A Regency Courtesan's Pride. Ann Lethbridge
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She boldly ran her gaze down his body as if considering whether seeing him disrobed would be worth the risk. He pretended not to notice the heat of desire flaring in the depths of her summer-blue eyes and let her look her fill.
She parted her lips and his body hardened to granite. He forced himself not to shift to find ease for his confined flesh.
Some women found him too large, too overpowering physically, when the fashion was for lisping mincing dandies. In her case the thought of doing a bit of overpowering made the prospect all the sweeter.
If she dared take his challenge.
She drew in a deep breath. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Fifty guineas and an article of clothing per point to twelve points. The hundred guineas for the win remains unchanged.’
She expected to win. It was writ large on her face. He took a slow inward breath, controlling the surge of heat at the thought of seeing her naked. ‘That sounds fair,’ he said coolly.
And then she laughed. A low chuckle in the back of her throat. ‘Perhaps I should ask Gribble to have the fire stoked before we start. So no one catches a chill.’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Our blushes will keep us warm.’
Her shoulders tensed. ‘Your blushes, you mean.’
What a surprise, this woman—the first who had dared challenge him for years. They usually simpered and flattered. If he was any kind of gentleman he would stop this right now, but he wouldn’t. Not if his life depended on it. He was having too much fun. He smiled at her, a sweet, but slightly devilish grin. ‘It seems you are first, my dear Merry.’
She missed her first shot. Nerves. Not as blasé as she pretended.
‘Bad luck,’ he said. ‘A one-point penalty.’
She removed the pearls at her throat and placed them on a side table with a little toss of her head. ‘You will not be so lucky in future.’
He eyed the board, and played his shot carefully. His ball missed hers and came to rest temptingly close to the pocket.
‘You missed. One point for me,’ she said.
He bowed and removed his coat and draped it over a chair back, while she walked around the table, looking at the balls from all angles.
He waited, leaning nonchalantly on his cue.
With a small smile of triumph she lay across the table and eyed the balls. An easy shot. Just as he’d planned. He and Robert had actually orchestrated one of these games with a couple of the village tarts at Durn. It was all coming back.
The sweet curve of her bottom as she stretched over the table tempted unbearably. From this angle, the draping fabric left little to the imagination and put her at just the right angle to receive his attentions. Two steps closer and he could slide his hands over the soft flesh and press his groin against the full roundness of her buttocks.
He drew in a swift breath. Brought his body under control. Passion, strong passions, led to nowhere but disaster. And even if she was wriggling that little posterior on purpose, she was doing it as a distraction, a way of putting him off his own shot.
She knocked the white ball with a swift jerk of her elbow. It caromed off the red and hit his ball with a crack, sending it into the corner pocket.
He smiled. ‘Good shot.’
She lowered her feet gracefully to the floor. She cast him a glance over her shoulder. ‘I know.’
He grinned.
She raised her brows.
He removed the diamond pin from his cravat, adding it to her pearls, then unknotted and slowly unwound his cravat. She looked highly pleased with herself, but he couldn’t help wondering if it was because she wanted to see more of him, or because she’d won. The former, he evilly hoped. He had no qualms about removing his clothes before a woman, despite the scar.
He draped the long strip of cloth over his coat. He glanced down at himself. ‘What next, do you think? Ah, yes.’ He toed off his shoes and, standing first on one leg, then the other, divested himself of his stockings. He did not miss her sidelong glance at his feet and bare calves, or the quick swipe of her lips with her tongue.
Heat flowed to his groin.
Ignoring his burgeoning arousal, he sauntered around the table, replacing the balls, while he felt the touch of sparkling eyes on his body.
‘How many pieces of clothing do you think you are wearing?’ she asked.
‘Less than the number of points required to finish the game,’ he said, instantly guessing the direction of her thoughts.
‘Good,’ she said, but there was an undercurrent of nervousness behind her bold front. An unease. Unless he wanted her to be better than she appeared? Surely not?
‘You didn’t tell me you were an expert at this game,’ he said, rubbing the end of his cue with chalk.
Her gaze flew from the cue tip to his face. ‘I used to play with my grandfather all the time. It passed the long winter evenings and while we played he taught me about the mill.’
‘He sounds like a grand old gentleman.’
‘He was. A darling.’ Her face brightened. It was as if she’d lit a candle inside, she became so dazzling. The brightness wasn’t true, he realised. It flickered and wavered as if a sharp gust of wind would blow it out. But why would he care? He had enough baggage to shoulder of his own without delving into hers. She’d made it quite clear from the beginning of the evening that she was interested in a dalliance. The idea became more attractive as the evening wore on. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt quite so enlivened.
Her ball was easily accessible. His guarded the red. She played her next shot with consummate skill, knocking his aside and giving her access to the red ball.
He leaned in for his shot. A flick of the wrist and he struck the red and white in quick succession. They fired off into the centre pockets. ‘Seven points,’ he said calmly, straightening.
Her mouth dropped open. Her blue eyes were wide with shock, staring at the table. ‘You cheated.’
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Oh?’ He raised a brow and stared down his nose. His ducal-heir-look, Robert always called it.
She flushed. ‘I mean, you pretended you were not very good at this game. Only an expert can make a shot like that.’
‘Are you wishing to forfeit the game?’
She stiffened, her gaze meeting his with blue sparks of anger. ‘Certainly not.’
As he’d suspected, Merry Draycott did not back down from a fight. The small qualm of contrition for goading her wasn’t strong enough to make him concede. ‘Seven items, then, Merry.’
She tugged three hair ornaments from her artfully arranged curls. Long black silky tresses fell to her exquisite sloping white shoulders. She placed the ornaments on the table with her pearls. Her bracelet followed. Her wince said that was the last of her jewellery.
She sent him a resentful glance and he tipped his head on one side as if completely unaware of her concern.
She glanced at his bare feet, sat down on a chair and started untying the ribbons around her ankles. Her hair fell forwards as black as a raven’s wing, hiding her face.
‘Do you need any help?’ he asked.
Merry felt a blush crawl up her face. ‘I can manage.’ She