Her Wanton Wager

by Grace Callaway

  Mission. Stealth. The words tickled her pulse.

  "Watch your step," Hunt said as he led the way.

  Percy discreetly studied her host as they traversed the shadowy corridor. His broad shoulders nearly brushed the walls, and he had to duck his head at points where the ceiling hung low. In the light of the lamp he held aloft, his hair gleamed like a pelt, causing her palms to prickle. She remembered how those thick locks had slipped between her fingers …

  Much like her plan. What had earlier seemed like a brilliant strategy now felt rather foolish. The turban made her scalp itch, and beneath the thick gown, perspiration slickened her skin. She'd used up her supply of inane feminine chatter, too.

  "Have you seen a gambling club before?" Hunt looked back at her.

  "I haven't, no." The notion rustled a laugh from her throat. "Perhaps you missed this fact, Mr. Hunt, but ladies are never allowed anywhere interesting."

  The flickering light threw his face into bold relief, licking over the intriguing hollows and masculine planes. "I find it difficult to believe that normal rules apply to you," he said.

  How often had she furtively thought that very thing? According to Charity, that line of reasoning was precisely what landed Percy in scrape after scrape. Under Hunt's watchful gaze, she felt suddenly transparent, exposed despite all the layers she wore.

  Stay on guard. Don't let him see your weakness.

  "I follow rules. Most of the time," she amended.

  "You didn't when we were attacked at Vauxhall. I believe etiquette has it that I was supposed to fend off the ruffians. You were supposed to succumb to your delicate sensibilities. To scream and faint—not jump into the fray."

  Now that irked her. "So sorry, but fainting has never been one of my fortes," she said tartly. "I will, however, make note. The next time we are accosted by cutthroats I will be certain to stand by and wring my hands whilst they finish you off."

  At that, Hunt smiled. A true smile, something that she had not seen from him before. Her heart skipped a beat, and that was before he took her hand and kissed it.

  "You did not disappoint—far from. I'll take courage and honesty over propriety any day." The approval in his deep voice turned her blood to honey. "You, Miss Fines, are a rare creature."

  Rare—and apparently not in a bad way. She was grateful for the darkness that hid her blush. If this was Hunt's version of gallantry … it was working. His direct praise made her insides melt like butter on a hot crumpet. He took up the lead again, and as they continued to walk, she became aware of a hum; the sound soon grew into an indecipherable mix of voices and background clatter.

  "Here we are." Hunt indicated a series of wooden slats on the wall. When he pushed one back, two small beams of light penetrated the dark tunnel. "This is one of the gaming rooms. Have a look."

  As Percy peered through the viewing hole, her jaw slackened. She didn't know what she'd expected—fire and brimstone perhaps? Instead, multi-tiered chandeliers blazed from the high ceiling, and a fountain of champagne bubbled at the center of the room. Men surrounded the room's many tables, their eyes riveted upon the action on the green baize. Shouts and groans erupted as dice were thrown. Like peacocks, brightly dressed wenches paraded around the room.

  The buzz of energy and color flowed into her as she observed the fascinating world. Hunt was right; this was a treasure trove of inspiration for a writer. Her head spun with the sorts of adventures Miss Priscilla Farnham might encounter in such a place. For the first time in ages, her fingers actually itched for a quill.

  "Why, the club is magnificent," she said in an awed voice. "All of this is yours?"

  "When I bought the place, it was a tumble-down building. Now it's one of the finest clubs in London," he said. "I mean to make it the best."

  Seeing the ambition in his dark gaze, she had an intuitive flash of what this place meant to him. Papa had looked that same way when talking about Fines & Company. Fortitude, a drive to succeed—she'd always admired those qualities. For so long, she'd been searching for the purpose of her own existence. She hadn't found it yet, but she suddenly realized one thing: it wasn't Portland.

  The truth was oddly relieving. With a smile, she said, "Better than this? Is that possible?"

  "Anything is possible if you set your mind to it."

  Exactly as Papa would have said.

  They continued the tour, each room grander than the one before.

  "How many rooms are there in The Underworld?" she asked after they mounted steps to the first floor. She peered through the viewing hole into the dining chamber. With delight, she saw that clever painted wood fronts made the supper tables appear like small boats and the walls were painted with rolling waves. Supper on the River Styx.

  "A dozen, give or take. There is another floor in addition to this one."

  "May I see it, please?" She twisted around eagerly.

  Hunt's expression turned apologetic. "I'm afraid not."

  "Why?"

  "Because it isn't suitable. You'll have to take my word for it," he said.

  Her brow furrowed. "But I want to see—"

  "Excuse me." He consulted his pocket watch. "Devil take it, I'm late for the nightly report from my club manager. Stewart hates to be kept waiting."

  "Can't I just take a small peek—"

  "I'm afraid that's not possible." With a distracted air, he looked at his watch again. "My meeting won't take more than a quarter hour. Do you wish to see the rest of this floor on your own, or shall I summon someone to escort you back to my suite?"

  "I'll stay here," she said immediately.

  "You're to wait for me here, Miss Fines. No wandering about." A muscle twitched oddly beside his mouth. "The club can be a dangerous place, and I won't be here to look after you."

  "Please take your time." She kept her voice nonchalant. "No need to worry about me."

  *****

  Perfect. He's gone.

  Taking one last look to make sure there was no sign of Hunt's muscular form, Percy made a gleeful dash for the stairs at the end of the hallway. She could not bear the notion of waiting, twiddling her thumbs whilst a mysterious, forbidden realm lay mere paces away. As she mounted the steps, she told herself she would take a quick look and return before Hunt even knew she had gone. What harm could that possibly do?

  The air in the top floor corridor was sultry and swirling with incense. At first glance, the narrow passageway resembled the ones on the other floors. She heard muffled sounds filtered through the walls; though the voices were indecipherable, something about their quality made her hesitate. You're already here. Just take a quick peek. With a hand that trembled slightly, she slid back the nearest wooden panel and pressed her cheek against the peephole.

  Her breath stuttered.

  Oh. My. Goodness.

  A Bacchanal. Wickedness beyond imagining.

  Against a backdrop of ancient ruins, people in various states of undress frolicked about, drinking, dancing … and fornicating. Percy's face blazed with heat. If she had ever wondered what the sexual act entailed, she got all her answers in a single, blinding moment. Before her stunned eyes, a man wearing a mask with horns grabbed a laughing rouged brunette and bent her over a fallen column. His member—so that was what a man's part looked like!—poked outward from his thighs like a lance. An apt analogy, for no sooner had he grasped the lady's hips, then he lunged forward ... impaling her.

  At the brunette's keening moan, sweat sprouted upon Percy's brow. She felt her turban slip as the woman looked over her shoulder, moaning to the man heaving between her thighs. Fuck me 'arder, get your cock good and deep ... The man responded by pumping furiously, his hips slapping her bottom again and again while she screeched, Yes, luvie, like that! Oh, I'm goin' to come so hard …

  Heart thundering in her ears, Percy's gaze flew to another couple. As the man lounged on a Roman bed, a redheaded woman knelt between his legs, her expression salacious as she stroked his member with her fist. Eyes heavy-lidded, the man
twisted his fingers in her hair and pulled her head toward his lap. Percy sucked in a breath as the woman's tongue darted out and licked the flaring dome of his member. The man groaned, pressing her head down more firmly. Red curls bobbed as the fleshy pole disappeared within her lips …

  … On a nearby couch, a woman was on her knees between two men, her frenzied cries blending with hoarse, guttural shouts as they jousted her between them …

  Dazed and feverish, Percy stumbled back from the hole. Dear God, what am I doing? I have to get back downstairs, have to before—

  The hairs suddenly lifted on her skin; even though she'd heard no footsteps, she knew he was there. His presence lived in the rapid tattoo of her heartbeat, the tightening of her nipples against her bodice. She whipped around.

  Hunt stood there, watching her. Golden hellfire raged in his eyes.

  Her throat squeezed. "I—I was only ..."

  "Didn't I tell you to wait downstairs?" As large and foreboding as Hades himself, Hunt stalked toward her. Her breath rushed in and out of her lungs as he bent his head and glanced into the viewing hole she'd been looking through. "My, what a naughty girl you've been," he drawled. He shut the panel, muffling the lascivious sounds.

  Her cheeks pulsed hotly. "I didn't mean to—"

  "Lie to anyone you wish, but not to me. You knew exactly what you were doing." In a quick motion, he disposed of her turban; her hair tumbled free. "You're a hot-blooded little baggage, Persephone Fines, and there's no use denying it."

  Lips trembling, Percy lowered her head. He was ... right. About her. She wasn't the good, proper daughter her parents had wanted—why did Hunt have to be the one to see her for the wicked girl she truly was? She wanted to curl into a ball and die of embarrassment. Heat burned behind her eyes.

  A finger tipped her chin up. Eyes of infinite darkness held her.

  "Don't be afraid of who you are," he said. "You're perfect, Percy. Passionate and brave, everything a man could want." Before she could understand the relief, the joy rippling through her, his lips were hot upon her neck. "And hell's teeth, how I want you."

  Desire sizzled along her nerves. Yet she pushed at his shoulders "The w-wager," she stammered. "I cannot do this. I can't betray my brother."

  "But you want me, don't you Percy?"

  She could no longer hide from the truth. She desired Hunt—a man who did not abhor wickedness, but understood it. Understood her. She gave a small nod.

  Triumph flickered in his gaze. "I'll do what it takes to have you, Percy. Even if it means calling a truce."

  "A truce?" A gasp edged from her arched throat when his lips returned to their wanton exploration.

  "An armistice, if you will. We will continue our wager, but your maidenhead will be safe with me …"—his grasp tightened on her hair, exposing her further to his touches, his kisses—"until our sixth and final meeting. I give you my word."

  His words barely permeated the haze of pleasure. She moaned as a hot lick titillated her ear. She had to think, to resist the desire spinning out inside her. "You won't try to seduce me?"

  "I didn't say that. I said I wouldn't put my cock inside you … for the time being."

  A tremor shook her at the wicked words, at the sharp nip to her earlobe.

  "For the next three meetings, I won't take your virginity. There are many other avenues to bliss, after all. Think of it, Percy," he murmured, "nothing but pleasure between us—and you'll be guaranteed three victories against me to boot."

  Three meetings in which she needn't worry about losing the wager or betraying her brother—not that she was worried. Of course, she understood that Gavin was only giving her the skirmishes and delaying the ultimate battle until the final rendezvous. Still, to have three encounters in which she could explore the desire burning within her ... She moaned as his hands molded her breasts, teasing the tight nipples beneath the fabric. She couldn't take the torture much longer.

  "My darling, curious girl," he coaxed, "all you have to say is yes."

  Could she do it? Could she put aside everything she knew to be proper and right? The choice came from the part of her that could no longer remain hidden. That would not remain suppressed. The answer sprang from her like a bone snapping from stays.

  "Yes," she sighed. Oh, a thousand times yes.

  His mouth found hers, and the kiss surged with hunger, with the giddy joy of reunion. His lips were hot and fierce against hers; their tongues twined, stroked. She could not taste him or feel him enough. She gave in—to him, herself. To the hunger twisting her insides.

  Humid air wafted against her skin as the gown fell from her and whispered to the ground. Layers followed, and as the weight dropped from her, she could not be rid of it quickly enough. When she was clad only in her drawers, he backed her against the wall, the wood smooth and cool against her bare shoulders. His hands closed over her breasts, his fingers lightly tweaking the budded centers.

  "I love your tits," he growled. "I want to suck these pretty nipples so hard they'll remember my kiss. Do you want me to?"

  It was so easy to answer him in the dark.

  "Yes, please," she whispered.

  A shudder racked through her as he bent his head. He suckled her as he promised— fiercely, without restraint. Her fingers dug into his scalp, wanting to hold onto the exhilarating pleasure as he went from one breast to the other. When she felt the scrape of his teeth, she jerked in surprise. Warmth flooded her lower belly.

  "Too much?" he said.

  "I—I don't know."

  He laughed softly. "Let's find out. Tonight is about your pleasure, my sweet. I want you to tell me what you feel, what you like. This, for instance." His hard thigh wedged boldly between her legs. "What does that make you want to do?"

  Oh, it made her want to rub herself against him. To feel that exciting friction she'd furtively discovered in the privacy of her own bed ... She bit her lip.

  His grin turned wicked. "Naughty girl. I think you do know what to do. Go ahead, then," he murmured, his mouth lowering to hers again, "ride me."

  As the heady taste of him washed over her senses, she couldn't help but obey. Her arms winding around his neck, she rocked herself shamelessly against the muscled leg. It felt delicious. She did it again, and this time her thigh brushed against another sizeable muscle. His man's part. Oh my. He was so hard, so large—everywhere.

  "Christ, you don't know how good that feels," he groaned against her lips.

  Oh, but she did. Nearly naked, crushed against this big, fully clothed male, she was seized by a primal drive. She began to ride him with feverish abandon. He encouraged her with hot words, petting her breasts, making her grow wetter. Through the slit in her drawers, she could feel how she was dampening his trousers, yet she couldn't stop herself. She clung to him, trying to get the pressure right where she needed it ...

  "I can feel how wet you are, Percy. I have to touch you." He replaced his thigh with his hand, and she cried out.

  "So goddamn perfect." The words sounded scraped from his throat. Her hips jerked as his fingers found her through the thin lawn, sliding along her slick groove. "You have the sweetest pussy. So soft and lush. Shall I pet it, make it purr?"

  His thumb circled the peak of her pleasure, and her legs gave way. He held her upright against the wall, rubbing her, giving her no ground. His scar taut and chest heaving, he stared into her eyes. As if challenging her to deny the pleasure ... as if she could. He knew exactly how to touch her, his rough words driving her more and more out of control.

  "Do you like having your pearl tickled? Do you want me to diddle you harder, faster?"

  "Yes," she gasped as fire streaked down her legs. "Oh, yes."

  "I'm the only one who touches you this way," he rasped. "Say it."

  For goodness' sake, who else would—A whimper escaped her lips when he pulled his hand away. He gave her a stern look. "Say it, Percy, or we stop this instant."

  "You." The admission came from her lips, but the recognition was
deeper. The past and future faded away. There was only this moment, this man, and a certainty she'd never known before. "Only you," she whispered.

  "Good girl." For some reason, his approval aroused her as much as his masterful touch. He watched her face intently, as if she were the only thing in the world that existed. "Work yourself against my finger," he instructed. "Show me how hot and wet you can get."

  Delirious with desire, she obeyed. She rode his hand, her secret knot seeking the pressure of his thick digit. Oh, she was hot and wet and needful of relief. Broken pleas escaped her as the slick friction coiled ever tighter in her belly. "Oh, please Gavin, help me ..."

  "You're so damp for me, so perfect." His eyes anchored her as the tempest inside her raged. "You want to come, love?"

  "Yes."

  "Then spend for me right now." He bent his head and sucked hard on her nipple. His teeth grazed her at the same time that he gave her pearl a sharp flick. She catapulted over the edge, the finish searing through her senses. A cry broke from her lips as spasms rocked her. Bliss—as she'd never known existed. As she dissolved into bone-melting ecstasy, she caught his voice above her thundering heartbeat.

  You're mine, Percy.

  For once, she hadn't the strength to argue.

  NINETEEN

  Seated before the looking glass, Priscilla studied her reflection. For so long, she'd seen a too-round face, an insignificant nose, and bothersome freckles. Her features had not changed, yet now she smiled ... and the pretty girl in the mirror smiled back.

  —from The Perils of Priscilla, a manuscript-in-progress by P. R. Fines

  Scanning the dining lounge of The Temple of the Muses, a bustling book emporium in Finsbury Square, Percy spotted Charity at the far corner by the window. She navigated past the crowded tables, catching snippets of gossip along the way. Most centered around His Majesty The King's latest efforts to divorce his wife on the grounds of adultery.

  "And do you know what Her Majesty supposedly replied to the accusation?" a patron said to her companion. "That she did indeed commit adultery once—with the husband of Mrs. Fitzherbert."