by Darcy Burke
“Your reputation?” Caitlin couldn’t help herself.
“Yes, mine. A lady discovered in this room at this moment would be compromised beyond repair. It would likely mean I’d have to offer her marriage—and that is something a man of my reputation fears most of all.”
She almost snorted. “Then your reputation is quite safe. I have no intention of allowing myself to become wed to a man such as you.”
His two friends burst out laughing, and the, as yet, un-named man said, “Oh, my. She’s priceless. Wherever did you find her?”
“Marcus doesn’t know you as well as I do.” His Grace continued, “Lady Caitlin has a terrible habit of bothering me.”
She couldn’t suppress her shiver of awareness as he moved to stand over her, brushing her with his body. Blocking her view of the others in the room he looked down his perfect nose at her. “Did you come for your pleasure?” he purred. “Or mine?”
It was the arrogant smile that did it. Her hand, apparently operating on its own initiative, whipped up like a snake. The sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh—together with the pain in her palm—brought Caitlin to her senses. She gasped and stumbled back as the marks of her fingers began to appear on Dangerfield’s cheek.
Dangerfield touched fingers to his face, and winced. “As usual, for no one’s pleasure I see.” He turned around to face the room. “Gentleman, may I present Lady Caitlin Southall, my neighbor.”
The fair-haired man rose to his feet and gave a slight bow before retaking his chair. The brown-haired man simply stayed seated and nodded his head in her direction.
“I’m sorry for the slap.” Caitlin couldn’t believe she had actually done it. She felt appalled. Terrified. Furious. “It’s just you have the annoying habit of making me want to punch you.”
“Really?” Dangerfield’s eyes narrowed. “You, my lady, make me want do many things. Hitting you isn’t one of them.”
She ignored his remark and glanced once more out the window. It would be getting light soon. How could she get the Duke alone?
She turned back to Dangerfield. “Your Grace, I—”
At her pointed stares at the other gentleman, Dangerfield gave a little grin. “Of course. Introductions. Lady Caitlin, I hesitate to introduce you to such rakehells. However this”—he gestured to the man in the chair—“is Lord Marcus Danvers, the Marquis of Wolverstone. The reprobate busy straightening his clothes is the archangel of our group, Lord Henry St. Giles, the Earl of Cravenswood. Would you like me to introduce you to the other... ladies in the room?”
Her face warmed until she assumed it glowed as bright as the coals in the grate.
Refusing to be distracted by his deliberate intention to make her uncomfortable—ladies indeed—she said, “Since I am here, may I have a private word? If you have time.” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable. “If you aren’t too busy. I must speak with you.”
He gave an overly dramatic sigh. “Ladies, please excuse us. Perhaps you would wait for us above stairs. I’m sure this won’t take long.”
Muttering, two of the women stood and made their way out the door. The third did not.
“I’m staying.” The stunning fair-haired woman, her daringly-cut silk gown shimmering as she moved, glided to Dangerfield’s side and put her hand on his arm. “The sooner she delivers her message the sooner she can leave. I’m sure we have more pleasant activities to enjoy than talking with this,”—she waved a dismissive hand—“smelly urchin.”
His Grace laughed and scooped her up in his arms. “I swear, Larissa, you’re good for a man’s soul.” He carried her back to his chair and sat with her on his lap, looking like a king who’d claimed his bounty.
“Speak, then, Lady Caitlin,” he commanded.
Caitlin swallowed her pride. This was her chance—probably her only chance—and she would not let pride prevent her from receiving her due.
“I have come to demand my home be returned to me.”
Dangerfield frowned. “Your home?”
“Mansfield Manor. My father had no right to stake a game with it. The house belonged to my mother and, according to her will, is to pass to me.”
“I gather your father was the trustee.”
She wanted to squirm where she stood and wring her hands. But she didn’t. “A mistake my mother made.” She rushed on. “She did not understand my father’s weaknesses. She died before she learned of them, thank God, and saw his penchant for gambling destroy him. She would never have made him my trustee if she’d known. The house was to be left to the eldest daughter—as it has been for several generations.”
Dangerfield’s expression didn’t change. “Then, as the trustee, your father had a legal right to stake the house. I’m sorry but I cannot help you. The house belongs to me. I’ve explained to your father I want him out by the end of the month.”
What right did Dangerfield have to sound so angry? He wasn’t the one being evicted from his own home. And why? Why did he hate her father so much? Because he did—and no one would explain the cause. Her father would not give any reason why she was never to set foot on Dangerfield land. When she tried to ask the servants they’d looked embarrassed and hurried away. No one in the village would speak of the rift—not to her, anyway.
She couldn’t stem the welling tears of frustration. “What of our tenants, Your Grace? Do you propose to honor my father’s obligations to them?”
“Of course. I’m a fair man. I’m not a cold-hearted bastard like your father.”
Fair? She saw her chance and took it. She stepped forward. “You’re a fair man? Then you’ll give me a chance to win the house back.”
The room became deathly silent. Dangerfield’s steel grey eyes bored into her, assessing the trap he’d allowed himself to walk into. “I don’t wager with women.”
“Why not?” she flashed back. “Afraid you’ll lose?”
Marcus snorted. “She has you there, Harlow.” He appraised her, head to toe, with the inbred arrogance of the aristocracy. “I’d love to see what she’s going to challenge you to do.”
“Shut up, Marcus.”
“A horse race.” Caitlin lifted her chin. “I challenge you to a horse race to be run over a mile. If I win, I get back my house.”
Dangerfield sat studying her for several minutes. “I’ve seen your stallion. I’ve also seen you ride him. Why would I be foolish enough to accept that wager?”
“I’ve heard it said you never refuse a dare. So,”—she drew in breath—“if you refuse this time it must be that you are afraid to lose to a woman.”
Her taunt found its mark. His eyes darkened almost black and his face closed in, all expression gone.
“I’ll consider your challenge, but only if you win back your house the same way your father lost it. By playing faro.”
Dangerfield knew himself to be the best faro player in all of England, and he’d be damned if this little hellion bested him again.
“That’s hardly fair,” she said. “I don’t really know how to play.”
He shrugged. “Don’t play, then. I don’t care. You’re the one desperate to win your house back.” He paused and flicked lint from his sleeve. “Besides, you haven’t told me what I would win when you lose.”
She frowned, and it made her pretty nose screw up into a delightful button. “You simply get to keep the house.”
He wanted more than that. “I already have the house.”
“I don’t have anything else of value.”
He looked her over and, as it had previously—and did even now, with a stunningly gorgeous, sexually experienced, woman on his lap—his body hungered for her. Only her.
“I want you.”
In his lap Larissa gasped, her affected boredom gone.
Harlow watched Caitlin closely and saw the instant she understood what he was saying. Her face went pale. Then red.
Then, “No.” She shook her head. “No. Definitely not. No. Never.”
“You can’t be serious, Harlow,”
Larissa cried. “Think of the scandal. Do you want to end up married? To her?”
His mistress’s passionate appeal drew his attention back to her. God, she was beautiful. It was why he’d procured her services—that and the fact she knew how to pleasure a man better than any woman he’d ever known. But Caitlin, even dressed as a stable boy, tugged at every one of his senses. His body recognized her. And wanted her.
He smiled down at Larissa. “It won’t come to that, my dear. Will it, Lady Caitlin? You have as little desire to marry me as I have to marry you.” He looked his lovely neighbor over. “When you lose, I’ll be discreet. No one but those present here tonight will be aware you’ve come to my bed. And who knows? If you’re good I may give you your house anyway.”
He ignored the expression of growing horror on Caitlin’s face. It was probably an act. She was twenty-three years old. She ran around at all hours of the night, unaccompanied, and in men’s trousers. He wondered if she was indeed still a virgin.
Women were all the same. He knew that. Most used their beauty and bodies to get what they wanted in this world. He hardly blamed them for they had little else with which to make their way. He was only surprised Caitlin hadn’t offered herself in exchange for the house to begin with. Simpler and more effective. He’d have seriously considered it. She must be aware of how much he lusted after her.
As a young man, he’d believed in love. Bridgenorth’s seduction of his mother had dented his faith, but it was Margaret Crompton who had filled his heart with stone and made it impossible for him to love any woman.
Since the day he’d put on long trousers, females had thrown themselves at him. But always for his Dukedom, or his wealth. Or his looks. No one really wanted him… Harlow… the man behind the title. No one except Margaret.
And that had almost destroyed him.
Ten years ago he’d become a wiser man. Women were merely objects of beauty. He took what he wanted from them and was careful to only engage in mutual pleasure, passion, and desire.
When he eventually married—and he would marry to beget his heir—it would be a marriage of convenience only.
His convenience.
He looked around the room. At his friends’ faces. Henry’s horrified, Marcus’s amused.
He clenched his fists by his side and refused to let any soft feelings for Caitlin’s plight enter his heart. Jeremy deserved the estate. He would certainly be a better landowner than a slip of a girl who, if her behavior was anything to go by, was destined to remain a spinster.
She’d remained silent a long time. Apparently, he’d rendered her mute. “Well, do you accept my terms? If you win, you get your house. If I win, you come to my bed—and you might earn your house back. It would seem a fair wager. You could end up with the house either way.”
Caitlin had never hated anyone more than she hated Dangerfield at this moment. He held the power to simply give her the house, yet he intended to take everything from her—including her dignity, pride, and self-respect.
Struggling with both temper and despair she blinked back the tears that threatened behind her eyes. She would not cry in front of him. She knew, deep in her soul, that she had little choice. This was the only way she’d ever have a chance of taking back Mansfield Manor.
Damn the man. It might be just a house to him but to her it was—had been—her mother’s pride and joy. It was her own security; an estate that meant she need not be forced into a hateful marriage but could take her time and choose her husband. Choose a man who met all the requirements on her list. A man so far removed from the Duke of Dangerfield it was laughable. She had worked all her life to preserve that security, to keep it intact to pass on to her own daughter. Now? She shivered. At least she need not worry about ending up married to Dangerfield. The man obviously had no honor.
She would not, could not, let Mansfield Manor go. God forgive her.
“Only if we race—over a mile.” If he agreed to race her, she would not lose. Not on Ace of Spades.
“I distinctly recall that I offered to play cards for the house.”
“May I suggest,” Marcus interjected, “that the wager is the best of three challenges? Lady Caitlin has chosen a horse race. Harlow has chosen a game of Faro. Now there should be a third challenge in case of a tie.”
“But who gets to pick the final challenge?” Caitlin knew she had no friends in the room. “I am clearly at a disadvantage. No one here wants me to win.”
“I do.” Larissa snaked an arm around Dangerfield’s waist and pressed against him. “May I select the last challenge?” The look she threw at Caitlin was cold enough to kill. “I don’t want you in his bed.”
It wasn’t precisely friendship but it was better than nothing. Dangerfield’s mistress had not been at all pleased when he’d declared his terms and was bristling with jealousy ever since. He was such a bastard.
“I have no objection to...” Caitlin didn’t know what to call the woman. “I’m sorry. We have not been introduced.”
“Larissa du Mar,” the beauty said, baring her teeth. “His Grace’s mistress.”
“Then I have no objection to Miss du Mar choosing the final challenge, as long as I have right of veto.”
Both Marcus and Henry sat up straighter.
“Now this,” Marcus muttered, “could be very interesting.”
Henry shook his head. “It’s a terrible idea. And—quite frankly, Harlow—beneath you. Dishonorable. I realize you are thinking of Jeremy. What her father did to your mother was unforgivable, but Lady Caitlin is not to blame—oh damn.”
Caitlin rounded swiftly on Henry. What her father did to your mother… “What do you mean?”
But Henry, the tips of his ears growing pinker every second, was studying his feet with great attention and wouldn’t meet her eyes. So she turned instead to Dangerfield. Who simply returned her puzzled stare with cold indifference.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What did my father do?”
The room stilled, as if in the eye of a huge storm. Everyone straining, readying for the final assault.
Lord Dangerfield ignored her question. “There is no need to speak of it. Jeremy is the reason I cannot simply hand back the house.”
“Your mother would not approve of this, Dangerfield,” Henry muttered.
“Leave it, Henry.”
There was such coldness in Dangerfield’s voice that Caitlin could feel any chance to reclaim her property freezing into impossibility.
“This has nothing to do with our parents.” She wasn’t sure she believed that now, but it wasn’t the immediate issue. “This is now between Dangerfield and me. I want the opportunity to win back my home. Please.” She stepped forward, closer to where he sat, and placed her hand gently on his sleeve. “Don’t deny me this chance.”
At her touch, Dangerfield started and looked at her as if only really seeing her for the first time. Their gazes locked and something passed between them.
Caitlin’s breath hitched and her fingers tightened on his arm. His heat, his strength burned beneath her fingertips like some primal flame.
What would it feel like, she wondered, to have to submit to this man? To lie in his bed. To lie naked and exposed, and watch and feel him prowl over her...
She gulped back her fears.
“Larissa.” Dangerfield’s voice was rough, and he didn’t take his eyes off Caitlin’s face. “What is to be the final challenge?”
“In a moment.” Larissa stared pointedly at Caitlin’s fingers where they still rested on Dangerfield’s arm. Caitlin withdrew her hand, but the heat and feel of him remained, seared on her brain.
The woman slid off Dangerfield’s lap, smoothed her gown, and then began to stroll around Caitlin, looking her over from top to bottom. “I have to find something you’re good at.”
Caitlin’s hopes soared. She was about to open her mouth to explain exactly what she was very good at when Marcus interrupted.
“Now, now, Larissa. You cannot ask Lady
Caitlin questions that would give her an advantage. We must keep it fair.” And he laughed, as if the idea of Caitlin winning—fairly or not—was a huge joke.
Caitlin had no intention of attempting to win by fraud. Nonetheless, she stood silently, praying Larissa would pick something like shooting or archery—things she excelled at. Please, she begged in her head, not sewing. Not playing the piano.
Meanwhile, Larissa was talking. “… she’s the daughter of an Earl. She must be accomplished. Harlow is always telling me how tedious it is to have to sit and listen to young ladies sing or play the harp.”
Caitlin agreed with Harlow about recitals. And please! Please don’t pick those pursuits either.
“Still, she is dressed in male attire, and she sought out Harlow at night, so she is most likely not like most young women of the ton.”
Dangerfield’s face signified agreement. He cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “Very true.”
Yes, Larissa was clever. She’d have to be. Caitlin could not imagine a woman remaining as His Grace’s mistress for very long if she did not have a brain.
“So, perhaps I’m focusing on the wrong person.” Larissa turned a seductive smile upon Dangerfield. “All I have to do is find something that you, my darling Harlow, are terrible at doing.”
A flicker of unease crossed Dangerfield’s handsome face and he shifted on his feet. Only a slight movement, but Caitlin caught it. He was nervous. Good.
Larissa laughed delightedly and clapped her hands. “I’ve got it—”
“Remember who keeps you, my girl.”
“That’s not fair,” Caitlin cried. “You can’t threaten her. I can always veto, remember?”
“He’s only teasing.” Larissa moved to stand in front of Dangerfield. Letting her hands slide up his chest and over his wide shoulders she pressed her ample breasts against him. “He would never get rid of me.” Her fingers gripped his buttocks and pulled him tight against her.
Caitlin felt as though her eyes would pop as she watched one of Larissa’s hands slide over Dangerfield’s hip and down toward his groin.
“He knows the pleasure my body, my hands, and my mouth can give. I’m the best at what I do.” Larissa threw her a scornful look. “You don’t look as if you know the first thing about pleasuring a man. Perhaps I should help Harlow win. Once he’s had you, he’ll realize how much better off he is with me.”
