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Authors: Cheryl Holt

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BOOK: Promise of Pleasure
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“If I’m such a swindler,” he asked, “is it wise to try again?”
“You have to give me a chance to win it back.”
“Be my guest.”
He had a ten, and she had a three.
Her eyes narrowed. “Now I know you’re cheating.”
He held out his palms, as if in surrender. “I didn’t even touch the deck.”
“I’m not giving you anything else.”
“Aren’t you?”
He imbued the question with every bit of innuendo he could muster, and he let the moment stretch out so that there could be no doubt as to precisely what he was considering.
His gaze dropped to her bosom, and he kept it there until she grew uncomfortable and began to squirm. She wasn’t as cold as she appeared; she simply drifted through life half alive, as if too weary to experience any joy.
She was a very beautiful woman who had been badly used, and she could benefit from some gentle male attention. It would be his great pleasure to seduce her.
In fact, it would be no chore at all.
“What is your wish, Mr. Adair?” She blushed. “What do you request as your prize?”
He raised a brow. “A kiss.”
“A ... kiss.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t deal before you’ve hashed out the terms of the wager.”
“Really?” she mocked.
“It’s the cardinal rule of gambling. It saves one from disagreements later on.”
“I’m not kissing you,” she insisted.
“But it’s the only thing I want. Will you deny me my reward? If you think to, I should advise you that I don’t take promissory notes. I expect full imbursement when the game is concluded.”
“We can play all night. I’ll never pay you.”
“Fine, but you’ll still owe me. Can you bear to be obligated?”
“No.”
“Then wouldn’t it be better to get the dastardly deed over with as quickly as possible?” He leaned back, acting as if he hadn’t a care in the world, which he didn’t. “If you renege, I’ll inform everyone you’re indebted to me and that the price is a kiss.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would. What will your mother say if she learns we’re flirting?”
“We are not flirting.”
“Aren’t we?”
She frowned, her mind racing as she tried to devise a method for wiggling out of the mess. Except she didn’t actually want to avoid it.
“All right,” she finally grumbled. “I suppose it won’t kill me. One kiss. Just one. Then I’m never wagering with you again.”
She braced, trembling, as if worried he might wrestle her to the floor. So he didn’t move. Casually, he sipped his drink.
Eventually, her trembling turned to an impatient fidget, and she snapped, “Well? Get on with it.”
“Are we in a hurry?”
“Yes. I want this over with.”
“Oh. Never let it be said that I failed to satisfy a lady.”
He stood, unfolding slowly. He took his chair and placed it next to hers, and he dawdled, fussing with it, pretending that he couldn’t position it correctly.
As he sat, he eased toward her, just the tiniest bit, but she lurched away, looking terrified, so he held himself very still. She was skittish, like a horse that had been beaten, and it would require an enormous amount of work to tame her.
He rested a palm on her thigh, and she tensed, but when he tried nothing further, she relaxed. He proceeded in the same fashion, shifting nearer, waiting as she acclimated, shifting again.
Ultimately, he brushed his lips to hers, and the experience was so sweet that he sighed with pleasure.
He kept on for a very long time, gradually enhancing the pressure until she could stand no more.
With a great show of effort, she yanked away.
“Enough,” she murmured. “That’s enough for now.”
He drew away, giving her the space she needed to collect herself, but inside he was reeling, and he refused to let her know that he was rattled.
He grinned. “Yes, that’s quite enough. For
now.
”
“So we’re even?” she asked. “You’re content with my payment?”
“No, I’m not at all
content.
I’m afraid we’ll have to meet tomorrow night.”
“Never in a thousand years, you bounder.”
“I’m certain we will,” he replied. “Would you like to bet on it?”
“I told you: I’m not playing cards with you again.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
He rose and left her to her cheroot and brandy.
 
“LORD Redvers?”
“Yes?”
“I have a marvelous surprise. Your father is here.”
Jordan glared at Victoria, who was huffing and puffing from her dash up the stairs to his bedroom suite. Paxton was over in the corner, smoking and drinking, and he coughed down a crude retort.
“My father?”
“He bids you join him in the drawing room at your earliest convenience.”
At the realization that Edward Winthrop, Earl of Sunderland, had deigned to visit, she was positively aflutter.
“Thank you, Victoria. Tell him I’ll be right down.”
“I shall! I shall!” she gushed, but she didn’t depart.
“Was there something else?” he asked, eager to spur her along.
“Would you expect—if we agree about your marriage to Felicity—that he might grace us with his presence at the wedding?”
“I’m sure he wouldnt,” he curtly responded.
While Jordan loathed Victoria and couldn’t abide the prospect of having her as his mother-in-law, he wasn’t cruel by nature. She was thrilled to imagine that Sunderland might socialize with her, but he would view Victoria as being thoroughly beneath his station and worthy of no courtesy.
Victoria was still hovering, and he said, “If you’ll excuse me, Victoria? I need a moment before I go down.”
“Of course, of course.”
She waddled out, and he shut the door behind her. As her strides faded, Paxton whistled softly.
“So, dear old Sunderland has tracked you down, has he?”
“Bastard,” Jordan muttered.
“How do you suppose he heard that you were here?”
“I can’t spit on the ground without someone tattling. You know that.”
“What will you say to him?”
“I won’t say anything. It’s pointless to converse. I’ll sit silently, let him rant and rave, then he’ll leave and I’ll be free to go about my business.”
“If he’s traveled all this way to stop you, you might not be shed of him so easily.”
“He enjoys making a grand entrance and a grand exit. He won’t stay long.”
“Perhaps he’ll become so worked up that his heart will explode from rage.”
“Perhaps.”
“Would you like me to come down with you?”
“To do what?”
“I love watching you two spar. It’s my favorite sport.”
“Very funny.”
“Seriously, Jordan, I’ll come with you, if you’d like.”
“I can tell him to bugger off all by myself. I don’t need you to hold my hand.”
“Just thought I’d offer.” Paxton punched the air with his fist. “Get in a good shot for me, will you?”
“I will.”
Jordan marched out, braced for battle.
He and Sunderland had never gotten on, had never understood each other. He wanted to blame it all on his brother’s death, but they’d been at odds before then. In Jordan’s earliest memories, his father had been an ass, and Jordan had never known why.
Previously, Sunderland’s contempt had made Jordan angry, but now, he was merely annoyed by it. And tired. He was very, very tired of being treated as if he was an ill-behaved lad who needed a scolding.
He entered the parlor, seeing Sunderland on the far side of the room. He was seated in the largest chair, as if they were in a king’s presentation chamber, with himself the monarch.
Though they were father and son, they shared no features. Sunderland was short and stout, with brown eyes and thinning gray hair. He’d put on weight, had slouched a little. He looked worn down and weary and older than his age of fifty-five years.
There’d always been rumors that Jordan’s mother had had an affair, that Jordan wasn’t Sunderland’s child, which would certainly explain Sunderland’s dislike. When Jordan was most aggrieved, he told himself that the stories were true, that he and Sunderland weren’t related.
“Hello, Sunderland.” Jordan used the mode of address Sunderland insisted upon. Heaven forbid Jordan call the man
Father.
“I would have a private discussion with you,” Sunderland said by way of greeting. “Close the door.”
At the regal order, Jordan left it wide open and proceeded to the sideboard, where he poured himself a brandy. Then he sat down and made himself comfortable.
“What are you doing here?” Jordan asked.
“The better question is: What are
you
doing here?”
“I’m here to get married.”
“You will not marry that—”
Sunderland was about to utter a perfectly horrid remark about Felicity, when he remembered that the door was ajar.
“Dammit!” he cursed.
He glanced around for a bellpull to have a servant shut it, but not seeing any, he had to rise and complete the task himself.
He strutted over, pacing, while Jordan ignored him and sipped his liquor. When Sunderland couldn’t seem to begin, Jordan said, “What is it you wished to say?”
“You will not attach yourself to that ... that ... low-born gold-digger.”
“Actually,
she
is the one with all the money. I believe that makes
me
the gold-digger.”
“Don’t be smart. You know what I mean.”
“And what is that?”
“Victoria Barnes may have a few drops of blue blood from her father, but in Felicity, it’s so diluted as to be nonexistent.”
“I’m not marrying her for her blood. I’m marrying her for her fortune.”
“This is not funny!” Sunderland roared.
“Who’s being funny?” Jordan retorted. “I’m serious as an undertaker on funeral day.”
Sunderland started to pace again. “I understand that you find it humorous to aggravate me. I also understand that you enjoy tormenting me with your repeated follies, but I will not let you do this.”
“If you hope to stop the wedding, you’ll have to reinstate my allowance—although I have to advise you that there will be stipulations.”
“Stipulations! You would make demands of me?”
“Yes. After your recent antics, you’ll have to deposit the funds in a trust account that you can’t touch.”
“No.”
“I won’t put myself in a position where you can cut me off again. I’m sick of you treating me like a child.”
“If you didn’t act like a child, I wouldn’t treat you like one. I have no doubt that if I gave you a large amount of cash, you’d fritter it away in a week.”
“Then I guess I’m marrying Felicity, aren’t I?”
Jordan shrugged and drank as Sunderland paced, then paced some more. Finally, he halted and pulled up a chair, confident in his ability to persuade, but they would never reach a resolution. They had had so many arguments that Jordan knew exactly what was coming next.
Sunderland would try rational conversation, then bribes, then shouting. When he didn’t get his way, he’d storm out.
“Jordan,” Sunderland coaxed, “be reasonable.”
“A huge infusion of money would make me more
reasonable
than you can possibly imagine.”
“Think of what you’re doing! Think of appearances! Doesn’t anything matter to you?”
“Not really.”
“Then consider the children you’ll have with that girl. Our line goes back hundreds of years. Would you sully it over want of a few measly pounds?”
“I don’t care about your lineage. I never have.”
“You will wreck your children’s futures.”
“I suppose I will.”
The prospect of his siring offspring with Felicity was so far down on his list of concerns that it was laughable.
If he and Felicity had children—which he deemed unlikely, since he planned to fornicate with her only once, on his wedding night—he would never inflict himself on them as Sunderland had on Jordan. Jordan would hire a sweet, loving nanny, would place them in a house full of servants who were paid to be kind.
“What a cold son of a bitch you are,” Sunderland seethed.
“Like father, like son.”
Sunderland’s expression became cajoling. “You know, I talked to Jessica’s father. She’s still willing to have you.”
“Who is Jessica?”
“The fiancée I picked for you! It was all arranged.”
“How could it have been? I wasn’t consulted.”
“She’s a duke’s daughter!” Sunderland complained. “Gad, you sneer as if I’m foisting the scullery maid on you.”
“If she’s so grand, wed her yourself. You’re single. Have at it. Be my guest.”
His father grew sly. “If you would inform me that you’ve changed your mind, I’ll write you a bank draft—this very second—for five thousand pounds.”
“Five thousand?”
Jordan pretended to ponder the offer, but Sunderland would never be able to convince him.
“My carriage is parked out front,” Sunderland mentioned. “We can leave immediately and be in London tomorrow. If we apply for a Special License, you’ll have Jessica’s dowry by the end of the week.”
“And all I’d have to do is marry her?”
“Yes. What do you say, hmm? Let’s do it!”
Jordan downed his liquor and stood.
“No, thanks.”
Sunderland had been expecting the opposite response, and he gaped, then shook his head as if his hearing was blocked.
“No ... thanks?
No thanks?”
“I’m weary of your harangue and intimidation.”
“If you assume you can best me, you haven’t begun to see intimidation, my boy.”
“You don’t scare me. You’re an obnoxious bully, and you can take your bloody fortune to the grave with you. Have them pack it in your coffin if it will make you happy. Your days of using it to coerce me are over. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to propose to Felicity. Her mother is waiting.”
BOOK: Promise of Pleasure
10.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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