame you for not wanting to make the two-backed beast with that stick-in-the-mud. Though if I were you, I'd at least give it a try," he said. "You wouldn't want to discover on your wedding night that said stick is not in working order."

  She kept her lips pressed together.

  "Have you kissed him at least? He isn't as repulsive as all that?"