Seductive Wager

by Leigh Greenwood

  Kate stopped pacing. “I’m sorry I broke your vase, but I won’t marry him and that’s final,” she almost wailed. “I’m rich enough to buy myself a husband. I can marry Charles, or even Mark. Surely either of them would be a better husband than that strutting bull.”

  “Sit down and do not try to show me how crude you can be,” said Valentine said sternly. “I am much more vulgar than you can ever be, and I am not impressed by curses, flashing eyes, or a heaving bosom.”

  Kate dropped into the chair Brett had vacated without any lessening of her anger. However, a betraying tear welled up in her eye, moist and glistening, until it slipped over the lower lash and ran slowly down her cheek. She wiped it away with an angry swipe of her hand, but another welled up and then another until she could not stop herself from crying.

  “Damn,” she swore. “Damn! Damn! Damn! Why do I always cry? Every time that man starts to act like a Viking marauder, I cry like a weak-minded fool. Why can’t I hit him in the face or scratch his eyes out?”

  Valentine looked a little surprised. “So the beautiful kitten has claws. I did not think you could be so cruel.”

  “If the only men you had ever known were my father, my brother, and that monster of depravity, you wouldn’t be able to think of any man without foaming at the mouth. As for my language, you forget I had Martin’s curses as a constant example. If I’m driven much harder, you’re likely to hear words that will shock you.”

  Valentine erupted into rich throaty chuckles. “Mon petit chou, do you think I am the infant, that I have not heard curses in French, German, English, Spanish, and Italian? And I remember a few Russians and lurks who became très intéressant when the wine was low in the glass. No, mon enfant, you cannot shock me. It is yourself you try to shock. You try to convince yourself you can protect you from the world, but Brett is right and you know it. Encore, there is no need to suffer needless disgrace, particulièrement when it is not your fault. You may be rich, but it will save your reputation not at all. Cependent, if you are Mrs. Westbrook, you must be respected and welcomed everywhere. Brett is a man most valuable. He will not be running all over the world to dusty kingdoms forever. When he takes his position in government, you will be at his side.”

  “And,” she added in a softer voice, “he has a stronger feeling for you than you know. Do you think he would marry with you, no matter what the scandal, if he did not want to? Sacrebleu, he would turn his back on this débâcle and lift no finger to help you. In London, Paris, Rome, Vienna, he is chased all the time by the women, and still he does not ask one to marry with him.”

  Valentine broke into her rich chuckle again. “Every time he sees you, his blood it boils.” Kate blushed and started to fiddle with the fringe off her shawl. “If it were not so stupide, it would be très amusant to watch the both of you pretend you do not love each other.”

  “I’ve admitted it to myself,” Kate confessed, “but I won’t marry him to satisfy his medieval sense of honor. I want him to marry me because he loves me, not to save my reputation. I want him to cherish me as a person, not as a body.”

  “But what a body.”

  “Please, not you too. I am a person, not a statue, and I have all the desires of any ordinary person to be loved for myself.”

  “Hélas, you must give up this trying to separate love of you from love of your body. No man can look at one and not think of the other. They are not made like that, and Brett is no different. But he has realized you have a mind and a personality to be reckoned with.”

  Resting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, Kate stared unseeing into the space before her, but her eyes gradually focused on the brandy decanter in front of her. The dark ruby liquid reflected occasional sparks of light as she moved her head from one side to the other. She picked up Brett’s glass and held it up to the light. She studied the thick liquid, swirling it around in the glass to watch it cling to the sides in a thin film.

  “I wonder what men find so wonderful about this stuff?” She sniffed the contents. The heady bouquet stung her nostrils. She snatched her head back and looked at it again. Then she put the glass to her lips and carefully sipped a small amount. The delightfully fruity taste pleased her tongue, but the liquid seemed to gather warmth as it slid down her throat. It hit her stomach like a small flame causing her eyes to open wide.

  Valentine watched her with disapproval. It was all right for ladies to drink wine, but only men drank brandy. “Put that glass down and listen to me. Do not hide behind your foolish pride. It makes no sense. Marry Brett, even if you are so silly to think he does not love you now, and you can make him fall in love with you any time you want if you go about it the right way,”

  “Brett has never even pretended he cared for me,” Kate said without taking her eyes off the brandy. “He’s more worried about what people will say than he is about me.” She continued to sip from the glass, each sip a little larger than the one before.

  “Brett has never worried about what people will say of him. Hah! I laugh at such an idea. Many men do I know who are so impressed with themselves they can see nothing else, but Brett he is not one of these. He cares not one bit for anyone’s approval.”

  But Kate was not listening to Valentine anymore. She had tired of the whole problem. No matter which way she turned, there seemed to be no solution; she wanted to crawl off somewhere and forget she had ever known Brett. A comforting glow was beginning to radiate from the pit of her stomach. She poured herself another glass of brandy and sipped it. Valentine advanced one argument after another as to why Kate would be making an enormous mistake if she did not marry Brett, but after a third glass of the fiery liquid had flowed down Kate’s throat, she began to feel the detachment she longed for. The pain lessened and the importance of the moment vanished. Nothing was very important anymore. Why didn’t I ever know about brandy before, she thought. It’s just like men to keep the best things to themselves. But she knew about it now, and while Valentine continued to try to talk her into marrying Brett, she became quietly drunk.

  Charles found Winifred Humphries trying to stretch a pint of cheap brandy by cutting it with water. He nearly fell on Charles’s neck in thanksgiving when he was made to understand he would receive a substantial fee for performing a simple marriage ceremony.

  Charles brought him back to the inn and was just pouring him a glass of ale when Brett flung through the door in a rage that came as close as anything could to driving all thought of drink from Winifred’s mind. Winifred gaped at Brett with such trepidation Charles began to regret he had not taken him to the local tavern instead; Brett was scaring him in a way eternal hellfire never had.

  Oblivious to the cleric’s withering desire for complicity, Brett damned Kate to a hell reserved especially for short-sighted and obstinate females and went about his work.

  “I suppose Charles has told you what is needed here,” he barked, glaring fiercely at Winifred from under gathered brows. “This marriage has to take place tonight, but she’s got some foolish notion it’s not honorable, and now she’s refusing to go through with it.” His loud voice grated on Winifred’s badly jarred nerves. “You’re not to pay any attention to anything she says. She’s going to marry me if I have to drag her to the altar. The menace in his voice startled Winifred into spilling some of his precious ale.

  “Brett,” Valentine hissed, sticking her head in the door, “I must talk to you.”

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “Kate.”

  “What has that obstinate female done now?”

  “Not so loud,” Valentine hissed. “Come out here and I will tell you.”

  “If she has run away again, I’ll wring her neck!” Brett stormed as he stalked from the room.

  Charles and Winifred, left to stare at each other in silence, listened intently. At first all that penetrated the heavy door was the sibilant sound of Valentine’s urgent whispers, but abruptly Brett’s voice cut her off with explosive force.

 
“May the vultures of hell tear you to pieces, along with every distiller of preach brandy in this benighted country,” he raved. “I ought to choke you with the strings of your own nightcap.”

  “Save your curses for those who deserve them, or you can do your own dirty work,” Valentine told him sharply. Brett’s receding footsteps nearly drowned out her last words.

  Winifred looked nervously about, hoping to find a way out, but Charles was standing next to the only door. He took a hasty swallow to fortify his nerves, waiting expectantly for Brett’s return, but it was Valentine who opened the door a few minutes later and whispered to Charles in the same loud voice.

  “Get the sot to the church. It is time for the ceremony.”

  Chapter 14

  “I must protest this marriage …” Winifred began uncertainly, but Charles shoved him past Valentine.

  “Wait until a difficulty arises before you decide to deal with it,” he admonished. Winifred thought that was the best advice he’d heard in quite some time, so he righted his clothes, and set off to the church fervently hoping no difficulties would arise. The thought of the ale he had drunk and the money he had been promised went a long way toward inducing him to ignore his nagging doubts.

  But a difficulty did arise. Kate was drunk, so drunk Brett had to hold her tightly about the waist and lean her body against his own. Valentine tried to help, but she got in the way so often that Brett finally lost his temper.

  “Leave her to me. I’d rather hold her myself than have to carry the both of you.”

  “Bête! You are ungrateful,” Valentine said.

  “I’d be a lot more grateful if you had had the good sense to put the brandy away before she passed out.” Kate’s head lolled forward, but occasionally she would raise it to mumble something no one could understand. Her hair fell over her face giving her the appearance of one demented, a feeling that was heightened when she croaked in a thick, raspy voice, “I won’t marry the bloody seducer.”

  Winifred pulled his cloak more tightly about his ears trying to pretend he hadn’t understood Kate’s words, but she repeated them over and over again.

  “Shut up,” Brett snapped, losing his temper. “There’s no need to make the town a present of your history.” After that, Winifred could no longer ignore his conscience. They had reached the church door, and he realized if he was ever to make a protest, it had to be now.

  “Sir!” he said in a quavering voice, “I must insist that the young lady be allowed to recover herself. I cannot marry anyone who is drunk,” he said with credible disapproval.

  “Get inside, you piss-poor prelate,” Brett roared with savage impatience. He handed Kate to Charles, threw open the church doors, and propelled Winifred inside. “Any more whining from you, and I’m liable to open your fat gut and take back my ale.”

  Incapable of further resistance, Winifred stumbled up the aisle to escape Brett’s wrath. He managed to regain some of his composure in the familiar surroundings, but he started to shake again when confronted with Brett’s murderous face. He fumbled with his books, unable to hold them still.

  “Are you sure you can read the words?” Brett asked contemptuously.

  “I have never failed to perform a service,” Winifred said proudly.

  “You must have failed at something or you wouldn’t be leading this miserable existence,” Brett observed cruelly as he turned away. Charles and Valentine dragged the stumbling Kate to the rail. “I’ll have to hold her or shell fall,” Brett said irritably as he knelt at the rail, his arms tightly enfolding the lifeless girl, his blazing eyes compelling the cleric to proceed with all haste.

  They got through the service even though some of Kate’s lines had to be repeated several times before she could say them. The signing of the documents presented a further obstacle, but Charles distracted Winifred’s attention while Valentine, holding Kate’s hand in hers, put her signature on them for her. This over, everyone breathed a sigh of relief

  By the time they left the church, Brett had gotten over his anger at Kate’s ill-timed experiment. He had been drunk too many times himself to begrudge her the same privilege. His hand at her waist kept coming into contact with her breasts and he lost interest in anything beyond the nearness of the body that had been teasing him almost beyond endurance for days. They were married now and all that he had longed for, all that had been forbidden this past week was about to be his.

  He held her closer, savoring the anticipation of what was to come. He had relived the night at the Cock-in-the-Cradle many times during these last days as he watched her move about his room just out of reach. He had gone over every detail, drained each moment of every delicious sensation, all the while thinking how much more incredible it would have been if she had been awake enough to respond to him. He had tortured himself by watching her every move, knowing what her body looked like behind the clothes that obstructed his vision, remembering how it felt to hold her in his arms. Just looking at her caused his temperature to rise, a fact deplored by Dr. Burton. Brett could have told him it was not the fever of illness but rather of impatience to once again experience those elusive pleasures. Now Kate was his, forever, and his limbs trembled at the thought.

  The cool air sobered Kate enough for her to realize she was no longer at the table but was being half-walked, half-carried through the streets. She muttered to herself all the way back to the inn, trying to figure out why she should be outside at this time of night. It seemed like a minor problem, but it was important to her to be able to grasp the reason. She came to an abrupt stop in front of the inn.

  “I know this place,” she said in a bleary voice. “I have been here before.” She shook off Brett’s hold and embraced the doorframe with both hands. “I like it here. I want to stay.”

  Valentine was inclined to coax her to let go and ease her inside the inn, but Brett had other ideas. He broke her grip on the frame and propelled her through the door.

  “Ladies don’t ordinarily drink brandy,” he said. “But if they do, they take care not to be seen embracing doorways.”

  But Kate felt the need to embrace something, so she flung her arms around Brett’s neck.

  “Now that’s much better,” he said and returned her hug with enthusiasm. His efforts to kiss her were thwarted by her inability to raise her head.

  “You may be married,” Valentine told him curtly, “but you will not misbehave on my doorstep. Take la pauvre petite to the parlor and walk her. I have a brew extraordinaire that will bring her around.” She set off to the kitchen willing to do battle with Nancy to ensure that Kate was sober enough to remember her wedding night.

  Brett tried to walk Kate, but after the ordeal of supporting her to and from the church, his wound was throbbing painfully and he was so weak he felt dizzy.

  Fortunately Valentine soon returned with her suspicious brew. “Do not ask what it is,” she said in answer to Brett’s raised eyebrows. “It is very désagréable, but it will bring her around. Go see about your arrangements for tomorrow. I can handle her. Just set her down in that chair and lay her head back. Return in about an hour and maybe she will talk to you.”

  “It’s not talk that I’m interested in,” Brett said. It was impossible to ignore the hungry look in his eye.

  “That is more than you have now,” Valentine said as she tried to settle Kate just to her liking. “I told one of the girls to pack Mrs. Westbrook’s clothes, but maybe you should see for yourself. I have no idea what one needs for a sea voyage. Just to think about it gives me the mal de tête.”

  “Kate, too,” Brett said absently as he headed toward his own room. Hearing Kate referred to as Mrs. Westbrook had taken him by surprise. His mother had died giving birth to his stillborn sister and the only woman he could picture with that name was his austere grandmother. It brought home to him with sledgehammer impact the fact that he had married a nineteen-year-old girl about whom he knew virtually nothing except that he was becoming unbearably impatient to take her to his bed. G
od, what a fool he had been.

  He tried to imagine Kate as the mistress of his several houses with their enormous staffs, but all he could see was an innocent young girl with wide, clear blue eyes that were like an open invitation to love. They sparkled brilliantly when she was happy but glittered like blue diamonds when she became angry. He could almost, taste her sweet lips returning his kisses.

  In a trance, he reached out to free her hair. As it tumbled through the mists of his memory, his body quivered with a shiver of delight. The long, silky tresses, as pale as new corn silk, fell in abundance over her shoulders and down her back. She threw back her head revealing the white column of her throat resting on creamy shoulders with skin like satin. He could feel it under his fingertips, feel its warmth, feel it tingle from his touch.

  As he mentally traced a line with his fingers down her throat, across the shoulder, and down the graceful line of her arms, his gaze fell forward to the dark cleft between the rising mounds of her breasts. His hands moved to the small of her back, lifting her up slowly and bringing his lips ever nearer to objects of his desire.

  To touch them with his lips, to kiss and fondle their delectable tenderness, to take the ruby nipples into his mouth became the one thought burning through his consciousness. He was hot with churning passion and so uncomfortable he pulled at his tie to loosen it.

  “Should I check with the maid before she finishes the packing?” Charles’s matter-of-fact voice brutally interrupted Brett’s enthralling daydream. He didn’t answer, unwilling to let it go, but Charles’s voice intruded again. “Is there anything in particular you would like me to tell her?”

  Wrenched painfully back to reality, Brett swore. “I’ll see to it myself,” he growled in a hot and breathless voice. But Brett’s steps did not go down the hall to Kate’s room, and a few seconds later Charles heard the front door slam.

  Kate was harder to revive than Valentine anticipated. She forced Kate to swallow every drop of the pungent liquid, but that failed to sober her and she went off to brew a stronger batch. Kate was sound asleep when she returned, and that annoyed Valentine so much that she almost left her to sleep it off. However, she relented and ruthlessly poured the second cup down her throat. This time Kate’s eyelids began to flutter. Valentine pulled Kate to her feet and kept up a steady flow of heartening chatter, chiding the girl for being so silly as to get drunk on her wedding night and gently encouraging her to begin walking on her own.