A Regency Courtesan's Pride. Ann Lethbridge
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Lord, seven points, he only needed four to win. And what would she have left to remove if he won another seven points? She should never have let him convince her to play such a shocking game. He had cheated. He had let her think he was a hopeless player.
And then, when he’d offered her a chance to forfeit, she’d let her pride speak instead of common sense. But a Draycott never backed down, be it in a bargain or a game.
The ribbon snagged. She tugged at it. The knot drew tighter.
His bare toes appeared within her vision, which was restricted to her feet, the hem of her gown and the carpet. He dropped to his knees. ‘May I help?’ he asked again.
The sound of his voice was like a taste of hot chocolate, warm and rich and wickedly tempting.
‘I can manage.’
He sat back on his heels. Sweeping her hair back, she glanced up at his face. His gaze remained fixed on her foot, on the knot. She let go a huff of impatience. ‘Very well. See if you can untie it.’
She couldn’t breathe. She had a huge fluttery lump stuck in her throat. Her mouth dried.
The wretch grasped her ankle and lifted her foot to rest on one knee. The heat of his hand, the feel of those long strong fingers taking the weight of her leg, sent ripples of pleasure through her body. She swallowed a gasp.
‘Such a pretty ankle,’ he murmured as he worked at the ribbon.
A melting sensation weakened her limbs. Oh, dear. If he made her feel this way with a touch on her extremity, how would she feel if he wanted to help her with her garter? She could not, nay, would not let him undo her like this. ‘La, thank you, sir,’ she said and was infuriated by the breathy note in her voice.
He glanced up at her face with a smile. ‘No need to thank me. I speak only the truth.’
The man was impossibly handsome when he smiled like that. A dark inscrutable devil with the expression of an angel. In her heart she knew it for what it was, an act, a flirtation, but he played his part so well he almost had her convinced.
She pointed at her foot. ‘The slipper, my lord.’
He bent his dark head to the task. His dark brown hair fell in thick luxurious chocolate-brown waves. She had the urge to touch it, to feel its texture. She gripped the chair arm instead.
He untied the ribbon around her ankle and slid the shoe from her foot, his palm caressing the arch. Delicious. Intoxicating. She wanted to wriggle her toes. She kept a bright smile fixed on her face. Bright and teasing, when inside she wanted to weep at the tenderness in his touch.
Gently he placed her foot on the ground. She wished she had a fan close at hand instead of a cue. She was glowing from the inside out. How could this be? She wasn’t some innocent schoolgirl to have her head turned by a handsome man. Particularly not one with a title. And yet she wanted to melt into this man’s arms. Feel that broad chest pressed against her breasts. Run her fingers through his hair and feel his strength beneath her fingers. Utter foolishness.
‘I don’t need your help with the garter.’ Her voice sounded strangled.
His head snapped up. ‘You disappoint me.’
She managed a quick calming breath and a light laugh. ‘Intentionally, sir. To allow such familiarity would be more reward than you have earned. Turn around.’
He stood. His rueful gaze made her heart beat just a little too fast. ‘Saving your life is worth so little, then?’
‘Unfair,’ she cried, laughing a little herself at the neat way he’d tried make her feel guilty. Oh, this man was a rake indeed and she was a fool to continue their game. ‘Am I not feeding you and giving you lodging as well as helping you wile away the hours before bed? ‘
His lips twitched, but he bowed and turned his back.
The clock on the mantel struck midnight. She glanced at it to make sure. She could not believe so much time had passed so quickly.
She leaped out of her chair, turned her back, in case he should decide to peek, and untied her garter, a pretty thing made of the finest lace from Nottingham she’d bought on a visit to look at their mills. She walked to the chair and laid it on top of his cravat. The rug felt odd under her stockinged feet, the silk no barrier to the rougher nap of the woollen tufts.
‘Let us finish our game,’ she said, trying to sound as if it didn’t matter that one of her stockings was slowly sliding down her calf, or that the heat inside her seemed to have reached the temperature of a furnace. He’d been right when he said their blushes would keep them warm.
Or her, anyway. He seemed remarkably unaffected.
‘It is my turn.’
He bowed and gestured for her to continue.
She inhaled a deep breath, forcing her unruly thoughts back in control. She needed seven points to have any hope of winning this game. She had done it in the past. Not often. And not for a very long time. She looked at the table, the balls back in position. It would not be an easy shot.
She steadied herself against the table and lined up her cue. Her mouth felt terribly dry and her hands were shaking. The hit on the red was clean, it cracked nicely and shot across the table spinning, while her cue ball downed his ball in the nearby corner. The red ball hovered at the edge of the centre pocket and stopped.
It stopped. Surely it would topple over. She stared at it. Willing it to move. A fraction.
She could not believe it.
‘Oh, too bad,’ he said and sounded sincere.
She shrugged. ‘I won four points.’ She’d wanted seven.
‘We could take it as potted. It is so close.’
Her back stiffened. ‘I’m not a child, sir. I haven’t lost yet.’ She brushed her hair back from her shoulders. ‘You have four items to remove, remember?’
He smiled and shrugged. He took off his waistcoat and watch, then slowly released the buttons of his shirt, all the while keeping his gaze on her face.
Heat blazed in her cheeks. She was having trouble breathing and she couldn’t look away.
He tugged the shirt free of his waistband and pulled it off over his head, tossing it on his growing pile of clothing.
He was beautiful. ‘Oh, my,’ she whispered.
Merry had never seen such a virile gorgeous male. Not out in the fields at haymaking or in the mills, where the men often discarded most of their clothing in the heat of the summer. And certainly Jeremy had looked nothing like this. Although she’d been fascinated at the sight of his body, she’d not been in awe.
The lean and heavily muscled Tonbridge, with his skin of pale gold as if he sometimes exposed it to the sun, left her breathless. The scar, puckered and white, ravaging tight sculpted flesh from breast to hip, emphasised the perfection of his form.
She felt a strange urge to touch the scar, to run her fingers along its length, to press her lips to it as if somehow she could make it disappear. A little shiver ran down her spine. Pleasure. Lust. She knew it for what it was, but had it firmly under control. Didn’t she?
She raised her eyes once more to his face. He was watching her closely as if trying to read her reaction. Perhaps other women were repulsed by the sight of his ruined flesh. A tension that had not been there before invaded the room.
Oh, there had been tension, between them. The sort of electricity one felt before thunderstorms as they fenced verbally. She had found it quite exciting. This, however, felt more like the undercurrent in a fast-flowing river. An irresistible tug of unseen emotions.
She forced a bright smile. ‘What will you remove next?’
He chuckled. A deep sound in his lovely broad chest. ‘Not much left for either of us.’
And it was his