More Than a Mistress (3 page)

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 blase 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.

Chapter Three

M
erry felt a blush crawl up her face. ‘I can manage.’ She ducked her head, untied the bow at the back of her ankle and slipped the shoe off.

Oh 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 rib bon.

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 turn to play. This was going to be very embarrassing. Four points would be bad enough. Seven would have her completely disrobed.

‘Do you want to stop here?’ he asked.

Why did he have to be so gentlemanly? And yet there was a knowing look in his eyes as if he guessed she would never forfeit a game. ‘That would be cowardly,’ she managed.

Her gaze darted from his face to his chest. ‘What happened to you?’

‘A sabre.’

‘Duelling?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I think duelling is a foolish pastime,’ she said, frowning at the scar. ‘Real men resolve their problems without hacking each other to pieces.’

The hobnail-booted grasshoppers had returned. This time they were running around in a frenzy. Out of self-defence she turned her attention to the table. It didn’t help, because he walked around retrieving the balls from her last shot, his upper arms bulging and stretching as he replaced them on the table.

She took a deep breath and realised with horror her hands were shaking and damp.

He leaned a hip against the edge of the table. ‘My shot.’

His shot. This was going to be a disaster.

He leaned over the table and his elbow slid smoothly forwards, but he dropped his shoulder. His ball missed the red by such a small fraction, for a moment she was sure he was about to get another seven.

Relief flooded through her body in a hot wave.

He stood staring at the table as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. ‘By Jove,’ he said, frowning.

‘You lowered your shoulder at the last minute,’ she said.

He grimaced and removed his signet ring. It tinkled against the other jewellery as he set it down with a snap.

He took a deep breath and the underlying bones in his chest expanded, drawing attention to the narrowness of his waist and lean hips, though she tried her best not to let him see she had noticed.

She was going to win. He had almost nothing left to remove. She wiped her hands on her gown. She ought to stop now. She really ought to.

But he needed taking down a peg or two.

And she wasn’t going to look when he removed the last of his clothes.

Not one peek. He would remove them and leave.

‘Your turn, Merry.’

For some reason, she loved the way he said her name. It was as if he savoured each syllable and consonant. As if he tasted them on his tongue.

‘Yes,’ she said. Her hands trembled. She didn’t need to do anything fancy. Put his ball in the corner pocket.

‘Whenever you are ready,’ he said quietly.

She jumped. Desperate to have this over and done she took her shot quickly, neatly caroming off the red, the ball ricocheting into the pocket at the end of the table.

He made a sound like a laugh quickly stifled.

A second later she realised why. She’d downed her own ball.

‘Hell,’ she said.

‘Oh, dear. I believe that is three points to me.’

‘I know that,’ she said, staring at the table where his ball happily rested to the right of the red. Blast. She hadn’t made a mistake like that since she’d been a young girl.

She looked up at his face and saw his broad grin. Damn it. The sight of him half-naked had scattered her wits.

A smile pinned on her face, she let her eyes sparkle and fluttered her lashes. ‘Might I ask if you have a preference?’

His look of astonishment, quickly followed by a flare of heat in those dark eyes, was all the reward she needed for her daring.

Her satisfaction didn’t last long, because he was eyeing her like dinner had finally arrived. What on earth had made her give him the choice?

‘The other garter, I think, and both stockings. And then it is my turn to shoot.’

And she would be the one who was naked. Her stomach dipped down to her feet.

‘I will forgo the rest of the game,’ he said, his eyes gleaming wickedly, ‘if you will permit me to remove those items.’

Her stomach sank even further, dropping away in a rush. As if she’d fallen from a high place, or dropped into a well.

He raised his brows.

Dash it all. It was the only way to retain a shred of propriety and honour. Letting him take off her stockings and feeling those wonderfully strong warm hands on her naked flesh all the way to her knee sounded dreadful. Dreadfully delicious.

And not nearly as awful as being required to undress, should he down his next shot. He had missed once. He might miss again. Her mind went back to that odd drop of his shoulder, when usually he moved with such elegant grace and surety. He’d done it on purpose. Missed his shot. To give her a chance to win. And she’d muffed it.

No wonder he’d laughed.

She closed her eyes briefly. Then he deserved his reward. Her insides quivered. Excitement. Anticipation. Wicked. She was nothing but wicked. She nodded.

She sat on the nearest chair. ‘Your hands must go no further than the top of my knee, nor your gaze.’

The corners of his mouth curled in a sensual smile. ‘Do you play the part of Portia, now?’

She lifted her chin. ‘And will you play the part of fair Antonio or be the lesser man?’

‘A hit,’ he said and bowed. ‘I will abide by your rule most cheerfully.’

She carefully arranged her skirt so that no more than the top of her left stocking showed below the hem. It had slid below her knee.

He dropped to his knees in front of her and sat back on his heels. ‘A delectable sight.’

‘I trust you to keep your word.’

She could not see his face, but his shoulders shook a little as if he was trying not to laugh. She saw no humour in the situation, for he had cheated. She was sure of it.

Her skin tingled with the anticipation of his touch. She bit her lip as he hooked one finger into the fine silk and rolled it down over her ankle. He eased it over her heel and off. ‘That is one.’

There. Not so bad. No caresses or touches driving her mad.

His fingers went to the hem of her gown, gathering up the fine material until he reached her knee. She tried not to look, or to guess at his reaction. A rake like him would have seen lots of ladies’ limbs. Her legs were long and well muscled from striding about her property like a man, when she wasn’t conducting business, also like a man. He would find no feminine softness beneath her skirts. He’d probably find her unappealing.

She stared at the wall opposite and gritted her teeth.