by Alyson Chase
John ignored the little lurch to his heart at the word ‘leave.’ “Do you think you’re in a position to renegotiate our terms?”
“That depends on how badly you want your deed.”
He grinned. She truly was spectacular. “You are a mercenary little minx.”
“A girl in my position has to be.” She leaned into him, pressing her breasts against his chest. “Now, about those gowns…”
His groin tightened. He traced the outer rim of her lips. “We already made our agreement and the terms stand. But…I’ll play you for the new wardrobe.”
“A game?” Her eyes flared.
He nodded.
“Here.” She spread her arms out wide, indicating the shop. “Now? You must be mad.” But she pressed closer, her belly nestling against his cock.
They had at least ten minutes until the modiste was finished with his jacket. “Right here. Right now. If you win, you get all the gowns you want.”
“And slippers.”
He huffed. “And slippers. And if I win, I get…”
“Whatever you wish.”
All the blood in his body flowed south. “That covers a lot of territory, poppet.”
“I’m not concerned.” She brushed a curl from her cheek. “Because I don’t lose.” He raised his eyebrows, and she sniffed. “Well, hardly ever. Now, what’s the game?”
***
“Da grey frwx fund hisself a bit o’ fun ‘n ‘ardly had a heppyr time in ‘is life.”
John laughed, the vibration from his throaty chuckle traveling all the way to his ballocks.
And Netta should knew. That part of his anatomy was currently in her mouth.
She knelt on the thick sheepskin rug next to his bed, his length in her hand as she suckled his testicles. This was his prize for winning the game at the modiste’s. Confounded man, she didn’t understand how he was the victor once again. Although her losses were never hardships. She’d wanted to spend the night in his bedroom and that was exactly where she was.
Using the tip of her tongue, she traced the indentation between his testes, smiling when he sagged back against his bed and gripped the coverlet. She did that to him. She weakened his knees. And the rush of power was intoxicating.
“Fuck me!” He cupped her cheek, breathing heavily.
She had no worries that anyone would hear them this night. His bedchambers took up a full half of the second floor of his townhouse and there were heavy drapes over every window and doorway. The walls were white with thick gold filigree scrollwork winding up the sides like vines to a large medallion on the ceiling.
From the medallion, a huge chandelier dripped twisted ropes of crystals and several smaller chandeliers illuminated the corners of the room. Everything, even the bed, settee, and chairs were white and gold, and it felt as though she’d stepped into a fairy forest when he’d pulled her inside.
She grasped the bed frame for balance as she changed the angle of her head. The bedpost was cool beneath her hand and even though it looked and felt like gold, she couldn’t believe the man had a solid gold bed. Not even the Earl of Summerset would possess such a thing. The frame was massive. Each corner post was actually two columns with delicately-wrought gold vines winding between them. The posters led up to a domed cage of the same metal, and the headboard was a lattice pattern that allowed enough space for a person to thread her fingers through and brace herself if the need arose.
She shifted her thighs together. She desperately hoped the need arose that night.
She rolled the velvety sac over her tongue. The scent of bergamot and musk rose from every inch of his skin, and he smelled and tasted delicious everywhere. She could happily spend the rest of her days in his home, just for the soap alone.
John ran his fingers through her hair. “Do you want to try that again? I don’t think Herodotus would approve of your enunciation.”
She tugged at him gently with her mouth, breathing him in. Loving the weight of him. Loving the groan she drew from him as though he were on the boundary of pain and pleasure and she was the master of his destiny. She gave one last lick before drawing back. “You understood well enough to know what I was saying. I’d say my lessons have borne fruit.”
“Yes.” Tilting his head, he ran his thumb along her bottom lip. “Amazingly well. I’m a more capable instructor than even I could have imagined.”
Her stomach went tight. Was that suspicion in his voice? She nipped the tip of his thumb and considered her performance. Had she dropped her street accent too easily? Had her natural manners broken through into her role?
She should just tell him the truth. John wouldn’t hold this latest pocket-sized lie against her, she didn’t think. But would he involve her in his scheme if he knew she was the daughter of a viscount? He might deem her participation too risky and cut her out of her role.
And her fee.
She swallowed. That wouldn’t do. “Wot? I can polish yer nob talking like a right guttersnipe if that’s what ‘oists your sails.”
He shuddered. “Not necessary. I quite like that you no longer sound like a dying cat when you speak.” He nudged her head towards his bobbing cock. “And I liked it even better when you weren’t speaking at all. Come, come, deliver on my win.”
Happily, Netta widened her lips and reapplied herself. A man with a woman’s mouth about his cock was a man who wasn’t pondering suspicious accents.
She took him deep, luxuriating in the feel of him against her tongue. The tickle when he caressed the roof of her mouth.
As far as a loser’s duties went, this one wasn’t half-bad. She slid her fingers under the hem of her chemise and lightly circled her clit. Her body shuddered. Not bad at all.
He gently rocked his hips back and forth. “Damn but you know how to use that mouth for more than sauce.”
“’nnk ooo.”
He held her head, his grip light, not pressing farther than she was comfortable, but directing her movements. He took what he wanted, and his transparent delight spurred her on to give him more. Draw on him harder. Go deeper.
He dug his fingers into her scalp. “Fuck me, yes, yessss…”
Liquid heat jetted into her mouth. She swallowed, milking out his release as long as possible.
John dropped to the bed, his chest heaving. He cupped her cheek as she pulled from his length. “That was bloody marvelous. I can’t wait until you lose again.”
She curled her legs beneath her and rested her head against his knee, trying to catch her own breath. “That won’t happen.”
He finger-combed her hair, and her eyes slid closed. With the fire crackling behind her, the soft rug cushioning her from below, and John’s masculine heat all around her, she felt as cossetted as an adored child.
“Netta?”
“Hmm?”
“After this job, what will you do?” His fingers never ceased their soothing caress, but her back tensed nonetheless.
“Why?”
“I’ve seen many a person squander a large quantity of blunt, leaving them more destitute than they were before they’d received it.” He drew his finger over the shell of her ear. “I don’t want to see that happen to you.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.” She squinted at him, trying to take his measure. “Your concern isn’t a way to go back on our deal, is it? Because I’ll expect payment for time served, even if you decide not to use me for your plot. And if you think to renege on—”
“Calm yourself.” He blew out a breath. “I intend no such thing. I do want to ensure that once our business is concluded that you will be all right. I’ve become quite fond of you, poppet.”
The muscles in her shoulders eased. “With four thousand pounds, I’ll be as fine as a fiddle. You need have no concerns about my wasting all my money. Such foolishness must surely belong only to men.” Imagine spending such an amount. It beggared belief.
But John’s brother and father had apparently do
ne so.
And her father had surely squandered such a fortune many times over. What else could account for him attempting to sell his daughters to the highest bidder.
Her insides twisted. She wasn’t like them. She had plans for that money. She would know how each and every farthing would be spent. It was her and her sister’s ticket to freedom.
“What street do you live on?” He wound a strand of her hair around his finger. “With four thousand pounds I’m certain we can find something more suitable, and safer.”
Yes. She would find suitable and safe accommodations for her and Eleanor.
On the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
She blinked. “My home suits me fine.” Pressing her hands to his thighs, she pushed to her feet, her legs wobbly from remaining in one position for so long.
John rested his hands at her waist, steadying her. “Yes, but I’m sure it could be improved. If you’d like any assistance investing your money, you will let me know. You’ll let me know if you require any assistance at all.”
For once, his angelic features matched the expression in his eyes. He was truly concerned over her, Netta Pickle, the street urchin.
Her heart twinged. Dear, lovely man. Not an ounce of prejudice in his body.
And she was lying to him.
She shook her head, knocking that irritating thought right out. She did what she had to in order to survive. No one would begrudge her that, least of all John.
She laced her fingers together behind his neck and pressed closer, forcing his legs to widen. “Do you truly wish to discuss the future when our present is much more interesting?” Bending, she fluttered feather-light kisses over the corners of his mouth. “I did…lose.” She forced the ugly word through gritted teeth, making him grin. “And I owe the winner several hours of debauchery, as I understand it.”
John tightened his grip, turned, and tossed her on the bed.
She landed on her back, bouncing with a startled gasp.
He crawled over her, dragging his nose along her skin as he went. When he reached her neck, he nipped. “Haven’t you yet learned?” He settled between her legs, his burgeoning erection pressing against her belly and sending delicious shivers through her body.
“In my games, we both come out as winners.”
Chapter Fifteen
John shifted on the hard bench. The Burns Theatre was a far cry from Covent Garden. A splinter dug into his arse, and he frowned. The patrons here should demand recompense for the torture of sitting on these damned benches instead of paying for the benefit. He tossed one leg over the other, rolling onto his hip, away from the bit of wood poking into him. Christ, if—
The threadbare curtains parted, and John forgot his discomfort. Because there, standing on stage left, was Netta.
Even with the carbuncles covering her face and the obscenely large false nose, he knew it was her. The saucy uptilt to her pointed chin. The way she stood with her shoulders thrust just so.
A slow smile stretched across his face. All the nights she’d disappeared from his house. When she’d slipped from his bed last night. She had come here.
He heaved a deep breath. He needn’t worry about her after she left. She had a career to go back to, sad and tawdry as this theatre might be. He would introduce her to the manager of the Drury. Ensure that she had secure work, if she wanted it. With four thousand pounds, she might decide to retire, though he didn’t think it likely. She liked playacting too much. After all, how many roles had she performed for him?
Had she lived on the streets and worked her way up to the stage? Or was she the daughter of a tidy little merchant somewhere and everything had been an act?
He settled back. He would learn the truth after the performance.
Wilberforce slid into a seat at the end of the row, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn’t seem surprised when Netta came center stage to deliver her lines. Only smiled faintly at the poor joke, then tipped his head to John.
John grumbled. The bloody, sneaking bastard. He’d known all along what Netta was, where she was going. Mother hen that he was, he would have followed after Netta the first time she’d left his house. “You couldn’t have told me?” he muttered at Wil down the empty row.
“Shhh!” a patron hissed behind him.
John blew out his cheeks. The Merry Wives of Windsor was one of the Bard’s worst plays. It surely did not deserve a shushing. But he settled in to watch. Quietly. And became more entranced with every line Netta delivered as Bardolph.
She was spectacular. Her talent was wasted on such a minor character. When she was on the stage, he scarce noticed anyone else.
His concerns over her acting ability melted away. She had more than enough talent to wrap anyone, including Sudworth, around her little finger. Talent and enough moral flexibility to be the perfect woman for the job.
She was perfect. So why did a soupçon of unease whisper down his spine to settle in his gut? He tapped his thumb against his thigh. He had a plan. He had capable players to fill each role of said plan. He should have felt the confidence he did every time before a mission.
Yet the unease wouldn’t go away.
What was he missing?
The curtains fell. John rose and rubbed at the ache in his arse.
Wilberforce wove down the aisle to join him. “A good performance, wouldn’t you say?”
“A surprising one.” John sniffed. “I would have liked to have known where Netta was disappearing to. If only I had a loyal servant to inform me of her whereabouts.”
Wil circled his hat in his hands, his lips twitching. “You never asked me to verify her whereabouts. Sir.”
John closed his eyes. He would not snap at his friend. His shoulders rounded. Especially when said friend had shown more care for Netta than John had.
He should have learned where she went each night before this. He’d thought to give Netta her privacy. Respect her boundaries. But he should have determined that she was safe.
John rubbed a knuckle into his chest. While she lived under his roof, he was responsible for the woman, after all. It could only be a sense of duty that made him feel such. “Well, let’s go see what she has to say for herself. Another amusing deceit, I’m sure.”
“You mean to go backstage to confront her?” Wil’s gaze darted to the now-deserted stage, his eyes flickering with interest. “I believe she shares a dressing room with…with another woman.”
John turned and strode to the aisle. “I’ll knock. I don’t suppose you drove the carriage here?”
Wil shook his head.
No, when following one’s employer, a noisy carriage wouldn’t do. “Well, we’ll have to see if, among her many other talents, Miss Netta Pickle can sit atop a horse for her ride back home.”
***
Netta peeled off the wax nose and warts and tossed them onto her dressing table.
“Is something the matter?” Cerise asked. She belted her silk wrapper about her trim waist and sat next to Netta at a matching dressing table.
Netta slathered face cream over her skin and wiped her face paint off with a small cloth. “No. Why do you ask?” Brown streaks remained on her cheek and she scrubbed at them.
“Because you throw your costume at the floor like it is on fire.” Cerise bobbed her chin at Netta’s dressing table. “You toss your wax bits at the mirror in disgust. You”—Cerise jabbed her index finger at Netta—“are in a fine temper.”
Netta stared at her reflection. She’d removed the jacket and padding from her costume and sat slumped in her chair in her breeches and chemisette. Her bare shoulders were tense blocks, her lips a twisted scowl.
Her friend had a point.
She flipped the chair sideways to face Cerise and straddled it, hooking her elbows over the back. “Do you ever feel discontent, even when life has finally dealt you a good hand?”
Cerise leaned towards the mirror and wiped the kohl from her eyes. “That is
not enough information for me to respond to. Tell me what zis ‘good hand’ is and then I will tell you whether you should feel happy or not.”
Netta sighed. There her friend went, always wanting a full accounting of facts before making any decisions. Her logic could be quite annoying at times.
“There’s a man I’ve agreed to help recover some of his property.” She pondered how much she should reveal. She trusted Cerise, but had learned to keep information closely guarded. “I’m to act as a lure, attracting another man to place that property up as a stake for a game.”
Cerise pursed her full lips. “With you as the other stake?”
Netta nodded. “Somehow I am supposed to intrigue this man enough to gamble away thousands of pounds.” She’d never played the seductress before. She enjoyed teasing John, but turning her wiles on another man could prove challenging. She dropped her chin to her crossed arms and sighed.
“And if you lose? Will you let zis man claim you as his prize?”
“Of course not. And my employer has the annoying habit of never losing. But…”
“But what?”
Netta scratched the toe of her boot along the seam of a floorboard. “The man I’m working for. I’m growing rather fond of him. I wonder if I should tell him who I truly am. Stop with the lies.” Well, some of them. Others would have to remain.
Cerise stood and leaned against her dressing table. “Do you intend to have a relationship with zis man where honesty would be important?”
The backs of Netta’s eyes burned. “No. We have no future.”
“Then why tell him?” A wrinkle creased Cerise’s forehead. “We are trained in deception here. And façades provide protection to us women. Do not go making trouble for yourself where none is needed.”
“Of course, you’re right.” Netta chewed on her bottom lip. She gave her friend a half-hearted smile and repeated back one of Cerise’s favorite sayings. “Men are but useful instruments; they are never our friends.”
“Truly, that wounds me.”
Netta whipped her head around, her heart clogging her throat at the sight of John filling the doorway.