Page 12 of A Wicked Game

She’d beenabsolutely certainthat he’d mention their scandalous bet during their waltz, but he’d merely made mocking comments about the other guests and told her that her dress looked like seaweed.

She’d been oddly… disappointed? Filled with a sense of anticlimax, certainly.

This, she suspected, was the same feeling a battle-hungry army might feel at arriving at the designated field of combat only to discover the enemy had decamped overnight.

She’d been eager for battle to commence.

And he hadn’t obliged, the swine.

His goal, clearly, was to rouse her to a fever pitch of anticipation, obsessing over when he might call in his winnings. Which meant she’d spent weeks and weeks imagining what it would be like when he finally kissed her.

She’d never been kissed.

Not by him.

Not by anyone.

A hot flash of jealousy streaked through her.He’dprobably been kissed hundreds of times. It wasn’t fair.

He was still looking at her from across the carriage, and Harriet realized she’d been silent for an unreasonably long time. Words, however, failed her. Morgan’s masculine presence was almost overwhelming in the close confines, and she was aware of every detail of his appearance, from the glint of the golden buttons on his navy coat to the way the muscles of his thighs shifted and flexed beneath his snowy-white breeches.

She dragged her gaze back upward.

Well, since he was studying her, she would return the favor. She would not be cowed or flustered by his regard. But her pulse fluttered in her throat as she let her eyes rove over his face—so familiar and yet subtly different from her memory.

Morgan at twenty-one had been unbearably handsome. This Morgan, the one who’d returned from war, was a different, more thrilling creature entirely. Two years of dangerous living had left their marks on his face. New lines crinkled the corner of his eyes: from laughter, or from squinting against the tropical sun. His face was tanned, his hair longer than it had been. A little too long for fashion, but the wild, windswept look suited him. Her fingers itched to touch the dark, rolling waves.

She clenched her hands into fists and forced her throat to work.

“Very well. I owe you three kisses.” She was pleased with how cool she sounded. “Never let it be said that a Montgomery reneges on a bet.”

At least they were somewhere private. There would be no chance of anyone witnessing her humiliation.

She sent him what she hoped was a challenging look, eyebrows slightly raised, and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Come on then. Let’s get this over with.”

She closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and leaned forward.

And waited, breath held, for her first kiss.

What she got was a rumble of laughter.

Her eyes popped open and she glared at him in indignation.

“What’s the matter? Have you changed your mind?”

His eyes danced with merriment, even as he shook his head. “Oh, Harriet. You don’t honestly think I’ll let you off the hookthateasily, do you?”

Her stomach did a strange little flip. His wicked expression suggested he was about to do something outrageous. Something quintessentiallyDavies.

“If I remember rightly,” he said, “the original wording of our bet was that you’d grant me three kisses, correct?”

She nodded.

“Which infers that I’m the one who gets to do the kissing.”

“Agreed,” she croaked.

His gaze roved over her face, from nose, to lips, to chin, then slid lower. Heat flashed over her skin as his attention lingered on the swell of her bosom. Her corset seemed inordinately tight.

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