Wicked Little Game

by Christine Wells

  Could she possibly keep the two separate? Could she give him her body and withhold her heart, keep her pride, shoulder the guilt, hold everything in a delicate balance?

  Impossible, perhaps. But for his sake, she would have to take the risk.

  Her movements slow and painstaking, Sarah pulled at each fingertip of her cotton gloves before sliding them off her hands. She set the gloves aside and reached for the Olympian dew. Carefully, deliberately, she cleaned the greasy concoction from her hands.

  FINALLY calling a halt to his search for Tom, Vane looked in at White’s and stepped into a world wholly different from the slums of Billingsgate. Redolent of beeswax and old leather, the quiet, rarefied atmosphere of the gentleman’s club seemed almost obscene in contrast to the filth and poverty farther east.

  Vane didn’t often visit his club, preferring the earthier company of sporting enthusiasts at Cribb’s, but the porter greeted him by name as he handed him his hat, coat, and walking stick.

  He nodded to the man. “Is Lord Jardine in this evening?”

  “Yes, my lord. Upstairs reading the paper, I think you’ll find.”

  He thanked the porter and found his friend lazing in a dark leather chair, staring out at nothing over his copy of the Morning Post.

  Vane threw himself in the chair opposite and waited.

  One eyebrow flew upward. “Vane.”

  “You were in a brown study when I walked in. Plotting more diabolical deeds?” To most, Lord Jardine was your typical debauched aristocrat with too much money and too much time on his hands. Only a very few knew he worked secretly for the Home Office.

  “Why should you think that?” Jardine leaned forward and tossed the paper onto the low table before him. “Now, tell me. Do I hear correctly? Must I wish you happy?”

  So Jardine had heard the news already. Vane wasn’t surprised. He accepted his friend’s well wishes, adding, “Sorry you weren’t invited to the wedding. Strictly a family affair.”

  Jardine’s saturnine look deepened. “That’s quite all right. I can’t stomach weddings at the best of times, though I’d have suppressed my natural revulsion for you.” His dark eyes flickered. “But you’re not here to discuss marital bliss, are you, Vane?”

  When he didn’t immediately reply, Jardine added, “The dear departed has left you with a damnable mess to sort out, has he? Yes, I thought so.”

  Vane met his gaze. “I thought if anyone could tell me what was behind this murder, it would be you. It was murder. And not with a damned muff pistol, either.”

  “You want to know who killed Brinsley Cole?” Jardine’s eyebrows flexed with surprise. “I’d have thought that the least interesting part of the whole affair.”

  “Who did?”

  “Word among the fellows is it was you, old man, and they’re lining up to shake your hand. Oh, I know it wasn’t, and so would they, if they’d use their brains.” He paused. “Faulkner was ready to stitch you up, did you know? Your valiant bride came riding to your rescue. She must be quite a woman.”

  Shock held Vane speechless. She’d told them the truth for his sake? She’d admitted where she was, braved the ruin that awaited her, all for him? And he’d berated her for it, he remembered. He’d been furious at her, and yet she’d kept silent about her reasons for disclosing her whereabouts to Faulkner that night.

  A cynical man might suspect she’d done it to force his offer of marriage, but he didn’t think so. No, recalling her extreme reluctance, the many times she’d exhorted him to forsake her, he didn’t believe she’d come to his rescue for so self-interested a reason. The knowledge shed new light on her character, perhaps even on her feelings for him. It would be altogether too much to hope . . .

  “Cole’s demise was damned convenient for you, wasn’t it?” said Jardine.

  Vane’s brows snapped together. He didn’t like the trend of this conversation. “Just what are you implying?”

  “You have her at last,” said Jardine softly. “I envy you, Vane.”

  By now, he ought not to be taken aback at Jardine’s perceptiveness. Vane changed the subject. “Who did kill him?”

  Jardine spread his hands. “The powers that be have quashed any hopes of an investigation. One particular power, in fact: the Earl of Straghan.”

  “Understandable that he wouldn’t want his daughter’s name bandied about.”

  “Ye-es.” Jardine watched Vane with a peculiar, sharp intensity that told Vane his own suspicions were shared. “Or perhaps he doesn’t want anyone delving into Cole’s other nefarious activities. Perhaps . . .”

  Perhaps the Earl of Straghan had killed his son-in-law. Or paid someone else to do it.

  Jardine continued smoothly, “The list of suspects is large. The late unlamented set up quite a racket in blackmail and extortion if my sources are correct. Did you happen to find any papers when you searched?”

  Vane shook his head. “By the time I arrived, it was too late.”

  “Someone was before you.”

  “The place had been turned upside down. It wasn’t pure vandalism but a thorough search. Someone was looking for something and they weren’t too careful about advertising the fact. Possibly, they sought those papers you mentioned.”

  Vane neglected to add that he’d been intent on finding a certain document on his own account. Somewhere, someone held Vane’s bank draft for an obscenely large sum. He’d already informed his bankers that the draft had gone astray and stopped payment on it. But he needed it back before it found its way into Sarah’s hands, or the hands of the authorities.

  Regardless, he had sought out Jardine to find the answer to one question. “What reason might someone have to blackmail the Earl of Straghan?”

  A quick shake of the head. “Sorry, old fellow. He’s a government minister. Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.”

  There must be something there, thought Vane. If he’d been barking up the wrong tree, Jardine would have told him so, straight out.

  Jardine was silent a moment. Then he said, “Blackmail usually feeds on one of two sources—sex or money. If Brinsley Cole knew something damaging about the earl, how did he come by the knowledge? What is the history of their association? How did Brinsley meet Lady Sarah? How did he snap her up before her mama had the chance to throw her to the tender mercies of the Marriage Mart? Follow those lines of reasoning and I believe you will end with the truth.”

  Those lines of reasoning had been tugging at the edges of Vane’s mind for some time.

  Was Jardine hinting at something or merely assisting, in his usual detached way, greasing the wheels of Vane’s mind?

  Whatever the case, it seemed that the earl’s involvement in Brinsley’s death bore further investigation. Vane wasn’t at all sure he’d like what he’d find.

  IT was almost midnight when Vane arrived home. He found Sarah curled up on a chaise longue in the library, a volume of poetry open on the floor below her outstretched hand, as if she’d dropped it there. Wearing a patterned silk dressing gown and a lacy white cap and dainty slippers, she was asleep and dreaming, her features softened and relaxed, one hand curled beneath her cheek.

  Something tugged sharply at Vane’s heart. She looked . . . vulnerable. Innocent and trusting, as he imagined she must have been when she married Brinsley all those years ago.

  He couldn’t help but remember Jardine’s words—she’d ridden to his rescue when she thought they’d charge him with Brinsley’s murder. A warm glow spread in his chest. He couldn’t recall a single incident in his life when anyone had seen the need to save him.

  After dining with Jardine, Vane had looked in at Cribb’s Parlor, ruefully admitting to himself that he lingered away from home rather than return to an empty bed.

  How had he and Sarah arrived at this state of affairs? That first night, he’d concluded she was frightened of him, but was that really the problem? She hadn’t been afraid of him later, when she’d come to him for help. She’d trusted him enough to reveal her most pa
inful secrets. True, she was desperate to find the boy, but she might well have turned to her father for help instead.

  After their first night together, she must know in her heart he would never force her to accommodate him. Until now, he’d been too tired and wound up to think clearly, but he ought to have known it wasn’t his physical strength that made her so jittery and defensive.

  She was afraid. But perhaps what scared her wasn’t him. Perhaps she was frightened of her own passion, the intensity of what they shared. He understood that fear because in some moments that first night he’d been afraid of it, too.

  If that were the case . . . Hope stirred inside him and the blood quickened in his veins.

  She looked so soft and sweet. He studied her with growing hunger. If she rejected him tonight, he might as well take a pistol and shoot himself.

  His mouth quirked upward at the melodramatic trend of his thoughts. At the very least, he could put her to bed.

  Sliding one arm beneath her shoulders and the other under her hips, he lifted her easily and held her against his chest. Her head shifted a little to rest on his shoulder and she snuggled into him and sighed. For a few moments, he stood very still, his eyes squeezed shut.

  Holding her.

  And she was warm in his arms, so scented and pliant. A need built within him, to bury himself in that softness, to make her sigh again with pleasure, to turn into him, fully aware that there was no going back, no repudiating their passion this time.

  Heart racing, Vane carried her out and strode up the stairs and through the sitting room, into his bedchamber. He laid her carefully on the bed and stepped back.

  He closed the door and locked it. Then he turned back and looked at her, still sleeping deeply, lying on her side with the flaring line of her hip outlined against the semi-darkness and the swell of her bottom just visible beneath her dressing gown.

  A dim voice inside him said he shouldn’t try to seduce his wife when she was asleep and vulnerable like this. She might well respond with pleasure now; she wouldn’t thank him in the morning.

  But while his conscience voiced objections in his head, his hands stripped the clothes off his body. Long before he’d shucked his trousers, that voice had been drowned out by the insistent tattoo of blood drumming through his veins, the clarion call of desire.

  He climbed into the other side of the bed, careful not to disturb her. She lay on her side, facing him, and he remembered another time, when their positions were reversed, when she’d feathered her fingertips over his mouth as he drowsed.

  The surge of desire that met that recollection made him freeze, fighting to bring himself under control. And in that moment, her eyelids drifted open and her eyes focused on him. She gasped and struggled up on her elbow, but he pressed a fingertip to her lips, then replaced it with his mouth.

  One hand cradling her head, he kissed her gently, trying not to threaten her or frighten her into retreat. With a small moan, she slid her arms around him and sank into the pillows, pulling him down with her, into her warmth and scented softness, where he longed to be.

  HE was so damned thankful for this change of heart he didn’t stop to consider what it might mean. He simply kissed her with everything he had, all the tenderness and yearning that he’d kept in reserve for so long. Her hands smoothed over his shoulders, molding him, driving him mad with their featherlight touch. Her low sigh tickled his ear as he kissed a path across her cheek to her throat.

  He breathed in the smell of her—lilies and a hint of spicy something that infused his brain and drove his body wild. He undid the strings of her fussy little cap and flung it aside, combed his fingers through her long braid to loosen it. Spreading her hair over the pillow, he drank in the sight.

  “Sarah, I—”

  “Shh.” She laid a trembling finger on his lips and said, “Now. Please. I want you now.”

  As if to illustrate her words, she reached for his shaft and closed her fingers around it, drawing it toward her.

  He gave a shuddering gasp and held on to his sanity with everything he had. Gently, he clasped her hand and removed it from his flesh. “Not yet. You’re not ready. Let me—”

  “I am ready. I’m ready,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

  He hesitated, torn between consideration for her and a truly awe-inspiring desire to accede to her wishes.

  She swallowed and said thickly, “Now, Vane. Now or not at all.”

  Confusion pulled at his mind but he was too far gone to pay it much heed. He bunched layers of linen and silk in his hands and slid them up her thighs. Kissing her deeply, he spread her legs and positioned himself.

  He nudged into her a little way. She was moist and hot but not nearly wet enough. He knew from experience that a woman needed more preparation than this to take him. He rubbed the head of his cock against her, coating it in her moisture, then rubbed it repeatedly over the small, sensitive knot of flesh above, resisting her efforts to make him stop, ignoring her murmured encouragement to dispense with preliminaries and plunge inside.

  By the time he judged her ready, he was almost crazed with need. Who would have thought that after insisting on separate bedchambers, separate lives, she’d turn into this demanding wanton who couldn’t have him inside her fast enough?

  More than anything, he didn’t want to hurt her, so he made himself slow, press into her gradually, one inch at a time. She shifted to accommodate him and the slick slide of flesh and the heat and softness drew him in.

  God, that feels sublime. Instinct, as well as the woman beneath him, urged him to drive into her, but he knew that if he was too fast or rough he’d hurt her. He took a few deep, unsteady breaths and mastered his trembling body, forcing it to settle for measured, shallow strokes instead. He kept that pace despite her urging, felt the tension and frustration in her and beat back his own answering need.

  Her hands slid down his back to his hips, caressing as he moved inside her, slowly, so slowly. Without warning, she gripped his buttocks, thrusting downward as she arched up toward him. Before he could stop himself, he surged home, ramming the entrance of her womb.

  The shock of it made him lose his tenuous grasp on control. His climax broke over him in a torrent of fire. But he heard her cry of pain, too. Filled with remorse and anger, he broke her hold and wrenched himself away from her, spilling his seed onto the sheets.

  SITTING with his head in his hands, Vane shuddered in the last throes of his orgasm. “God. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t,” she said softly. She’d wanted to give him this, but she’d wanted it over with quickly. She’d wanted to remain aloof while he took his pleasure. That’s why she’d urged him to penetrate her so deeply and fast. She hadn’t expected that sharp stab of pain inside, nor the slight queasiness that followed. It hadn’t happened that way before.

  “I hurt you.”

  “No, no.” She sat up and moved over to kneel behind him. Couldn’t resist placing a kiss on his shoulder blade.

  His skin burned. “It was my fault,” she whispered, her lips drifting over taut muscle. “I . . . I was impatient.”

  She’d barely managed to contain the ripples of pleasure that coursed through her when he moved inside. She’d fought her passion, fought the melting sensation in her heart when he’d kissed her so tenderly, fought with every ounce of strength against the compelling need to give him all she had, all she was and could ever be.

  Her crisis had been almost upon her when she’d taken the initiative from him. She didn’t want it, would avoid that ultimate explosion of bliss, that loss of self, at all costs. She’d risked that loss when she’d taken him inside her body. But she hadn’t guessed it would be so difficult to lure him to take his pleasure without thought for her. She ought to have known he’d never be so selfish as to comply.

  Unable to stop herself, she pressed her cheek to his back and slid her arms around his waist. “I don’t deserve you,” she breathed. “You have been so good to me.”

  His body sti
ffened. Then he swiveled in her embrace and caught her upper arms, his fingers digging into her flesh.

  His dark eyes drilled into her. “Was that all this was? Gratitude? I agree to find the boy, so you thank me by letting me share your bed, is that it?”

  For a moment, she was stunned. Instinct told her to deny it, but if gratitude had not motivated this decision to let him have her tonight, then what?

  She stared at him, her thoughts, emotions, and reasons so tangled, she didn’t know what response to give. She didn’t even know the truth, much less what lie she should offer him. How did she protect herself without hurting Vane?

  She forced the words out. “Not gratitude, no.”

  “Then why?” he demanded. “To what do I owe this sudden change of ”—he blew out a breath—“I was going to say ‘heart.’ But sometimes, my lady, I doubt you even have one.”

  His words struck like a blow to the stomach, winding her. She bowed her head, willing the hot prickle behind her eyes to go away. He would truly despise her if she wept now.

  He let her go and launched off the bed, then turned to face her with his hands on his hips. He was gloriously naked and completely unself-conscious. She resented the sharp tug low in her abdomen, the pure animal creature that was woman, which bloomed within her at the sight.

  “Well?” he said coldly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not good enough, Sarah.”

  His tone stung but she deserved it. She deserved everything he dealt her.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “That first night, we shared uncommon passion. You must know, you must realize how rare that is, how precious. I don’t understand why we can’t have that again.”

  All the reasons she could never be happy with him flooded back and filled her, choking her. “Do not speak to me of that night. The guilt . . . Oh, I can’t bear it! I can’t believe you would refer to it again.”