* * * * *
“Are you headed to that gaming hell again?” her aunt queried as Deana finished her supper and prepared to leave the table. “You’ll never find a husband if you waste your hours there in the company of cads and rogues.”
“Leave her be,” her mother responded. “We can ill afford her not to go. It were not as if she had any marital prospects to entertain.”
On that merry note, Deana ascended the stairs to her bedroom. Had she known her father would pass from an untimely failure of the heart, she would have sought matrimony earlier. While he had earned a decent income as a barrister, they had over time eaten into what savings they had, including funds intended as her dowry. If it were not for a flair and more luck than not at the card tables, she knew not how they would have fared. She had to acquit herself of her debt to Lord Rockwell or her hours at the gambling hall would be long indeed.
Struggling with her attire, she settled first on her plainest muslin, but vanity, and perhaps a subtle desire to please Lord Rockwell, led her to a simple but elegant gown of batiste. She could not deny a part of her was flattered that he wished to bed her. He had a physiognomy pleasing to the eye, a physique that knew few rivals, and a grace to his movements and carriage. She had relived the kiss to her hand over and over despite herself. The firmness, the gentleness with which he had held her hand and the deliberateness in how he had released her made her quiver. Though not uncomely herself, she would be as naïve as a schoolroom chit to think she was a skirt of singular interest to him. There were rumors enough of the women he had taken to bed, and undoubtedly others that had not risen to the level of tittle-tattle.
At the gaming hell, she drummed her fingers against the card table before bolstering her courage with a third glass of burgundy. She played a few rounds of faro, hoping that in the final minutes Lady Luck would spare her the humiliation of prostituting herself for a mislaid wager. She had assumed Lord Rockwell to be discreet, for she had not known him to confirm any of his liaisons, but she had no guarantee of his confidence. Granted, her patronage of a gaming hell had already diminished her repute, but word of her lifting her skirts to Lord Rockwell would discharge any prospects for matrimony—the only stable salvation for her family.
“Your carriage awaits, Miss Herwood,” a footman informed her.
She retrieved her gloves and hat, pulling its veil low over her face before she stepped into the carriage. By the time it pulled up in front of Lord Rockwell’s Town home, the burgundy had calmed her anxiety and put her in a more cheerful disposition. She had consumed three glasses of wine in the past with no significant impacts. Despite his command that she arrive sober, he would be no wiser. No doubt he differed little from others of his sex and, after twenty minutes, she would find him spent, her obligation complete, and herself returned home before midnight.
Once inside, the butler offered to take her pelisse but she declined. He showed her into the drawing room. Compared to her address, the room was richly furnished and its décor stately but not garish. The gleam of the wood and the shine of the upholstery indicated the furnishings to be new or well cared for, unlike the few pieces her family owned or borrowed. A healthy fire kept the room warm and the candelabras on the silken walls gave it light. A small elephant carved from ivory caught her eye. She picked it up from the end table and admired the detailing and its two ruby eyes.
“Do sit, Miss Herwood.”
She bobbled the figurine before clutching it tightly to her chest to keep it from falling. She turned in the direction of the rich tenor.
Lord Rockwell stood at the threshold, appearing as dapper in his banyan as he did in full dress. Quickly she returned the elephant to its home. The thought that she had nearly dropped what was no doubt an expensive item made her tremble. God knew what she would owe him then.
“Two and twenty thousand rupees,” he answered. “It belonged to a Hindu rajah.”
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“Sit, Miss Herwood.”
His imperial tone contrasted with the more courteous manners he exhibited at the gaming hell. Perhaps he fancied himself a rajah in his own abode. Though tempted to defy him, she sat down upon a settee, noting that tea had been set upon the table before it. He sat opposite her and poured her a cup, which she accepted gratefully, for she would not know what to do with her hands otherwise. She took a sip of the fragrant Darjeeling, ignoring his penetrating gaze.
“You’re inebriated,” he stated with a frown.
Damn. How the bloody hell did he discern that? Caught, she opted to mask her embarrassment with childish insolence.
“I had myself a glass,” she admitted with a dismissive shrug, avoiding his stare by focusing on her tea. “I am no child, Lord Rockwell, and you are not my guardian.”
“Indeed. If I were, you would certainly not be spending your time in a gaming hell.”
“And if I were yours, you would not be making indecent propositions to ladies you hardly know.”
His brows rose but his eyes glimmered with amusement.
“Such insolence can be tamed,” he said almost to himself, then offered her the plate of biscuits. “You will require sustenance to soak up the effects of the wine.”
She hesitated. The wine was giving her courage, but perhaps it was best she had all her wits about her with this man.
“The servants have all retired for the evening. You’ve no need to conceal yourself.”
“You will forgive me if I fail to trust to assurances alone that our transaction, if you will, shall remain private.”
After a moment of thought, he went to the writing table and retrieved paper and pen. After a quick scrawl, he affixed his seal and handed her the note.
“You may redeem this if the confidence of this night is broken,” he told her.
She choked on her tea upon seeing the amount he had penned. Five hundred pounds!
“Do you make such offers to all the women you take to bed?” she could not help asking.
His expression darkened and she regretted her impudence.
“Consider yourself unique, Miss Herwood.”
There was a peculiar strain to his voice. She took another sip of the tea to avoid his gaze. Of course the other women willingly lifted their skirts to him. She wondered if she would have done the same had she not lost to him.
“When do we, er, begin…?”
“Our ‘transaction’?”
“Would you prefer a more romantic term?” she replied archly.
“Not at all. I have always observed you to be practical and devoid of the silly sensibilities and nonsense that permeate others of your sex.”
He had observed her before? Should she be flattered by this? She began to wonder if he had deliberately chosen to sit at her card table the other night.
“We will conduct our matter when you are in full possession of your faculties,” he continued, pouring her more tea, “that you may fully appreciate its aspects.”
She could not help an unladylike snort. “You fancy yourself an accomplished lover, do you?”
He said nothing, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. They were a sensuous pair. For a moment, she wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by them. She shook herself back to attention, glad the veil shielded her, to a degree, from his discerning stare. The wine was having the damnable effect of making the man more attractive.
“I think you will find the experience agreeable, Miss Herwood.”
“And how do you come to merit such arrogance?”
“You will discover for yourself soon enough.”
She pursed her lips in frustration. She had hoped for a short visit and instead of concluding their business, they were having a tête-à-tête over bloody tea. Setting aside her cup, she untied her pelisse and allowed it to fall from her shoulders.
“Did you not wish to take your pleasure of me?”
A muscle along his jaw rippled as he settled further into the settee. “In due time.”
Tiresome man.
Those with wealth and countenance assumed the world revolved about them. A rush of envy stoked a darker side of her. In the end he was but a man, with base desires no different than a commoner, and she would prove it so. She unpinned her hat and fixed her most smoldering stare upon him. She had witnessed the coquetry of the women who patronized the gaming hell and been entertained by how simply a man could be lured into their grasps.
“Have you ever considered becoming a courtesan to relieve your fiscal conditions?”
His uncanny ability to know her thoughts unnerved her, and the truth of the matter struck a vulnerable chord. She had considered the option but simply had no prospects at the moment.
“If you are offering, Lord Rockwell, I am flattered but must decline,” she retorted as she removed her gloves, slowly peeling one past her elbow and exposing the smooth, pale skin of her forearm.
The corner of his mouth quirked upward. They both knew he had no intention of inviting her to be his mistress, but her response amused him. His gaze fell to her bare arms. The heat in his eyes made her feel as if she had taken off all her garments, not just her gloves. Emboldened by his appreciation, she angled herself on the settee and put a hand to the nape of her neck.
“I seem to have missed a pin,” she said. “Would my lord oblige in removing it?”
He made no movement, making her wonder whether her inexperience in playing the coquette appeared that obvious, but then he crossed the distance between them and sat down beside her, his thigh dangerously close to her rump. She felt his fingers upon her hair and suppressed a shiver.
“You are mistaken, Miss Herwood. I see none.”
She could sense the warmth of his body, and when he trailed a knuckle down the length of her neck, she suddenly wanted him to grab her and kiss her. But he had resumed his seat opposite her, leaving her wanting. She frowned. He had propositioned her. Did he expect that she would throw herself at him? Looking into his eyes, she suspected that he knew the effect he had on her. But she must have impressed him to some degree or he would not have offered to forfeit fifty pounds for one night of attention. Granted, fifty pounds was no significant sum for him, but he could have had women of far more consequence at his beck and call for far less.
Inspired by this reasoning, she stood up and sauntered toward him.
“Shall we retire to your bedchamber, my lord?”
“I prefer different quarters.”
His response struck her as odd, but the sofa upon which he sat appeared comfortable enough. She dropped to her knees, the wine humming in her veins. Surprise lighted his eyes but he did not move. His gaze caressed the swell of her cheek, the skin above her décolletage and, seeming to penetrate the material of her dress, the curves beneath. Her body tingled from head to toe beneath his regard. She dared to put a hand upon his knee. When he did not flinch, she glanced into his countenance and thought she saw flames in his eyes.
“You have managed to learn the arts of a courtesan,” he observed coolly, with only the faintest hitch in his voice.
Her heart hammered in her ears. She was a novice playing with fire. Never before had she been so bold with a man. But never before had she dealt with a man who refused to be seduced by the very woman he had propositioned.
“You have finished neither your biscuit nor your tea, Miss Herwood.”
“I have no need for your tea and biscuit. I am in full command of my faculties, Lord Rockwell, despite the presence of a bit of wine,” she responded.
“Ah, Miss Herwood, how poorly you lie.”
She would have risen, thrown her hands up in exasperation and reached for her gloves and hat, daring him to stop her from leaving, but he had cupped her chin in one hand, his forefinger lazily grazing the soft spot beneath her jaw. She fought the desire to melt into his hand and the weakening in her limbs, for she had to uphold her earlier assertion. It was no easy battle, and the wine, which had hitherto been her supporter, turned foe in this matter.
“You contravened my command. I would have overlooked one glass of wine, but you have partaken of more, Miss Herwood.”
Command? The word jolted her to attention and she pulled away from him. His touch rattled her senses far too much.
“You insist upon playing my guardian, Lord Rockewell?”
He smiled. “If that were the case, you would be splayed across my lap for a sound spanking.”
Her mouth went dry at the thought. A small voice inside advised her to run from this man. At the very least she ought to put some distance between them, but a darker side of her was drawn to him more than ever.
“Patience, my dear Miss Herwood,” he gently coaxed.
Patience? Would he have her return to her seat, twiddle with the damn biscuits and wait…wait for what?
“Have I misunderstood your proposition, Lord Rockwell? Did you not say that I could discharge my debt if I were to lay with you?”
“I did proffer one night of pleasure.”
“And by pleasure you meant a tête-à-tête over tea? La! How silly of me to have suspected you of more roguish intentions.”
As she spoke, she realized a part of her would be quite disappointed if he answered in the affirmative. She rose to her feet but he grabbed her at the wrist and pulled her across him with startling deftness. How easily he manhandled her.
“Make no mistake, Miss Herwood. I intend to take my pleasure of you,” he growled, his mouth beside her ear.
“Then why delay, my lord?” she whispered back against his ear over the loud thumping of her heart.
He made a low groan. Before she could react, he had pinned her against the arm of the sofa. His mouth was atop hers, crushing, claiming, punishing. She had never been kissed with such force and felt a surge of triumph. Her head swam from the heady combination of intoxication and arousal. She attempted to return his forceful kiss, but his mouth dictated the terms. He tasted of her, explored her, consumed her. She could do little but surrender to his attentions.
When at last he released her to breathe, and the world had slowed its swirl about her head, she could not resist saying, “Patience, my lord.”
“Patience be damned,” he returned, though the glint in his eye had her suspecting that perhaps her triumph was not as complete as she would think.