Knave's Wager

  The distance between them had closed to mere inches. He was so near he must hear her heart pounding. There were many sensible things to say, any number of proper speeches, all of them dismissals.

  All she could say was, “Don’t.”

  “Lilith.”

  Slowly, she raised her head. In his green eyes burned the same compelling ardour she’d tried to ignore last evening.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “Is there to be no happiness for us?”

  “My lord, I beg you—”

  “Julian. Not your lord, but yours.”

  He raised her trembling hand to his lips, then turned it over and kissed the palm.

  Lilith had battled with her treacherous self all night, and believed she’d conquered at last. She’d thought Reason and Right had won. Her will must be stronger than her need. More potent even than physical desire, that need encompassed the happiness he spoke of. He’d given her joy she’d never before dreamt of, just as the guilty misery he’d brought her was beyond even her long experience of pain. Into her life as well he’d driven passion, which she’d never known at all until he’d touched her.

  But her will had conquered all this madness, she reminded herself as his lips pressed her wrist and her limbs grew weak. She pulled her hand away.

  At that moment came a soft tap at the door. Lilith retreated from the marquess.

  The door opened, and Cawble entered with the tea tray. Apparently unmoved by the presence of a gentleman in his mistress’s private study, the butler calmly set the tray upon a table by the small, well-worn settee.

  Lord Brandon bit his lip and strode to the fireplace.

  The butler had brought but one teacup. Politely, he enquired whether madam required another.

  “No,” she said. “His lordship is leaving.”

  His lordship threw her a reproachful look.

  “Leaving shortly,” she added weakly.

  Cawble exited.

  “You are leaving,” she said more firmly when the door had closed. “You will return those papers to me, my lord. I am not at the workhouse door yet, and even if I were, I should not accept your carte blanche. That is what you mean, though you put it so prettily. I am not a fool, though at times I seem to behave like one. Still, having no experience with men of your ilk, I cannot be as well-armed as I could wish.”

  A shadow crossed his features, leaving his eyes dark and uneasy. “You can’t believe that,” he said. “After all this time, you can’t believe my feelings aren’t genuine. You must believe I love you.”

  Too tender. Too sincere. It was a dangerously beguiling voice, uttering those melting words.

  “I can scarcely believe you have so little conscience as to give your desire for mere pleasure the name love.” she said. “Mere pleasure, or the sport of ruining me—I don’t know which. I shall never understand you,” she added wearily, unhappily. “But if there is any pity in your heart, I beg you to leave me in peace.”

  He hesitated, his face stiffening. Perhaps, at last, she’d touched whatever he had of a conscience. She waited, praying he’d go quickly, because the sorrow in his countenance was weakening her with every passing second.

  He moved at last, but not to the door, and by the time his arms folded round her, all her resolve was crumbling.

  “I can’t leave you,” he breathed against her hair. “Don’t talk to me of pleasure, when I haven’t known a moment’s peace since I’ve met you. Oh, yes, this is fine sport—to scheme and wait, just for a word or two—to want to touch you, hold you, care for you—and know all the while that what I want can only hurt you. You drive me mad Lilith. What am I to do?”

  All the same, he knew what to do. His fingers raked her hair and drew her head back, and his mouth was claiming hers before she could answer. Then it was her body answered, as it always did.

  His mouth was hungry and seeking this time, and the hands tearing the pins from her hair moved urgently, impatiently, until the whole heavy mass fell loose upon her back.

  She knew heat, and the wild rhythms of her quickening senses. The scent of sandalwood... the throb of muscles tensing under her fingertips... cool, crisp curls brushing her face and throat... a trail of kisses like sparks leaping into flames. Strong hands moulded her to the lean, powerful length of him in a hungry meeting that burned up all her will and left Reason in ashes. He was the Devil, consuming her, body and soul. She could not withstand him. She only craved.

  Her hands moved to his neck, to pull his teasing, tormenting mouth harder against her own. In the growing turbulence, she never knew how they came to the settee. In his arms, where she had to be, she was lost to all the world. Only his world existed: his mouth and hands, caressing, inflaming... his heart, pounding its fury against hers... and his voice, low, and ragged with longing as fierce as her own.

  Somewhere, miles away in the storm, a bell tolled.

  Julian was about to tear off his neckcloth when he heard the sound again. A chime. Coming from somewhere. A hall... in a house.

  His hand paused at the knot of his cravat. Her house. He groaned as reality thumped down upon him. A house, filled with servants—and a niece and companion like to return any minute. What time was it?

  He had not counted the chimes, and he could not reach for his pocket watch, because a lady was in the way.

  Her eyes, dark with passion, opened, and a shaft of pain shot through him. Gad, those eyes. Oh, and that mouth, swollen now, ripe and so inviting. He bent and kissed her lingeringly, then groaned again, because it must stop. Now. Now, he commanded himself as her hand crept to his hair.

  He took the hand away and kissed it. “My love,” he said hoarsely. “I must go.”

  She blinked once, twice, uncomprehendingly. Then the world must have come back to her as well, for the colour rose in her cheeks even as the smoky passion ebbed from her eyes... and left them troubled.

  That, he thought, would not do. He kissed her again, then wished he hadn’t, because there could be no surcease for him this night, and holding her in his arms with no hope of consummation was only torment. He’d been tormented enough, all this long while. Was it an hour, two? Or only minutes?

  He couldn’t think, not with her warm body pressed against him. But the body began to struggle, and a hand was pushing at his chest.

  He drew back slightly.

  “You said you were going,” she said, panting. “Then go.”

  He looked at her. Her hair was a riotous tumble of gleaming, fire-tinted curls. At her throat, a mere three of the long parade of tiny buttons were undone. That had been accomplished with so much difficulty, he thought a lifetime needed to undo the rest.

  “You might at least contrive to appear sorry,” he complained as he helped her sit upright. “Obviously, you have no notion the agonies I suffer at having to stop.”

  The teasing note was in his voice only, not in his heart.

  He should never have been so incautious. What might have happened had he not chanced to hear the clock chime?

  “You would have had no difficulties if you hadn’t begun.” She pushed her heavy hair back from her face.

  “Don’t say that, Lilith,” he said quickly, appalled at the ominous glistening in her eyes. “Don’t make me feel like a criminal for loving you.” He took both her hands in his. “Look at me,” he commanded softly.

  The smoky blue gaze swept his face.

  “I can never hurt you,” he said. “I only wanted to hold you for a little while. No, that isn’t true. You know I want more—but I can be content with what you’re willing to give.” He smiled wryly. “If not, I should have ravished you by now.”

  “Indeed. In my own house, filled with servants—in my study, no less. And my niece—Good heavens! What time is it?” She jerked her hands free and jumped up so quickly she nearly knocked him off the settee.

  He recovered his balance and drew her back down beside him. “Not so late,” he said. “But I shall not go without a promise.”

  “No pro
mises. Oh, Julian, please leave, do.” She tried to pull her hand free again, but his grip was firm this time.

  “In a moment. But I must see you again—-and not in a crowd of Argus-eyed friends. Drive with me tomorrow.”

  “Oh, certainly. In Hyde Park, I expect, at five o’clock.”

  “There’s no reason we may not take a turn in the park. My new curricle is ready. Surely you can ride in an open vehicle, with my tiger to lend us countenance?”

  “No.”

  “My love,” he coaxed, “only a short drive. Can I not have you to myself now and then?”

  “You’ve had me to yourself half the night—and see what comes of it. Oh, heaven help me, what is to be done with you?” Her searching scrutiny of his countenance made him uncomfortable. “You’ve the Devil’s own tongue, and all his arts, I’m sure. You’re like the bad angel, whispering in my ear—and I always listen.”

  All of which was to say she’d consented. His heart should have soared, because she’d listen, too, when he coaxed her to a small but luxuriously appointed house in Kensington that had been awaiting her some time now.

  Lord Brandon’s heart did not quite soar, though he wanted her more than ever, if that were possible. He could not recollect when any woman had so stirred him with mere kisses, or when the lightest caresses had ever aroused such maddening desire. It had been enough, certainly, to make him forget where he was—aye, and who he was, if it came to that.

  He was happy, and relieved, naturally, because his trials would soon be over. Still, her words troubled him. Though he’d used all his arts upon her, he did wish she wouldn’t remind him.

  As soon as Julian had gone, Lilith ran up to her bedchamber. Having firmly declined Mary’s services, Lilith doggedly prepared herself for bed, though she was in such a tumult she could scarcely see straight.

  She was not, as she’d reminded her would-be lover, a fool. Besotted though she was, she possessed sense enough to understand tomorrow’s ride would be no mere turn about the park. He would not be content to sit beside her, talking about draining fields or breeding cattle. Nor, she admitted to her shame, would she.

  She had sufficient sense as well to comprehend that love was Julian’s euphemism for physical pleasure. Why he should want Lilith Davenant she would never understand. That hardly mattered any more. She wanted him, craved his company, longed for the sound of his teasing voice, yes, and ached for his touch. He was, just as everyone had claimed, irresistible. Thus, yet another infatuated woman would succumb to him.

  She sat at the dressing table and brushed out her tangled hair. He’d pulled out every single pin in seconds, it seemed. Tonight he was not the teasing, lazy lover she’d first known.

  This night, passion had come in a thundering fury. He might have ravished her easily enough in that tempest.

  Yet a sweet tempest it was, sending joy surging through her... and that was why.

  She put down the brush and began to braid her hair, the steady motion a counterpoint to the quivering ache within.

  She’d never known such furious joy. She never would with any other. She would have it once, with him. She would not deny him, though she knew he’d leave her soon after. That was his nature. All the same, she would not deny him, because she would not deny herself. She must have his passionate lovemaking once—though she be damned for it. She must have that... because she would go on loving him all the rest of her life.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rachel’s first instinct was to tell her brother what she’d overheard. In any case, had he bothered to glance at her shocked face when she entered the box, he would have questioned her immediately. Luckily, the box was dark, and he was too busy explaining the moral of the play to Cecily.

  Thus the first wave of outrage passed, leaving more sensible second thoughts in its wake: if Thomas learned of the wager, he’d have to challenge Brandon to a duel, and the marquess would kill him. Even if Thomas survived the duel, his career would never survive the scandal.

  Consequently, Rachel kept her news to herself, and took out her frustration on her husband when he appeared some ten minutes later.

  At eleven o’clock the next morning, Lady Enders was closeted with Lilith in the sitting room.

  Though her husband was an active politician, Rachel was scarcely a politic woman, and her terse revelations fell plain as bludgeon blows. All the same, except for a momentary loss of colour and the rigid set of her features, Lilith appeared to digest the news with her usual impassivity.

  “A wager,” she repeated expressionlessly when Rachel had done ranting about perfidious males and the punishment they’d suffer if ever she had a hand in the nation’s management.

  “Yes—as though a defenseless woman were a pack of cards or a set of dice. Oh, I knew he was a villain, but this is beyond mere villainy. It is beyond anything! How can a man appear so pleasing, with his heart so black and vile inside him? ‘Wicked sepulchres,’” Rachel quoted,” ‘which indeed appear beautiful outward.’ And so he did, my dear. Even I was taken in, so amusing he was, and such an agreeable smile. I should have known better. The leopard doesn’t change his spots. I shall never forgive myself.”

  “For what?” Lilith asked coldly. “It is merely a wager, a foolish one, since he cannot but lose, and I’m sure it’s nothing to him to lose a few thousand pounds. Or a horse. Or whatever the... the stake was.”

  “But to wager on such a thing—a lady’s honour—”

  “I have my honour still, Rachel. Or perhaps you had doubts?”

  There was a flurry of ruffles, and Lady Enders’s face turned puce to match them. “Good heavens! How can you say such a thing? The thought never crossed my mind. I should never have mentioned the matter, I am sure, but that you... well...” She hesitated.

  Lilith lifted her chin. “Yes?”

  “My dear, it is only that you have been quite friendly with him of late.”

  Lilith made no answer, and Lady Enders plunged on. “I thought it my duty to let you know what sort of friendship he had in mind. Knowing of this matter, naturally you will not wish to continue the acquaintance? We do not know how many others are part of this infamous speculation, or in what manner he is to demonstrate—that is—”

  “I understand what it is, Rachel. You need not be anxious. I hope I know how to conduct myself in these—or in any— circumstances.”

  Lord Brandon arrived, as he’d promised, promptly at a quarter to four o’clock.

  He’d scarcely contained his impatience the whole long day, though he found enough to do in ordering up champagne and every sort of delicacy, in seeing the small house in Kensington filled with flowers, in checking the gowns hung in the wardrobe and the lingerie tucked with sachets into drawers. Today, for a few precious, uninterrupted hours, Lilith Davenant would be entirely his, at last.

  And at last he was shown into the drawing room. He was not surprised to find her alone. He was surprised to discover she was not dressed to go out. She wore a plain brown frock, and her hair was braided tight about her head. Deep shadows ringed her eyes. As he moved eagerly across the room to her, he saw as well that she’d been weeping. A chill of anxiety ran through him.

  “My love,” he said, holding out his hands.

  She retreated a step. Her white face set into taut lines and her posture stiffened.

  “You will not touch me,” she said. “You will not say another word. I meet you this once only to tell you our acquaintance is at an end. Henceforth, I do not know you.”

  The chill clawed at his heart now. “Lilith.”

  She turned and pulled the bell-rope. “Cawble will show you out. Good day, my lord.”

  “Lilith! What is this?” He reached for her hands, but she moved back another step and folded them tightly before her.

  “This is how you lose a wager, my lord,” she said.

  He felt the blood rushing to his face.

  ^Good God,” he breathed. “You must... ”

  The door opened, and Cawble appeare
d. “Madam?”

  “His lordship is leaving, Cawble.”

  Lord Brandon left quietly enough.

  Dismissed.

  In a few cold sentences.

  So cold, so certain, they’d crushed argument before it could begin, or when he might have begun, came the death-blow. He’d not mistaken the words: “This is how you lose a wager.”

  Numb, he climbed into his curricle. He stared blankly at the house a moment then set the horses in motion.

  He’d driven on blindly, he knew not how far—a street, a turning, another street—when Sims, his tiger, spoke up.

  “My lord, It’s that Hobbs. He wants you to stop.”

  Only then did Lord Brandon take note of the figure running after the curricle, shouting something. The marquess drew the horses to a standstill, threw the ribbons to Sims, and jumped down.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but Susan told me I was to stop you no matter what.”

  “So you have,” said his lordship. “I am at your disposal.”

  “She told me to tell you Lady Enders was by this morning. Her and my mistress was locked up private most of an hour, and when the missus come out she was—she was—What was it?”

  Lord Brandon waited.

  “In a taking, I think. What did Susan say? Up in the boughs. That was what Miss Glenwood told her. Up in the boughs like no one ever seen before.” He looked up at Lord Brandon’s still, hard countenance. “I ‘spect she was warning you, my lord, or trying to. But I was down in the kitchen and no way to step out before you come. But Susan said I was to tell you anyhow.”

  Lord Brandon gazed blankly about him. Lady Enders. That was how Lilith had found out. Lady Enders must have overheard ... last night. His fault. He’d been so impatient to get away, he’d scarcely watched the stairs, let alone the corridor. Anyone might have overheard.

  He dropped a few pieces of silver into Hobbs’s hand, thanked him, climbed back into the curricle, and headed for the village of Kensington.

  When they reached the house, the marquess sent Sims and the curricle away. Neither would be required this evening. He’d already dispatched the other servants, because strangers would have made Lilith uncomfortable.