Wicked Wager (7 page)

Celeste raised her chin as anger needled her. ‘It is true that I had not considered the fact that my husband is a slave owner, my lord. I gather from your tone you are an abolitionist. Well, I can only hope you and my future husband do not lock horns on the issue.'

Lady Branwell gave a nervous titter. ‘Of course not, Celeste. Let us turn the topic, for it is not one for young ladies, besides.'

‘And why is that, Lady Branwell?'

Celeste had to hide her smile at her aunt's patent discomfiture.

The older woman shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, slaves … We're discussing trade, and what can you know of trade? They're slaves, not human beings.'

Lady Cowdril clicked her tongue. ‘Please don't encourage Perry, my dear Mariah,' she murmured. ‘As you can surely tell, our esteemed Lord Peregrine begs to differ.'

Lord Peregrine smiled. ‘“The hare which changes colour in snowy conditions is still the same creature whatever its outward appearance”,' he quoted. ‘Black or white, we are the same creatures underneath. But for the sake of everyone's comfort I shall redirect the conversation. Miss Rosington, might I say that the shade of pink you are wearing has become a fetching camouflage. The porcelain hue of your complexion when you sat down to dinner is now nowhere in evidence.'

Celeste stared at him a moment, horrified, then dropped her eyes as Lady Cowdril said indignantly, but with a coquettish smile, ‘And dearest Perry, the colour of your black coat is the very same as your eyes and, I've been told, your heart.'

***

Perry sipped his port, responding distractedly to questions put to him by his host after the ladies had retired from the dinner table. He knew he had to atone. He'd been unpardonably rude focusing attention on Miss Rosington and insinuating she was somehow diminished by the fact her future husband owned the slaves that would garnish her lifestyle.

Future husband. When Miss Rosington had wondered aloud if he and her future husband would lock horns, the thought had evoked some confusing responses. He didn't like the idea of Miss Rosington belonging to another man … though there were certainly advantages for Peregrine if she were safely married—and dissatisfied.

The niggling thought returned that Xenia's self-righteous condemnation of Miss Rosington relied to a large extent upon the young lady's apparent hypocrisy. But that charge could not be levelled at her if she were not in love with her betrothed.

Of course, her involvement with Harry Carstairs was an entirely different matter.

It was the very—and supposedly only—reason Peregrine was furthering his acquaintance with her. Instantly he banished doubt and guilt by reminding himself that he was charged with the task of ascertaining whether or not Miss Rosington really was the demure virgin she presented to the world. She had been caught enjoying intimate relations with Harry Carstairs, and her enthusiastic responses to Peregrine's overtures belied the wide-eyed innocence she maintained for the rest of society.

She was his sister's nemesis.

Oblivious to the conversation between Lord Cowdril and the vicar, he ran his finger round his cravat to let in a little air as his glass was replenished by a smart footman in powdered wig and livery. If Peregrine chose, he could entertain like this and supplement his rich, if sedate, lifestyle with
amours
as he chose.

All he would need was a wife.

He sighed. There was the rub. Perhaps there was a kernel of honour lodged in the depths of his depraved heart. He would, at least, like to
begin
his marriage in full faith that he would stay true.

Yes, he did nurture the faint hope that he could be like his father, the reformed reprobate whose life had been claimed by the muddy Thames during his foolish and ultimately futile attempts to rescue his beloved wife.

What must it be like to love a woman to such distraction, so deeply, that one would take the risk his father had that fateful day the three of them had gone boating?

Peregrine shuddered. Now was no time to torment himself with failure. He'd been only nine, a poor swimmer, but he had tried. Nor could he blame his father for his foolishness, for hadn't Peregrine done the same? Attempting to save his mother when their boat upturned was the last heroic action he could ever claim before his uncle became his guardian and his soul went to the dogs.

Suddenly he was aware of Cowdril and the vicar's eyes upon him. He raised an enquiring brow.

‘I said, what do you really think is behind this business with Carstairs?' his host asked him. ‘Rumour has it he was found by your sister with a woman the last time he was seen. Can you confirm it? Everyone is close-lipped and I've no intention of making public something that would further distress poor jilted Miss Paige, but what do
you
know, Peregrine?'

There was a very good reason Peregrine was an excellent poker player. ‘A false rumour, my lord,' he murmured, ‘otherwise Charlotte would have said something.'

Indeed, his hysterically inclined sister had said a great deal, though Perry had been glad when Charlotte reported that Xenia had counselled her not to make public the fact that she'd clearly identified Miss Rosington as the woman in question.

The caveat, though, was now making Peregrine increasingly uncomfortable. Xenia had reassured Charlotte that when the time came for Miss Rosington to be revealed for the marriage-breaker she truly was, it would be done in ‘spectacular fashion'.

But at the time Peregrine had agreed to becoming involved, Miss Rosington had been nothing more to him than a jezebel whose crime against his sister needed to be publicly exposed.

However, each encounter with Miss Rosington seemed to suggest the case was not as clear-cut as he'd presumed. Certainly, there was something she wasn't telling him, but Peregrine was becoming increasingly sceptical regarding Xenia's adamant charges against the young woman.

Not to mention increasingly susceptible to Miss Rosington's damnably effective manner of combining sweetness and supposed innocence with an allure that promised a world of unknown delights, if he only trod carefully with her.

Without a doubt, she was an enigma.

Without a doubt, also, Miss Rosington must have had
some
knowledge as to where Harry Carstairs had been heading the night he jilted his sister, even if there was a plausible reason she'd been caught alone with him in a room strewn with petticoats. He had to acknowledge also that Harry Carstairs and Miss Rosington's cousin and betrothed, Lord Ogilvy, were friends. The three would be well known to one another. Could there be some as yet unknown explanation behind the apparently mad scramble that night? One that had nothing to do with the conclusion to which Charlotte and Xenia had jumped and which he'd meekly accepted before he'd become involved with—he took an uncomfortable swallow of his brandy—
exposing
Miss Rosington.

Savouring the heat that coursed down his throat, but not the direction his thoughts were taking him, he repeated, blandly, ‘Not heard a thing, Cowdril.'

‘Well, where in God's name
is
Harry Carstairs?' his host said with uncharacteristic vehemence, followed by an apologetic glance at the vicar. ‘The man owes me five hundred pounds.'

‘I'd be more concerned with what has become of Harry Carstairs,' the vicar mumbled. ‘His aunt is beside herself with worry. She's not heard a word from her nephew in three weeks. Did he see his lawyer and collect his inheritance, only to fall foul of cutthroats in some staging inn? Not that I suggested as much to Mrs Carstairs.'

‘What's his lawyer have to say about it, Peregrine?' Lord Cowdril demanded in his most insistent tone; the one he used whenever he'd had too much to drink. ‘A mighty hefty inheritance it was, from all accounts.'

Peregrine shook his head. ‘His lawyer knows nothing of Carstairs' intended movements, either.' He was not going to mention the locket containing the mysterious message.

With the mystery surrounding Carstairs assuming ever increasing proportions, Peregrine wished heartily he could have directed his focus towards winning his wager with Xenia so that, in good conscience, he need not worry about the whys and the wherefores behind the mystery of which Miss Rosington was at the centre. His role had been to simply persuade Miss Rosington into wrapping her white, elegant limbs around him in mindless passion, but he was now caught up in a moral dilemma.

Miss Rosington might be damnably tempting and easy on the eye, but clearly her involvement with Harry Carstairs was more complicated than it first appeared.

Dammit, he thought, as he downed another brandy, his conscience really was getting in the way, if the truth was a prerequisite for following through on his carnal desires.

Though perhaps a little
persuasion
might induce Miss Rosington to be more forthcoming with the truth surrounding her involvement.

***

After the guests drifted off to play whist or were repairing to their respective quarters, Perry awaited his opportunity. He knew he had offended Miss Rosington over dinner but he was confident she would not stay angry with him for long. She was far from immune to his charm. Anyone could see that, he thought with a degree of smugness. And she certainly would not be once he'd offered her the most elegant apology he could formulate.

Nevertheless, she faced him coldly as he detained her in the Long Gallery. Lord Cowdril was a keen collector and during his Grand Tour of the continent had amassed an array of treasures from busts of roman senators to coats of armour from all corners of the globe. The sight of Miss Rosington standing level with a Mongol warrior was an incongruous one, but clearly the brief amusement he allowed to show on his face did not go down well.

Goodness, she could appear formidable, he thought, a spear of excitement heating his loins and shooting up his spine; for he'd expected Miss Celeste to be all forgiveness once she'd gathered that he clearly intended to seek her pardon. No doubt, though, the pretense was for show. She'd not want to appear too transparent. And regardless of whether or not she bore any guilt in her dealings with Carstairs, Peregrine knew that she definitely was not in love with her betrothed and most definitely was susceptible to Peregrine's charms.

‘You do not look as pleased to see me as you clearly were when we met by the mulberry tree just before dinner.' He smiled as he took in her delectable form with an unashamedly lascivious eye.

She stared regally through him, her body positioned for a hasty departure. ‘After all but insulting me at dinner, are you not done with your sport, my lord?' Now, if you'll pardon me, I must go to bed.'

Had she not been so haughty he might have joked an insinuation that alluded to the fact that's where they both intended to end up—together—at some stage before the weekend was over.

But the conviction of her current performance had him suddenly doubting the foundation on which he'd built her up, for there was nothing in her manner to suggest the experienced jade. Her mouth trembled and she kept casting decidedly frightened looks in the direction of her now-departed chaperone.

He moved close and put his forefinger beneath her chin. As he tipped her head a little, a sudden, unexpected tenderness washed over him. Miss Rosington looked terrified and, quite frankly, as if she were about to cry.

In the next moment he caught himself up. No, surely he was being hoodwinked, just like every other susceptible man would be in this instance. She'd honed this helpless act to a fine art and he was about to fall victim like a lovelorn fool. If Miss Rosington and Harry Carstairs weren't exactly lovers, Miss Rosington was definitely on the hunt for pastures greener than her current marital prospects.

Clearly there was more to her than had initially met the eye and he must discover what it was. His sister's happiness depended upon it. Yet Miss Rosington was guilty of
something
that belied her wide-eyed innocence.

So, while his mind hardened, he maintained his tender look for her benefit, and was rewarded by her softening expression.

Slowly, he brought his face towards hers. ‘All this talk of slaves is not talk for gently reared females such as yourself. I was wrong to focus the attention on you, Miss Rosington,' he murmured. He was nearly there, his soothing voice like a drug, he thought confidently; one she was clearly unable to resist. Soon his lips would be on hers and he'd feel her body sag against his as he conjured away all her resistance.

‘My deepest apologies, Miss Rosington. If I could but atone.'

The stinging slap on his cheek brought him up short. Outraged, he glared down to find her equally outraged face glaring back.

‘Did you not hear me, my lord? I said I had forgiven you and there was no need to kiss me into resistance,' she hissed.

He shook his head. ‘You said that? Why, every indication—first meeting me at the mulberry tree, and just now—suggested that you were very happy to further what was started in the
darkness
at Vauxhall.' He was dismayed by the turn things had taken, though still confident this was part of her play-acting. Of course she wanted to heighten his desire and, while her slap had been rather a shock, it had certainly been a very good ploy. No innocent debutante knew how to balance indignation with subtle encouragement. She thought he wasn't onto her but now he understood exactly the game she was playing. His cheek stung but suddenly he'd never felt more desire for any woman.

He considered his next move as he focused on her furious, beautiful little face. Miss Rosington put on the appearance of being upset extremely well. Her bosom, deliciously in evidence beneath her laced-edged rose pink gown, heaved with emotion and her dark blue eyes flashed fire, twinkling like the jewels in her high coiffure.

All he had to do was say the right thing and she'd be his for the taking. He calculated the distance to his bedchamber to be only a hundred yards to the right along a corridor, dimly lit and away from the rest of the guests. They would not be discovered, though clearly Miss Rosington was a risk taker. She must be to have risked so much to meet a single man at the mulberry tree and to kiss him at Vauxhall, with her betrothed not ten yards away. No, he decided, Miss Rosington was not averse to making lovers of the men she found attractive.