Page 15 of The Wager of a Lady
“You were never going to win; surely you knew that when you made the wager.”
“Surely you knew I had no hope of winning when you gave me back my marker and induced me to wager for Beechwood Court.”
Firelight gilded one side of his face, turning the edges of his sculpted cheekbones to gold and throwing shadows across his shoulders. His wide mouth held the ghost of a half-smile as he regarded her, every inch a gentleman of wealth and privilege, except for the bit of darkness lurking beneath the fine clothes. A crudeness, perhaps, she might have called it. The sense that Leo could walk into a ballroom and then into a dark alley and be at home in either place. He’d had to learn to become a gentleman, had refinement forced upon him.
She expected the journey had been rife with all sorts of bumps in the road.
“Induce?”
“You knew I would come for Beechwood Court. My marker was only pickled herring.”
A soft chuckle came from his broad chest. “Red herring is what I believe you mean.”
“Regardless. You are deceptive.”
The line of his jaw tensed. “Deceptive?”
“Such pretense, Leo. There wasn’t any need to teach me card tricks and such, though I expect you found it amusing. I do hope I presented you with an adequate challenge. After all, you went to so much trouble to bring me here. I wonder if yousuggestedto my husband that he use me as a marker.”
“I did not,” he said quietly. “And I don’t make a habit of buying up the markers of married women. You’re the first.”
If she didn’t know better, Georgina would have thought there was regret lingering in the sapphire of his eyes. “I don’t believe you. I think you run several games at once. Sparkly baubles are much to your liking. I hope I shine brightly enough. The light isn’t very good in here.”
His lips had drawn into a thin line; she’d made him angry.
“Very well, let us get on with things.” Georgina stood, waving her hand around the room. “No need to prolong you receiving your spoils.”
“I’ve always admired how incredibly straightforward you are.” Leo set down the glass of bourbon and approached her, leaning so close her breasts nearly brushed against his hideous waistcoat. God, what was it, mustard and red with splotches of gold thread?
The warmth of his breath sifted through the fine hairs at the base of her neck, though he made no move to touch her. “You smell marvelous, by the way. Like spring.”
“Spring? I didn’t think you capable of such drivel. What you smell is the soap I use to bathe. Common enough. You can buy it at Hartman’s at the corner of Broadway Street. My sister sends it to me.” She kept her chin lifted, eyes fixed on a pair of candlesticks near the fireplace in an attempt to ignore the delicious warmth radiating across her neck. “Toss up my skirts and be done with it. You’ve won. Take your prize. I’ll hold still.”
Leo put his hands to his lips. A sound erupted behind them.
He was giggling. At her.
“Toss up your skirts? Bedonewith it? Are you serious, Georgina?”
“Stop mocking me.” She tapped her foot impatiently, ignoring the dozens of butterflies which had impossibly taken up residence in her mid-section. “Hurry things along. Take your prize.”
“I’m to”—Leo tugged gently on her skirts—“toss these over your head. Listen as you nearly suffocate under several layers of cotton and wool. Then when I feel you’re sufficiently muddled and barely breathing, I’m to settle myself between your legs?”
“Yes,” she said in a much huskier tone than she’d intended.
“I’m to slake my lust.” His voice lowered a fraction until it was only a dark hum. “On you?”
“Yes,” she said again. “Slake your lust. Spend yourself. Spill your seed. You’ve won.”
“Good lord, you have an interesting way of speaking, Georgina. You make this all sound”—his voice lowered to a seductive purr—“so tawdry.”
“Itistawdry. You’ve made sure of it.”
The barest touch of his lips against the curve of her ear had her arching ever so slightly. “Don’t you want me to touch you?”
“No.” Even she could hear the lie in her words. “Get on with it.”
“Stroke the wetness seeping between your thighs?” he murmured, running his hand over her hip. “Does your quim ache for my touch? I think it does.”
