Seven Nights In A Rogue's Bed. Anna Campbell
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calm as a marble monument.
Not quite. If he looked closely, faint color marked her cheeks. She was far from the indomitable creature she struggled to appear.
And she was young. Too young to tangle with a cynical, self-serving scoundrel like Jonas Merrick.
At the bella incognita’s side, Mrs. Bevan wrung her wrinkled hands. “Maister, ’ee said to expect a lady. When she knocked—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Bevan.” Without shifting his gaze from his visitor, he waved dismissal. He should be piqued that his original prey evaded his snare, but curiosity swamped anger. Just who was this incomparable? “Leave us.”
“But do ’ee expect another lady tonight?”
A wry smile twisted his lips. “I think not.” He cast an assessing glance over the silent girl. “I’ll ring when I require you, Mrs. Bevan.”
Muttering displeasure under her breath, the housekeeper stumped away, leaving him alone with his guest. “I take it the delightful Roberta is otherwise occupied,” he said in a silky tone.
The girl’s full lips flattened. She must be repulsed by his scars—everyone was—but apart from a slight stiffening of her posture when she’d entered, her composure was remarkable. The delightful Roberta had known him for years and still reacted with trembling horror at every encounter.
Thwarted malice darkened his mood. He’d rather looked forward to teaching his cousin’s wife to endure his presence without suffering the megrims. This impetuous beauty’s arrival dashed those hopes. He wondered idly whether she’d offer adequate compensation for his disappointment. Hard to tell. So little of her was visible under the worn cape dripping puddles onto his floor.
“My name is Sidonie Forsythe.” The girl spat out the introduction and her chin tilted insolently. He was too far away to see the color of her eyes but he knew they sparked resentment. Under delicate brows, they were large and slanted, lending her an exotic appearance. “I’m Lady Hillbrook’s younger sister.”
“My condolences,” he said drily. Ah, he knew who she was now. He’d heard an unmarried Forsythe sister lived at Barstowe Hall, his cousin’s family seat, although he’d never encountered her in person.
He sought and failed to find any resemblance to her sister. Roberta, Viscountess Hillbrook, was a celebrated beauty, but in the conventional English style. This girl with her dusky hair and air of untapped sensuality was in a different class altogether. His interest sharpened, although he made sure he sounded as if her arrival were the dullest event imaginable. “Where is Roberta on this fine night? If I haven’t mistaken the date, we’d arranged to enjoy a week of each other’s company.”
A hint of triumph lit the girl’s face, made her dark beauty blaze like a torch. “My sister is beyond your reach, Mr. Merrick.”
“You’re not.” He flavored his smile with menace.
Her brief smugness evaporated. “No.”
“I imagine you offer yourself in her place. Gallant, if a tad presumptuous to assume any random woman meets my requirements.” He sipped his wine with an insouciance designed to irk this chit who’d upset his wicked plans. “I’m afraid the obligation isn’t yours. Your sister incurred the gaming debt, not you. Charming as I’m sure you are.”
Her slender throat moved as she swallowed. Yes, definitely jittery underneath the bravado. He wasn’t a good enough man to pity this valiant girl. But for a discomfiting instant, something within him winced with fellow feeling. He’d been young and afraid in his time. He remembered how it felt to pretend courage while dread crippled the heart.
Relentlessly he mashed the unwelcome empathy down into the dank hollow where he caged all his old, evil memories.
“I’m your payment, Mr. Merrick.” Her voice emerged with impressive coolness. Brava, incognita. “If you don’t collect your winnings from me, the debt becomes moot.”
“Says Roberta.”
“Honor forbids—”
He released a harsh crack of laughter and saw the girl quail at last, from his mockery, not his horror of a face. “Honor holds no sway in this house, Miss Forsythe. If your sister cannot pay with her body, she must pay in the more usual way.”
Her tone hardened. “You are well aware my sister cannot cover her losses.”
“Your sister’s dilemma.”
“I suspect you knew that when you lured her into such deep play. You’re using Roberta to trump Lord Hillbrook.”
“Oh, cruel accusation,” he said with theatrical dismay, however accurate her suspicions. He hadn’t set out that night to entrap Roberta into adultery, but the occasion would have tempted a much better man than Jonas Merrick. Especially as he’d always known that Roberta’s disdain for him included an unhealthy dollop of fascination. “Offering yourself as substitute is a devilish strong demonstration of sisterly devotion.”
The girl didn’t answer. He rose and prowled down the room. “If I’m to accept this exchange, I should see what I’m getting. Roberta may be a henwit, but she’s a deuced decorative henwit.”
“She’s not a henwit.” Miss Forsythe edged away, then stopped to ask suspiciously, “What are you doing, Mr. Merrick?”
His advance didn’t falter. “Unwrapping my gift, Miss Forsythe.”
“Unwr…?” This time she didn’t bother hiding her retreat. “No.”
His lips curled in sardonic amusement. “You mean to wear your wet cloak all night?”
The color in her cheeks intensified. She really was pretty with her creamy skin and full-lipped mouth. Now that he was close enough to look into her eyes, he saw they were a deep, velvety brown, like pansies. Sexual interest stirred. Nothing quite so strong as arousal, but curiosity that could soon become hunger.
“Yes. I mean, no.” She raised a shaking hand in its black leather glove. “You’re trying to intimidate me.”
He still smiled. “If I am, I’d say I’m succeeding.”
She drew herself up to her full height. She was tall for a woman, but didn’t come near to matching his more than six feet. “I told you why I’m here. I won’t fight you. There’s no need to play the villain from an opera.”
“You’ll endure my distasteful caresses but won’t let me take your cloak? Seems a little silly.”
She stopped backing away, purely because she bumped into the stone wall behind her. Her eyes flared gold with anger. “Don’t mock me.”
“Why not?” he asked lazily. He reached to release the ties at her throat.
She pressed into the wall in a futile attempt to escape. “I don’t like it.”
“You’ll get used to it.” His hands brushed along her shoulders, feeling trembling tension beneath the saturated wool. “Before we’re done, you’ll get used to a great deal.”
Bleak self-awareness hardened her expression. “I imagine you’re right.”
The amusement left his voice. “Roberta isn’t worth this, you know.”
The girl—Miss Forsythe, Sidonie—stared back without shying away. “Yes, she is. You don’t understand.”
“I daresay I don’t.” If the wench was determined to rush to perdition, who was he to argue? Especially as she smelled agreeably of rain and a faint evocative hint of woman. When he slid the cape from her shoulders and let it fall in a sodden heap, he revealed a body pleasingly curved to fit his hands.
She gasped as the garment slipped, then stood quivering. Her jaw set with truculent determination. “I’m ready.”
“I doubt you are,