by Diane Gaston
He turned around to her. ‘Not I, Emily. Good God! I knew you were my wife. That wager was abominable to me.’
She blinked at him. ‘You did not bet on me?’
He shook his head.
‘The gentlemen who did, their interest was in the wager, was it not? That is why they flattered Lady Widow.’
This was an Emily he’d not glimpsed before. Insecure, woefully fearing she’d not been the sensational Lady Widow after all. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Emily, they would not have made the wager if they had not been…attracted.’
‘And were you…attracted? Did you…like…Lady Widow? You must have liked her…to…bed her.’
Her questions unsettled him. He spoke of her leaving him, and she, God help him, talked of his bedding Lady Widow. This was a dangerous hand to play without knowledge of the rules.
He closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to be as honest in this as he’d tried to be in everything he’d said to her in this room, even if it felt like he was showing all his cards. ‘I admit to being captivated.’
Her head drooped. ‘I see.’
His spirits drooped as well, but he persisted. ‘Lady Widow captivated me. She and you were one to me, though I could not sometimes reconcile the differences.’
She gave him a pained look. ‘I am not Lady Widow. I only pretended to be her. It was like a role in a play.’
He held her gaze. ‘I know that,’ he said softly. ‘Do we not all play roles, Emily? Was I not playing the gambler, when I sat down to cards? I pretended, too, you see. Were you not likewise playing a role as my wife? Making yourself so—’
‘Drab?’ She sprang to her feet, eyes blazing.
He cursed himself for his careless words. Still, anger was better than no emotion at all, though scant consolation.
‘Would you have me tint my lips and cheeks like Lady Widow? Do you wish me to dress as she does? Talk as she talks?’
He faltered. ‘You mistake my meaning—’
She shouted, ‘I am not Lady Widow!’
He strode back to her, grabbing her by the shoulders. ‘Just as I am not a gambler! But both of those roles are part of us, are they not? I do not wish for you to bury that part of you who is Lady Widow, who is confident and sure of what she desires. Neither do I want you to hide that part of you who would risk everything for your sister. Or the gambler inside you. Indeed, the gambler inside me would much like to challenge you to another game.’ He squeezed her shoulders, aware of how delicate she felt beneath his fingers. ‘I do not wish you to feel you must hide any part of you from me. Good God, Emily, do not hide yourself, no matter what your decision. You have so much beauty inside you, so much emotion. You allowed me to glimpse it when we walked through Hyde Park—’
‘Hyde Park?’ she snapped, nothing but scepticism in her voice.
‘Hyde Park,’ he repeated. ‘I felt as if I were seeing you for the first time. Do you not know how fascinating it is to know you conceal so much? It is like opening a package and finding more prizes the deeper one goes.’
He looked into her face, but it had gone blank. She had retreated from him once more.
‘You are hiding again,’ he said sadly. ‘Though I suppose that is precisely what I deserve. It is what I have done to you until this night. I have hidden myself from you just as thoroughly as you have from me. You and I do not know each other, do we? I would like to know you, Emily. I would like it very much.’
He released her and rubbed his hands, the hands that had so briefly held her. ‘I know the blame is entirely at my door, from the moment I tricked you into marrying me—’
‘Your regret at doing so has been no secret.’
He froze, seeking her eyes. ‘But I have not regretted marrying you.’
She laughed, a pained, forced laugh.
How much he had hurt her! At least, difficult as it was for him to witness, she was not hiding now. He wanted to get her to look at him. She would not. ‘You have tried to be a good wife. You have tried to please me. It is I who have not been a good husband. If I had, you would not have become Lady Widow. You would not wish to leave me.’
‘No, I—’ she said, her expression softening.
He held up his hand to silence her. ‘I cannot regret meeting Lady Widow, knowing that side of you, but I value her no more or less than the woman who has put up with my uncivil family, who has run my household with skill and economy, who has asked for nothing for herself, but who deserves everything. I cannot regret making love to Lady Widow, but neither can I regret those times I lay with you as my wife, how sweet you were—’
Her eyes flashed again. ‘No more falsehoods, Guy. Until that night with Lady Widow you have taken pains to avoid my bed.’
Her words stung as sharply as a slap across the cheek. Fool that he was, he’d no notion that this too had caused her such pain. Her forgiveness for all his slights seemed impossible indeed. He turned and walked slowly to the door, aware of the sharpness of the glare she aimed at his back.
He opened the door, but could not make himself step through. He had promised himself to be honest with her and he would be so, even if he appeared to be making excuses for his behaviour.
He turned. ‘You are correct. Until I won the money, I could not risk begetting a child. It was not an easy sacrifice, however, knowing you were just on the other side of this door.’
She stared at him, her silence giving him no reward for his abstinence, nor respite from his conscience.
He took a breath and tried to make the corners of his mouth form a smile. ‘Another matter I ought to have explained to you.’ He bowed to her and crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty
Emily picked up a shoe from the floor and flung it at the closed door, but it fell short and he probably did not hear it. She collapsed upon the bed, tears stinging her eyes.
What a fool she had been. He put the blame upon himself, but she knew better. She had deliberately withdrawn from him, deliberately avoided challenging him about his nightly absences, deliberately avoided challenging him in any way at all. Merely hiding herself from him lest he discover the biggest secret of all.
She loved him. She wanted him. And had from the moment she had seen him in the Pump Room at Bath.
She jumped off the bed and paced the room, tripping over her other shoe, picking it up, and throwing it against the wall.
How stupid she had been, so sure of the superiority of her unfailing correct behaviour, so certain he would not wish to pay attention to a drab creature such as herself. She’d had to transform herself into another person in order to have the courage to make love to him.
Now everything was ruined. He’d given her the means of leaving him and perhaps, for his sake, she should do it.
Not what I want, he’d said. What you want.
Lady Widow would have no difficulty telling him exactly what she wanted. Lady Widow would insist on having her way.
But she could not be Lady Widow, no matter how much he thought Lady Widow a part of her. She could not be so bold, so sure of herself.
She picked up the emerald green gown, recalling how well it had flattered her figure and colouring. She threw it across one of the chairs. On the table she spied the silk mask. She reached for it, crumbling it into her fist and striding over to the fire. She threw it at the flames, but it fluttered to the hearthstone as if thrown back to her.
She snatched it up again, suddenly knowing what she wanted. With all her heart, she knew exactly what she wanted.
And she knew exactly how to get it.
Guy had kicked off his shoes and thrown his jacket and waistcoat on a chair. He pulled the knot out of his neckcloth, letting its ends dangle down his shirt.
It would be nonsense to think of sleeping. He rummaged around the room until he found the bottle of brandy he’d brought there the other night when desire and need clawed at him. Sitting at the small table, he poured himself a drink and downed it in one gulp.
He poured another.
She’d be a fool to stay with me, he thought, and he thought her anything but a fool.
The branch of candles in his room fluttered. In the doorway connecting their rooms she stood fully dressed, with a paper in her hand. Had she decided to leave him so soon?
She walked towards him. The light revealed her wearing the green dress she’d worn earlier that evening. Though her hair was still loose about her shoulders, she wore Lady Widow’s mask.
In Lady Widow’s voice she said, ‘If you like gaming so much, Lord Keating, perhaps you would fancy another game of piquet. It is what I want. A game of piquet.’
‘Piquet?’ A glimmer of hope kindled inside him. He gave her a slow, careful smile. ‘So sorry, ma’am. I have sworn off gambling.’
She sidled towards him, so close her skirt brushed his knees, and waved the paper at him. It was the banknote. ‘You do not wish to play for money? Very well.’ She let the paper float to the floor.
Every sense in his body came alive, and he had thought never to feel anything again but pain. ‘What stakes do you desire, then?’ he asked, his voice husky.
‘As before,’ she purred. ‘You win a round, I remove one piece of clothing. I win, and you remove a piece of clothing.’
He stood, so close he already felt the warmth of her body. He combed his fingers through her unbound hair, every bit as soft as he expected.
She placed her hands on his chest, the touch of her fingers stealing his breath.
‘One condition,’ he said, brushing her hair off her shoulders and reaching around to the ribbons at back of her head. ‘No masks.’
As the piece of silk fell from her face, her arms encircled his neck.
‘No masks ever again, Emily,’ he whispered, letting his hands run down her back, eager for a lifetime exploring every curve.
She lifted her hand to his face, her caress so soft and full of promise it claimed his heart forever.
‘No masks,’ she said, her lips smiling as they reached to touch his. ‘You may wager on it.’
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IMPRINT: Regency Series eBooks
ISBN: 9781460898314
TITLE: REGENCY WAGERS - THE MYSTERIOUS MISS M/THE WAGERING WIDOW
First Australian Publication 2013
Copyright © 2013 Diane Gaston
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Mills & Boon®, Locked Bag 7002, Chatswood D.C. N.S.W., Australia 2067.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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