by Darcy Burke
“Enough, Larissa.” Dangerfield removed Larissa’s hands from his body. “That’s enough.”
It was certainly enough. Caitlin felt sick. Larissa was right. Hands and mouth? Mouth? What did she do with her mouth—kissing perhaps? She had no idea what to expect to find in any man’s bed—let alone a man like Dangerfield. And she did not wish to know.
Not much, anyway.
Chapter Three
Caitlin always believed she would only give herself to a man she loved, her husband. She wanted to be important to him, not simply a childbearing necessity. She needed to be wanted for who she was. In order to find a man who would complement her, she had devised a list of attributes her future husband must have—and she would not waiver from it.
He had to be kind, kind to all members of Society, not just the wealthy. He would acknowledge that a woman was just as capable as a man. He would encourage her to be involved in the day-to-day running of Mansfield—the estate as well as the house. He would be a true partner in life, not a dictator. He would not expect her to obey his every command. He would most definitely not be a gambler or a man who enjoyed any game of chance. And, last of all, he would love her above anyone else. No mistress. No other woman. He would have a true heart and forsake any other pleasure.
Caitlin wanted love—true love—and this desire was the reason she thought she’d never marry. She didn’t know if true love even existed.
Would she ever find a man who would cherish her, and appreciate the fact she’d trusted and gifted him her virginity?
A shiver skittered down her back. A man like Dangerfield did not understand the word ‘love’. Nor did he value a woman for anything other than his pleasure, or for begetting his heir. He would not appreciate her gift in his bed. In fact, Larissa was probably right. He’d scorn her inexperience. He’d be disappointed in her.
Oh, he would pleasure her and himself, of that she was sure. But pleasure was fleeting. He’d soon move on, and think nothing more of the woman he’d bested in a dare, taken to his bed, and discarded as soon as he had what he wanted.
Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, for Dangerfield turned his head to the window and the approaching dawn.
“There is still time to halt all this foolishness,” he said, quietly. “Go home and accept your circumstances, for if you agree to the wager I cannot stop until I have won. I give you fair warning. If you value your reputation, or if the idea of sharing my bed holds such revulsion for you, leave.”
She shook her head and stood straighter. “I will have my house.”
He gave her a searching look. “So be it. You’ve made your bed, young lady. I pray you are prepared to lie in it.”
“Cake baking!”
Caitlin jumped at Larissa’s sudden cry and tried to conceal her horror. She’d never cooked anything in her life. She didn’t really take much notice of food. Cook always said she had the appetite of a sparrow.
Dangerfield drew himself up. “I beg your pardon?”
Marcus was laughing so hard tears appeared in the corner of his eyes.
Larissa turned to her and winked. “You will both bake a cake, and the best cake wins.”
“No,” Dangerfield snapped. “Absolutely not.”
He didn’t want the challenge so Caitlin jumped at it. “I do not believe you have the right of veto.”
“She’s right. We only granted her the right of veto; it does not apply to you,” Marcus chortled.
Larissa stood with hands on hips. “Well, do you agree?”
Caitlin took her time and studied Dangerfield. He tried to school his features, but she saw real annoyance—and something else—hidden there. He stared her down, trying to make her nervous. He wanted her to veto the task.
She smiled for the first time that evening. She might not be able to cook but she knew where to find an excellent teacher. “The wager is perfectly acceptable.”
Dangerfield rolled his eyes. “Christ.” And threw his hands in the air.
“Who is going to judge this cake off,” Henry asked.
Caitlin and Dangerfield exchanged glances.
“The vicar?” Caitlin had no idea where the idea came from but she thought the vicar a fair man.
Every eye fixed on her in disbelief.
“Are you mad?” Dangerfield said. “I can’t ask the vicar to judge this wager.”
“Guilty conscience,” she taunted.
“Not at all.” Dangerfield ran his hand over his nape and felt like punching Marcus’s amused face. He did have a guilty conscience, and that’s what worried him. “But, while I may be lecherous I put my foot down at involving the church in the affair.”
Marcus coughed. “The vicar doesn’t need to know why he’s judging the cakes. You could say you’d like to appoint a new cook and you’d be honored if he would pick the best cake. We’ll think of something.” Marcus stood, walked to the sideboard, and then rummaged in a drawer before turning around to face them, a fresh pack of cards in his hand. “In the meantime, I’ve thought of a way to decide which challenge is completed first.”
Harlow eyed the cards and prayed for faro. “How?”
“Whoever draws the highest card gets to pick the first challenge, and so on.” Marcus spread the cards on the small side table, and indicated to Caitlin. “Ladies first.”
She picked one and Harlow noted her lips turn up slightly. He could read her like a book.
At his turn he drew a card and, without looking, turned it face-up on the table. From the expression on Caitlin’s face, and Larissa’s sigh, he knew he’d drawn the higher card.
“I should have warned you, Lady Caitlin,” Larissa purred. “He always wins. It’s one of his most annoying traits.”
He let a hint of smugness enter his tone. “The game of faro will be the first challenge.”
He watched Caitlin’s back straighten and her mouth firm into a grim line. “Then I demand a sennight to learn how to play.” She stared at him, animosity glittering in her eyes. “And I expect you to teach me. You boasted that you’re the best player. If that is true then I want to learn from the best. What’s more,”—she lifted her chin—“St. Giles can be there to ensure you are teaching me properly.”
Henry nodded his head in acquiescence.
Harlow gritted his teeth. A week in her company was likely to drive him insane. “Where do you propose we meet in order for me to teach you? You cannot come here. My mother returns tomorrow—”
“Well, you can’t come to the Manor. My father would likely shoot you on sight. We don’t have to vacate the property for another four weeks.”
“My hunting lodge,” Henry said. “It’s no more than three miles from here at the base of Clee Hills. I could stay there until this dreadful wager is complete, and you could conduct the lessons under my watchful eye.” He raised his eyebrow at Caitlin. “Would that be agreeable?”
She nodded.
“Good,” Marcus said, sounding far too cheerful. “The first challenge has been accepted. A sennight from today we’ll adjourn to Henry’s hunting lodge for the Faro challenge.” He spread the cards across the table once more. “Perhaps you’ll be luckier this time, Lady Caitlin.”
Caitlin selected a second card and her smile fled. Harlow chose a card from the top of the pile. The King of Hearts. He laid it face-up and thought he heard a very unladylike curse from Caitlin’s direction. Once again he’d won.
“The cake baking.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Not the horse race?”
“No.” Harlow wanted to win before the race. Her horse was good. He’d seen her ride Ace of Spades. Not only was she highly competent, her weight gave her an advantage. Over the longer course he might lose. He needed to know before the race what was at stake. If he had to win the last challenge then he’d risk his finest three-year-old stallion. He’d pick a course that suited Hero. He’d been keeping the horse a secret, training him up for the Two Thousand Guinea’s race at Newmarket. The odds would be in
his favor if no one realized just how good he was. But to win this confounded wager he’d let his secret out.
If he had to. For Jeremy’s sake.
He turned to Caitlin. “I’m granting you a week to learn faro, so I’m asking for a week to learn how to bake a cake.”
Caitlin could hardly refuse. She’d need time to practice as well. She would get Mrs. Darcy to teach her. Mrs. Darcy had won the cake-baking contest at the village fete for the past five years.
All the same, there was no way she wanted Dangerfield to know she couldn’t cook either, so she took her time before she answered as though she were assessing his request. Slowly, she nodded. “I suppose that’s fair.”
Marcus collected the cards. “Which leaves the mile long horse race for the following weekend. Perfect. Caitlin will know before the end of the month whether she and her father must vacate their home.” He put the cards back in the desk. “I shall organize the horse race.” He bowed in Caitlin‘s direction. “Over a mile as requested. I shall pick the course, the starting point, and the end point.”
She frowned, doubting his motivation. “I’m not sure I trust you. It must be run locally.”
“I think it’s a trifle late to start negotiating terms. You agreed to race Harlow over a mile. You didn’t specify where the race was to take place.”
She sent Henry an appealing look, but he simply shook his head and held up his palms. Marcus Danvers was right. She had forgotten to specify terms. She swallowed down her plea.
The handsome Marquis was enjoying her discomfiture. “I’m open to persuasion,” he murmured, a sensuous smile on his lips as he moved to stand before her. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips and pressed a long kiss to her knuckles. “I find it difficult to deny a beautiful woman anything.”
Before she could respond, Dangerfield was at her side prying her fingers from Danvers hold. “That’s enough, Marcus. She is not a toy to play with.”
“But perhaps a woman to fight over, eh?” Marcus replied with a light laugh. “My, we seem rather possessive for a man who, in the last ten years, has shown no interest in a lady of quality.”
While the men argued, Caitlin took the opportunity to move toward the door. There was nothing more to be gained here. She’d accomplished what she’d set out to do—obtain a chance to win Mansfield Manor back, and right the wrong her father had perpetrated against her.
Once at the door she cleared her throat. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
Lords Danvers and Dangerfield stopped their low-toned discussion and Henry stood.
“I’ll see you out,” he said. “Shall we say mid-afternoon at my lodge to begin the lessons?”
Dangerfield looked at Larissa, and then back to Caitlin. His eyes bored into hers and she felt her heart squeeze in her chest as he gave a dazzling smile. “I should be compos mentis by then.”
She hated the spear of jealousy that lodged in her chest. Why should she care that the heartless rake would no doubt spend the rest of the night with Larissa in his bed? She had to stop this ridiculous hold he had on her senses. There was no way she could win if she couldn’t think straight.
“I shall look forward to teaching you—many things—over the course of the week.” His voice, filled with a husky promise of all things decadent, plucked its way down her spine.
Caitlin sent up a silent prayer for forbearance. What an impossible man! It was difficult to concentrate when he stood there looking so rumpled, and unrepentant, and utterly gorgeous. Her eyes kept sliding towards the sliver of tanned neck and chest exposed by his open shirt. The absence of a civilizing cravat or a waistcoat lent him a reckless air of danger.
She’d best remember that when one played with fire the burns hurt. Her stomach pitched; her hands trembled. Her heart seemed to have slipped its moorings and anchored in her throat.
Lord help her. She tried to resist but she couldn’t stop herself from taking one last lingering look at his chest.
“Lady Caitlin?” The amusement in his voice told her he knew exactly what she was thinking, and the effect he had on her.
Her face flooded with heat. She straightened and held her head up high. “I look forward to teaching you how to lose—and I don’t care if it’s gracefully—just so long as you lose.”
With that she swept from the room as majestically as she could, given her attire.
Little did she know that three pairs of eyes followed her departure with a great deal of male appreciation.
Henry flashed a smile at the other two men before following Caitlin from the room and closing the door.
“Larissa.” Dangerfield held Marcus’s amused gaze. “Go to bed. It’s late and I have some things to discuss with Marcus and Henry.”
She pouted but did not contradict him, no doubt sensing his mood. That’s what he liked about her. She knew when to leave him be.
“Will you join me later?” she asked.
He looked at her for a long time before replying. “Probably not,” he said at last. “It’s late. And you and the ladies must leave first thing in the morning before my mother and brother arrive home.” To pacify her jealousy he swept her into his arms and gave her a deep and thorough kiss. “I’ll see you at the end of the month in London. Off you go.” And he all but pushed her out the door.
He was shaken by how little desire he felt for such a beauty. His body wanted someone else. Someone he should not want. Lady Caitlin Southall.
Marcus sighed. “Another mistress soon to be discarded, I wager. Giving up the lovely Larissa? Tut tut. You badly want Caitlin Southall in your bed. There is no way you’d risk losing Mansfield Manor if you didn’t. To procure it for Jeremy has been your driving ambition for over fourteen years. Now to risk losing it and ending up leg-shackled speaks volumes. And you are—risking marriage, that is. A part of me wonders if that is actually your plan?”
Dangerfield’s eyes narrowed as he lit a cheroot. “I risk nothing.”
Marcus continued. “You always said that, despising love—as we all do, except perhaps for Henry—you’d marry for your convenience. What is more convenient than marrying Caitlin Southall? I know you, Harlow. You’re appalled that you’ve allowed her father to gamble away a house in trust for her.” Marcus also lit a cheroot. “One wonders why you simply don’t offer her marriage. A perfect solution. She seems desperate to gain the house back. Perhaps desperate enough to marry ‘a man like you’ if I remember her words correctly.”
Dangerfield wasn’t surprised at his friend’s insight. As soon as Caitlin appeared in his house, late, unescorted, and dressed so inappropriately, he knew his fate was sealed. But he couldn’t stop from playing with her. Her damned pride and her blatant lack of respect for him had him wanting to bring her down a peg or two.
The fact Mansfield Manor was supposedly in trust for her made him feel better about the leg-shackle in which he was now caught. For his mother would learn of her visit, and once she knew what Lord Bridgenorth had done to Caitlin—stealing and gambling away her inheritance—Harlow would never hear the end of it. His mother would insist on his doing right by her.
Besides, Marcus knew him too well. He did want Caitlin in his bed, and with a consuming passion that terrified him. He could not allow that to happen without marriage.
Before he could reply, Henry arrived back in the room bristling like a wounded bear.
“Dangerfield,” he snapped. “If you go through with this appalling wager and force her into your bed you, my man, are going to marry that girl. I’ll not stand by and see her dishonored. She came here out of desperation, and you’ve taken advantage of her.”
Dangerfield tightened his lips around the cheroot and drew in a deep breath before deliberately removing the cigarillo and blowing smoke directly toward Henry’s saintly glower. “You’re assuming I’ll win the contest. With a woman like Caitlin Southall, one can never be sure of victory. Each time I’ve tangled with her I’ve come out the wounded party.”
Henry waved the smoke away and
dropped into a chair. “Well, I’ll not stand by and see her ruined. She’s already had to suffer a despicable father.”
“Oh, do be quiet. I have every intention of marrying the chit.”
“Yes.” Marcus thumped the arm of his chair. “I knew it.”
Henry blew out a breath. “You are? Good. I’d hate to have to call you out. I realize you haven’t spent much time around ladies of the ton, but I did hope you’d not forgotten how to behave like a gentleman.”
“To the future bride.” Marcus raised his glass in a toast. “I’m not surprised you want her. She’s all fire and brimstone wrapped in a curvaceous package of soft skin and silken hair. Imagine unleashing all that passion in your bed.”
Harlow fought down the urge to strangle him. “I’ll have you imagining no such thing. She’s to be my wife.”
And he was serious. When he’d seen Marcus raise Caitlin’s hand to his lips he’d wanted to slice his friend in two. Never had he suffered such a primal and possessive response to a woman. There was no doubt Caitlin Southall had wormed her way under his skin. He was more than sure that once he’d married and bedded her, the itch would be scratched. Then he could get on with his life, knowing he would satisfy his mother’s desire for an heir.
With Caitlin as his bride he could still give Mansfield Manor to Jeremy. He’d buy her any other estate she wanted as a wedding gift, but Jeremy got Mansfield Manor. He deserved it.
Other than that, there was no reason why Caitlin Southall need change his life in any way.
“May I ask what you hope to gain from this silly wager then? Why not simply offer her marriage?” Henry’s interest appeared genuine.
“She won’t marry me if I merely ask. She has too much pride.”
Marcus’s eyes widened. “Once she’s compromised she’ll have no choice, is that it? Drastic, I must say. What happened to the Dangerfield charm? Why can’t you simply seduce her? I’ve never met a woman who did not desire to marry a duke.”
