Chapter 3
Nathaniel Carslake, the infamous Earl of Blackhurst, was an imposing-looking figure. At least his portrait was. The Countess’s very dead, apparently murdered, husband was scowling from his impressive position above the parlour fireplace. He looked like a rabid dog had bitten him on the arse. All dark bushy brows and inky menace oozing from two equally matched pits of hell.
Oliver scowled back. It wasn’t as though he was happy about this situation either. Subconsciously he straightened to his full six foot and raised a brow. After a moment he shook his head and laughed. The situation was ludicrous enough without him trying to out-glare a painting.
‘I’m going to expose your lady as a fraud and a thief. Hope you don’t mind,’ Bellamy said to the portrait. ‘Then again you were a right bastard yourself so I doubt you care much what happens to your wife.’
Blackhurst looked like he kept his sense of humour in his little toe. With a demeanour like that, was it really so surprising the sap skull had gotten himself killed by persons unknown, or most likely upstairs?
Oliver ignored the portrait as he inspected the stark parlour for oddities. There was nothing particularly special about this room, although it might once have been quite cosy.
It was spotlessly clean, like the rest of the house, but it lacked the warmth and inviting touches females usually brought. Where were the flowers, the hundred or so attempts at water colouring or the army of tiny miniature dogs along the windowsill? Then again, his Aunt Petunia’s house was full of miniature dogs, of the living variety. Oliver was not a fan of small crotch sniffing abominations. The worst was that Aunt Petunia, in all her frail eccentricity, would not let him push them away, saying, ‘Oh, leave them be, Bellamy, they do so enjoy it and we get so few visitors these days.’ He had taken to carrying a book with him when he visited. Both as a defence against the crotch snufflers, and to read when Aunt Petunia drifted off, as she often did—usually in the middle of a sentence.
Oh, how he loved that old woman.
He sighed as he looked around him. The room felt familiar in its emptiness. He had the same problems with the townhouse he lived in. It wasn’t his home, never had been. It was Henry’s house even if it now belonged to him. He didn’t want his dead brother’s house or anything in it, but for now it was necessary to keep up appearances. For some reason people became somewhat suspicious when one started selling off the family heirlooms. Instead, he’d packed them away, leaving the house a little desolate. He preferred desolate to depressing, which is exactly how he had felt before he had—cleaned house. Perhaps the Countess had felt the same. In this at least he could understand her Spartan theme.
He picked up a small book from a table. His eyebrows rose in surprise. Well, well, well.
***
Lisbeth watched from the doorway as Bellamy paced around the room, touching things. Her things. In profile she admired his lean, athletic form. A Corinthian, her sister would have said. Her eyes drank him in. She watched his muscles flex under his jacket as he picked up a book, opened it and fanned through the pages. Her mind easily imagined rippling muscles carved from years of hard living in the army.
She touched her cheeks. Was it hot in here?
Lisbeth’s hand went to her breast. Her heart was pounding quite fast. Surely it was just nerves. She was not attracted to Bellamy. She disliked everything about him and his kind. Men like him had tortured her with their incessant attempts to win that loathsome wager for years.
Although, she had to admit as she watched him, he was the perfect compromise between masculinity and elegance. He had a tightly bound energy about him. It surprised and frightened her. On top of that he was physically strong. She must always keep that in mind. As if she could forget. However, she must be prepared. If he sensed a weakness, some vulnerability in her, he would swoop in and trample her into dust. She would never again allow a man to control her like Nathaniel had.
‘Never,’ she vowed in a whisper as she turned away and back towards the stairs to her room. She knew just how she was going to ensure he knew his place. She just hoped he was a quick learner.
***
Oliver picked up another book off the small table. It was a horrid novel, the likes of which his Aunt Petunia had such a fancy for. He would not have taken the Black Raven as one who would have the temper for such a wickedly popular obsession. To laugh seemed beyond her, though he supposed these kinds of books might have helped her research her disapproving scowl.
He wouldn’t have been surprised, however, to find several treatises on; How to live an extraordinarily dull life without leaving one’s house or How to plot your husband’s demise before high tea. It was better he think of something other than the Black Raven’s reported reputation for…well…bad luck and death.
The wager of choice tonight was sure to be simple considering he was escorting her to a ball. All he’d had to do was lure her out of her house. As it was her choice to go to this ball in the first place there was no luring necessary. It felt a bit like cheating.
Secretly, he hoped to waltz with her. That was bound to put a bit of puff into the fan-fluttering matrons and yet a few more coins in his purse. Oliver felt strange taking it on, although it would make a fine dent in his brother’s loan repayments. The bank loan Henry had taken out to go into the doomed speculation in the first place.
It still didn’t make sense, Henry had never been a foolish man, but Oliver had to remember what Ashton had told him. The Countess of Blackhurst wasn’t to be trusted. If she had made sure she profited from this whole miserable affair she deserved whatever punishment she got.
He would personally see to it.
‘Bellamy,’ the Countess of Blackhurst announced as she glided into the room.
He closed his eyes for a moment before he turned to her and offered her a courtly bow and a cheeky smile.
‘I’m glad to see you are on time.’ Her voice held that crisp, husky tone that had kept him up last night as he debated his foolish agreement to her plan.
She was as beautiful as he remembered. No, more so.
‘I am at your service, Madam.’ Despite what she may or may not have done in the past he could not deny his body’s reaction to her. It was intense, instantaneous and, surprisingly, inconvenient. When he straightened, however, he saw she was looking at a gentleman’s pocket watch and wasn’t giving him the least attention. She probably hadn’t heard a word he’d said. So, he added, ‘You look like you need ravishing, my dear.’
She frowned. ‘Pardon? What did you say?’
‘I said you look ravishing, my dear.’
She looked at him, shocked for a moment before turning away. ‘Oh, well, you look passable, I suppose,’ she replied.
It was too late. He had already seen the blush on her cheeks. Perhaps she was not so immune to his charms after all. He smiled to himself. Was she nervous or just indifferent? He quite liked the idea that he might make her nervous.
When she turned back all traces of maidenly embarrassment were gone, replaced by a fierce look of displeasure. Had he mistaken her blush? She took the few steps it required to stand before him.
He raised a brow and let one side of his lips lift. ‘Pray, don’t strain yourself with such compliments, Countess, they will only go to my…head,’ he said as he looked down at hers. She was staring at his jacket, her fingers hovering just above the superfine of his coat. He could not help but admire the elegant slant of her neck and shoulder, the glorious consistency of her pale skin, the pulse at her throat and the fine dark curls at her nape. His gaze travelled lower. The soft rise and fall of her breasts as they strained at her low neckline was hypnotising.
She remained silent, her long and graceful fingers on the gold buttons of his dark blue jacket. He watched her, fascinated. His heart thumped madly. His throat constricted and his hands flexed. What was she doing to him? Did she know what she was doing to him?
Slowly and with determination, one button, then another, then another slippe
d through their moorings. She was undressing him? A request for his permission would have been nice. Not that he would have said no.
This little exercise is going to seriously dent her carefully crafted schedule, he thought as he watched her beautiful hands at work. Thankfully she had allowed fifteen minutes for fog in her schedule. Perhaps fog had been a code all along. Even in his dreams, where such thoughts had free reign, he would not have expected her to be so…bold. It was thrilling, uplifting—in more ways than one.
She reached in under his jacket and…what was she doing with his pocket watch? She’d pulled it out and flicked it open as if it weren’t still attached to him.
‘I believe that belongs to me,’ he said to break the tension mounting between them.
She looked up at him. ‘As I suspected,’ she announced. ‘You’re slow.’
His mouth fell open. She didn’t seem to notice for she was too busy re-adjusting his…slowness. Was she trying to issue an insult or was she really talking about his watch?
All he did know was she was close, very close and that mysterious scent of hers had filled his nostrils like an oriental drug. He wanted more, much more.
He stepped closer, his own hands itching to span her waist, lift her off the ground, haul her Viking-style over his shoulder and take the stairs two at a time. He would definitely need more than fifteen minutes!
Her gown was much more to his liking than the black sack she’d worn last night. He wondered how long it would take to get it off her. It showed a lovely amount of décolletage and the style was much more flattering to her curvaceous figure. Yes. He would enjoy taking it off, indeed he would. It took him a moment to digest the colour. It was so dark only the shimmer of the lamplight showed it to be a glorious midnight blue and not black at all.
Oliver’s hands were nearly touching the tiny beads at her waist when she stepped back and away from him.
‘Have you quite finished with your inspection, Bellamy?’ Her voice laced with a threat.
He grinned. ‘Not really, Countess, but the night is young.’ He gave her a wink and went to reach for her again. The unfamiliar yet unmistakable feel of the cold muzzle of a small pistol jabbed his stomach. His hands came up instantly.
‘Good God, woman! What the devil are you playing at?’
‘Surely, you are not surprised?’ She pointed the gun away from him and put it back in her reticule.
‘Is this a joke? What can you be thinking, pulling a cheeky stunt like that?’
Her look was all innocence and for a moment he could picture her at any given night on a Drury Lane stage posing poetic about betrayal and love lost.
‘I thought you ought to know I will be keeping this in my possession at all times.’ She turned then, picking up her gloves in one hand. ‘Oh and Bellamy? I don’t take kindly to man-handling or being called Countess. Perhaps you ought to remember that also.’ She put on one glove before adding, ‘Now hurry, we must keep to the schedule.’
He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at her retreating form. ‘Well, this is a grand start,’ he muttered to the now empty room. ‘I don’t take kindly to female-handling either.’ Well, at least, not much.
He spared a glance at Blackhurst. Unbelievably, Oliver was actually beginning to feel sorry for him, not to mention himself. As if having to escort a suspected murderess around town wasn’t bad enough, now he had to contend with her being an armed bedlamite as well. Luckily, he was not a man to run from danger. A serious character flaw he was sure. It was not as though she would really shoot him with that tiny thing, would she?
He shook his head at the ridiculous thought. Just to spite her he took his time getting into the carriage. He didn’t want her to think her little pistol ploy had scared him into a state of obedience. Although he was very aware she had a firearm at the ready, probably aimed at his heart, or lower.
***
‘You know,’ he stated when the carriage was underway, ‘it isn’t very ladylike to carry around loaded pistols. What if it were to go off in your reticule? You could shoot your foot off, or worse, shoot mine.’
Lisbeth raised an eyebrow. ‘Your foot is safe, Bellamy,’ she assured from the shadows, ‘for the moment.’
‘Do you really think it is necessary to have it on you at a ball?’ He shifted a little on the seat opposite her.
‘Especially at a ball.’
‘Alright, but maybe you should give it to me…for safekeeping,’ he suggested. ‘Carrying around a loaded pistol is extremely dangerous, not to mention…dangerous.’
‘Which is precisely why I am keeping it safe myself.’
The carriage swayed from side to side as they stared at each other in the dimness of the interior. They were two strangers sitting uncomfortably across from each other in silence. He knew that to take her at face value would mean death on a battlefield. He wouldn’t be so naive as to think her a safe companion to travel with. He would keep her in front of him where he could keep an eye on her, and her reticule.
The occasional sliver of light from the street lamps illuminated them for only seconds at a time and he tried to study her while he could get away with it. She was something of an enigma, this woman called the Black Raven—shrouded in scandal and mystery but inherently interesting to him nonetheless, despite the fact she quite obviously had bats in the belfry.
‘I really think you should give it to me, Countess.’
‘I really think I shouldn’t, Bellamy.’
‘I see.’ He didn’t. ‘Why is that, exactly?’ He would feel a lot better with that thing in his possession instead of hers. A woman and a firearm was a volatile mix. Considering her reputation, he thought it strange she would have shown it to him at all. If she wanted to cast shadow over her innocence he could see no better way of doing it.
‘Because, my dear sir, you are a man,’ she was saying now. All said in a tone which gave the impression it was not something he should be proud of.
He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘While I am glad you noticed, Countess, I hardly see what it has to do with a rather perilous object sitting in your reticule.’
A fierce look of disapproval crossed her features for a moment. Was it his use of the word “Countess” which had rewarded him with such a look?
‘It is my opinion that men should never be allowed to have possession of a firearm. You are notoriously clumsy with them.’
‘We are? Now hold on a minute…’ he began, ‘…clumsy with them?’
Was the exaggerated sigh meant to imply he should already know this and she was simply repeating a well-known fact? He knew he had been out of the country for a long time but surely he would not have missed such a reform. His pistol had been his best friend for ten years. Evidently, this would be hard for her to comprehend, determined as she seemed, to put all men down as idiots. Even now she was talking. He listened only because he was intrigued with what other complete twaddle she would come up with.
‘Yes, and you shouldn’t be allowed to have sharp objects, either,’ she stated with as much conviction as she had about the pistol.
He smiled in the darkness. ‘I presume you mean a sword, or are we now talking of cutlery?’
‘You were right the first time, although now that you mention it —”
‘Would you care to explain your theory, Countess?’
This ought to be good, he thought, sitting back. She was very negative towards his gender and really, he shouldn’t find it at all amusing. He was, after all, a man, but he did nevertheless.
‘Of course,’ she said before taking a breath. ‘It is well known that men use weapons like toys, like they are meant for your enjoyment, but I assure you they are not. They end up killing people.’
Like your husband, Countess? ‘I think you are being a little unfair. We don’t all use them like toys.’
‘The majority of you do, so I’m afraid my statement stands. Do you not patronise Manton’s? Do you not have all manner of killing apparatus strapped to your wall
s as trophies of some dead ancestor or in cabinets and boxes tucked away waiting for the next time you want to play with them? If you want to go off and kill each other in duels and other such pathetic methods, by all means go ahead, you are only proving my point,’ she said her tone altogether too smug. ‘Is there ever a hunting party where one of the guests isn’t shot, maimed, or otherwise disfigured?’
He’d never been on a hunt in his life, not a civilised one at any rate, and they had certainly not been parties. ‘You don’t like us very much, do you, Countess?’ Oliver hoped she could hear the frown in his voice even if she couldn’t see it.
He could hardly believe he was having this conversation with her. Duels, although outlawed, still occurred amongst gentlemen. It was a matter of honour. He couldn’t deny the fact, but it wasn’t as though they did it as a form of recreation, an activity to do for fun before breakfast.
As for the hunting party, Henry had written to him about such things, usually conveying them in a humorous light. So, yes, there were sometimes unfortunate accidents, but it usually involved a jealous husband who took advantage of shooting at his wife’s lover and being able to pass it off as a wayward shot. Hmm, still…
‘I like you well enough,’ she said, ‘You do have your uses, after all.’ Her tone was bored, like she might let out a loud yawn.
‘We do? I’m surprised. One would think you thought we were good for naught but hacking each other up on a whim, or blowing the stuffing out of one another for target practice,’ he stated in disgust. ‘Might I remind you that men with these particular objects have been at war for a decade and more to keep you from having to eat frog’s legs, Lady Blackhurst? You should be damn grateful.’ She should be damn grateful he didn’t shake her till her teeth rattled.
‘I heard they taste like chicken,’ she said, looking directly at him with those eyes.
A Scandalous Wager Page 4
