The Wicked Wager
Authors: Anya Wylde
By
Anya Wylde
For
John
Thank you, Ashish, for reading my first novel
(that now lies buried in my back garden) and encouraging me to write in spite
of it.
Thank you, John, for your unconditional
love and support, but mostly I thank you for the endless cups of tea.
Thank you, Kirsten, for all your help.
Guru, I love you even if you refuse to read
my book.
Prologue
“Bloody blooming roses sprouting out of a
fairy’s arse!”
The Honourable Earl of Hamilton whirled
around in shock. The dulcet tones had been genteel, while
the colourful
vocabulary
would put his great
aunt Agatha in a swoon.
Intrigued, he moved towards the tree from
where the sound had originated. He could see the dark shadow of a lady’s skirt
in the dim moonlight. He hesitated. It could be a ploy of some young miss out
to ensnare a husband.
He had just leaped out of a window with his
buckskin breeches in hand, and his hasty exit had resulted in a fall that had
landed him in a prickly bush. He rubbed his smarting bottom in remembrance. Yet
another unmarried lady had set her cap on him. She had used an age old trick of
trying to seduce him, and then having her mother discover them in a
compromising position.
He smiled in satisfaction. He was, after
all, an old hand at escaping sticky situations. He had decamped not only with
his bachelorhood intact, but he had also managed to save his pants and his
dignity. His valet would be pleased and his coachman relieved. They were
getting tired of finding him lurking around on street corners wearing only his
unmentionables or, at times, nothing at all.
Yet how many more incidences could he hope
to escape from? Should he trust his good fortune once more and approach the
lady? It was only a matter of time before his luck ran out.
He sobered as he wondered anew at the evil
plots these seemingly delicate young women devised to
catch
a husband. They should be allowed to hunt with rifles, he thought grimly. Any
of the young ladies present would bring down more prey than the best of shots
in London.
Still, it was not every day that one heard
a cultured voice utter such words aloud. If it was another contrived ploy, then
it was a creative one.
He wondered how a woman from a respectable
background learned such an inspired cuss. That she was cultured, he did not
doubt. The dignified hiss and the fact that this was the viscount’s ball, with
only the select upper class invited, ensured the presence of only the well-bred
variety.
It could be someone’s chaperone he mused as
he tiptoed towards the tree. The voice, though, had sounded too young to belong
to a chaperone, and he truly doubted if a lady in hopes of finding a husband
would resort to uttering expletives in dark corners of gardens.
If anything, it would have sent a man with
any sense running in the opposite direction.
“Bollocks!” the hidden stranger muttered.
This charming new exclamation decided him,
and he quickened his step. He convinced himself that he was safe from the
dangers of matchmaking as his curiosity mounted.
A twig snapped under his foot, sounding
like a whip lash in the silent night. He winced at the sound and found a head
peering at him from behind the tree.
“Are you all right, madam?” he asked,
sending a swift prayer up to anyone who might deal with matters of luck.
There was a beat of silence before the girl
gently lifted her skirts and stepped towards him. He briefly cursed the sliver of
moonlight that hid more than it showed.
The rustle of cloth had sounded
like silk,
and now he
desperately wanted to see her face.
“Yes, My Lord, I felt a little faint from
the heat in the ballroom.”
That cuss wouldn’t have come out of a
fainting belle, he thought smirking. So she had recognised him.
She still stood near the looming tree,
which dispersed whatever little light the moon threw out. Her voice sounded
vaguely familiar, but he could not place it.
“That was an inventive little oath.
Wherever did you hear it first?”
A tiny gasp was followed by an outraged
silence.
The earl wanted to grin in delight. He
truly shouldn’t have mentioned that, but some devilry in him had prompted him.
He had been bored of social games, and since the season was ending his refined
edges were fraying.
“You sounded out of temper,’’ he inquired.
“How can I be of assistance? It is sometimes easier to talk to strangers.”
“You, My Lord, are not a stranger.”
“Your frigid tones warm my heart. I wonder
what you have heard about me. I assure you, I do not bite. Come, tell me what
is wrong?”
Again, a beat of silence followed. He could
almost hear the wheels turning in her head, her need to unburden her woes
warring with her need to behave like a lady and not gossip.
“Miss Clearwater told me that I distinctly
resembled a pea!” came the mortified reply, followed by a shocked gasp. She had
not meant to say it.
Clearly the lady in question had her
refined edges fraying as well.
“A P?”
“The tiny, disgusting, green vegetable.”
“Surely that’s nothing to get worked up
about? I have heard women can be a lot more vicious.”
He held out his hand to her. They needed to
get back indoors before they were discovered slinking in corners.
He was suddenly not terribly keen on being
discovered with someone who resembled a little round vegetable. Her father
would likely jump at the chance and insist his lovely daughter had been
compromised.
She ignored the hand and continued
bitterly, “Yes, it should not have bothered me, but she said it in front of the
only man who has shown any interest in me during the entire season. She, being
the beauty of the ton, turned her wiles on him, and all my hopes of being
married are now dashed, for his eyes glazed over the moment she smiled at him.”
“He sounds like an insipid sort of fellow.
He should have stood by you instead of being charmed by that cat. “He had
spoken absently. He was growing concerned about the fact that he was still
chatting with this girl, who by her own admission was so unappealing that only
a milk faced sop had paid any attention to her the entire season.
Her giggle snapped his attention back. She
had a pretty laugh.
“You haven’t been deceived by her looks, My
Lord?”
“Anyone with more wit than the hair on his head
can tell that the young Miss Clearwater is dangerous, however well packaged.”
“I suppose there is always next year.”
“I am sure you will make an excellent match
next season, miss. Now, we truly should be going indoors as you must be getting
chilled.”
“I am perfectly fine, and the evening is
uncommonly hot. You can go, My Lord. I want to stay out here a little longer.”
“I cannot leave a lady unattended. Please
take my arm now,” he commanded.
The girl ignored him. Instead, she picked
up her skirts and ran in the opposite direction of the house.
He groaned and took off after her. He knew
she didn’t want her identity known. Not after that florid outburst and all she
had revealed in her agitation, but he was in no mood to play games.
He could see the outline of her running
figure, and her slight build put him in mind of a wood nymph. Her emerald dress
sparkled in the light of the various lamps around the garden path. He increased
his speed as she turned the corner and momentarily disappeared from his sight.
He paused. He should leave her to her fate;
he was a rake, after all.
But then his conscience intervened. He may
be a rake, but he had always been a gentleman rake.
They had reached the end of the garden
before he caught up with her. He was impressed with her pace, giving him his
first clue as to who she was, someone who had assuredly spent her life in the
country.
He grabbed her hand and brought her to a
stop. Before she could even think of struggling in his grip, he forced her to turn
around. She was afraid of his discovering her identity, and once he knew it,
she would stop this nonsense of trying to escape him.
He stared down into a delicate face
now bathed in moonlight. Long gold lashes rimmed eyes
the colour of new budding leaves. Her mouth was a full pink, her features
fragile. Shock had him rooted to the spot. This was no wallflower, no ugly
miss. This was the extremely beautiful, Emma Grey.
The reason no one had approached her was
not due to lack of beauty or birth but due to the fact that she had three very
big, very surly,
and very possessive elder
brothers. Her brothers eyed any man hovering in Emma’s vicinity with
undisguised menace.
The earl had been introduced to her and
danced with her once, all the while holding her as far away from him as
possible lest her brothers were watching. He had wisely left her alone after
that.
He should have remembered his wisdom then.
He should have recalled her burly brothers to mind. He should have dropped his
hands and quickly made his way back.
He didn’t. Instead, he foolishly kissed
her, and then promptly fell in love.