To Dare the Duke of Dangerfield (Wicked Wagers BK1-Regency Romance) Long Novella

by Bronwen Evans

  He shrugged. “She has everything I require in a wife. Breeding, beauty, intelligence—what more do I need? First, I have to win the wager, and second, Caitlin has to accept.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her stare sharpened even more. “You like her, even admire her. That’s why you have no objections. Good. It’s a fine start to a marriage.” She kissed his cheek. “Why not simply ask for her hand? You think she won’t accept?” At his nod she laughed. “I believe this girl might be perfect for you. You need a woman who sees past that smile of yours.” Her own smile died and she looked dismayed. “But Jeremy won’t like it.”

  Harlow rubbed his jaw. “I can’t think of what else to do. This way everyone wins. Jeremy can still have Mansfield Manor, Caitlin is protected by marriage to me and you, mother, get your much sought-after grandchild, while I get my heir.”

  “Your solution sounds logical, but I have a feeling this will become far more complicated. What happens if you don’t win the wager?”

  “Then I am honor-bound to give her back Mansfield Manor.”

  His mother shook her head. “Then you best ensure you win. Jeremy would never forgive you for gaining him his dream and then gambling it away. I don’t want him hurt. He has been hurt enough. Did you see his face? School is not easy but he refuses to give in and leave.”

  “Don’t worry. I have no intention of losing. There is no way I will lose the first challenge and Marcus is overseeing the final challenge. A horse race over a mile. I believe he is picking a course more suited to Hero. Caitlin thinks she has the fastest horse. She has no idea I own a horse like Hero.”

  “The best laid schemes o' mice an' men... Take care, Harlow. Nothing is certain where people’s lives and feelings are concerned.”

  Outside the door to his mother’s sitting room Jeremy let the fury Harlow’s words released flow through his veins like a river in flood.

  His brother was about to betray him.

  Harlow had promised Mansfield and the estate would be his by right, and that Harlow would procure it for him. It was Jeremy’s boast of ownership that earned him his latest fight at school. But he hadn’t cared about the pain of the beating because he’d done it. He had Mansfield and he no longer cared that his father, his sire, abandoned him and left him to wallow in illegitimacy.

  So, how could his brother go back on his promise after everything Jeremy had endured? Now he risked losing it—and to Caitlin Southall.

  He crept back to his room, his mind in turmoil. Beautiful women were Harlow’s weakness, and Caitlin was very pretty. But to wager Jeremy’s birthright when his brother had sworn he’d get it for him? No. Many women lay down and opened their legs for his brother. Why did Harlow have to lust after Caitlin Southall when he could have any woman he chose?

  Jeremy’s stomach roiled and churned. Had Harlow sold him out for a pretty smile and a woman to bed? He could not let that happen. Mansfield Manor was his by rights. The Earl of Bridgenorth had denied him his birthright when he made him a bastard. He would not let the man’s daughter destroy his rightful future a second time.

  He needed to think. He needed to plan. He needed to ensure Caitlin Southall did not win.

  Whatever it took, he would become the owner of Mansfield Manor.

  Chapter Six

  Caitlin presented herself at Ashley House a little before seven in the evening. The Faro match would begin at seven-thirty. Thankfully, her father had gone to London the previous day.

  Her body hurt with each step, her muscles drawn tight as a bowstring about to be released. Nerves jangled and her stomach churned. She wondered if the duke was regretting his behavior. Could she, perhaps, play on his conscience and get him to withdraw.

  Either way, she wanted it over. She’d learned all she was going to learn of Faro in the past few days. Her nerve would either hold or it wouldn’t. She had just as much chance of winning as Harlow did.

  However, just in case, she’d taken great care with her appearance tonight in order to give her an advantage. Her dress was cut indecently low. Very daring. Extremely daring, for her. She tried to ignore the chill settling on her chest. A good portion of her décolletage was prominently on display.

  She needed the duke as distracted as possible if she was to have any hope of out-maneuvering his skilful wagers. She would create a diversion and hope his mind was on the bedding rather than the betting. If she won the first challenge, then the odds of winning the wager increased dramatically. Her baking skills could not be relied upon, but she had Ace of Spades. The horse race was hers for the taking.

  Her cloak hid her “diversions” from view, but when Henry’s butler signaled for the footman to take it from her shoulders her instinct was to tug the garment tighter around her shoulders. It took everything she had in her to let it go.

  She felt naked and exposed.

  The butler led her along to the library where she’d been practicing all week. She hadn’t beaten Harlow once in their previous encounters. Surely tonight must be her night to win.

  She asked the butler not to announce her and quietly slipped into the room. Marcus was laying out the Faro table. Henry was nowhere to be seen. Harlow stood facing the fire, a brandy balloon in his hand. It appeared as though he was trying to read the flames and, deep in thought, he did not hear her enter.

  She stood watching him in that unguarded and somehow more human moment, the slightly stubborn jut of his chin pronounced. Despite her anger at being put in the position of having to barter herself in order to win back that which was rightfully hers, Caitlin couldn’t fault the man in any other way.

  He looked exceedingly handsome tonight and she was pleased that she’d made an effort to match him with her latest attire.

  Her fascinated gaze traced the strong lines of his throat as they disappeared into a stark white cravat. His evening coat of midnight blue gave a bluish tint to his black curls. The cloth fit him like a tight glove molding a hand, stretching over his broad shoulders, tapering down to accentuate his muscled chest and lean waist, before curving over his derrière like a caress.

  She scrunched her itching fingers into a fist. She mustn’t touch. The urge to move closer and somehow absorb his masculinity almost overpowered her. Look away.

  She ran an assessing gaze down the length of her body. Would he be as captivated by her charms? At the very least Caitlin hoped her looks would unsettle him as much as he unsettled her. She took a few deep breaths and moved silently into the room, heading towards the rows of books on the opposite wall.

  She needed time to compose herself. He was too good at reading people. Like any predator, he’d circle her fear and dart in for easy pickings.

  She sensed the moment when Harlow first noticed her arrival. The fine hairs at her nape bristled.

  “I’m pleased to see you know how to keep time. You’re early.” He was standing too close behind her, the low timbre of his voice coaxing her to turn round.

  She did so. Slowly. Wanting the full impact of her dress to overcome him. When she finally faced him, she looked up into his eyes, her composure complete.

  He gave a choked cough. “Good God, how’s a man to concentrate with those staring at him all night? And I thought I preferred you in trousers.” His eyes narrowed. “Well played, Lady Southall.”

  “Thank you.” She felt a hint of smile crease her lips.

  It soon disappeared—shattered—when he reached out and trailed his fingers over the creamy swells of her breasts. She batted his hand away. His fingers returned, sweeping over the skin.

  “What do you think you are doing?” she asked breathlessly. “Stop it.”

  “I’m evening the score,” he almost growled.

  He moved closer and she stepped backed until she hit the bookshelf behind her. He kept moving forward until the hardness of his chest crushed her breasts. She felt her nipples harden against the lace that was holding them discreetly hidden, just, from view.

  “Can you imagine how good it will feel when my lips replace
my fingers? When I lick every inch of your delectable, milky skin until you’re purring with pleasure? When I finally take your taut nipple into my mouth and suckle, you’ll scream my name.”

  The husky words saw her wits scatter.

  Her corset was too tight. She couldn’t breathe—and when she did, the scent of him invaded her senses, clouding her thinking. She felt her stomach flip, and heat pool between her thighs.

  She was going to lose.

  “When you come to my bed,” he whispered. “I’ll introduce you to such passion your head will spin.”

  It was already spinning. The passion already burned. It was hot and needy, just like the tension pooling in her belly. She had never been so aware of her breasts, or of the way a man could worship her body with just his eyes. Her small breasts, for once, felt trapped behind her clothing, begging to be freed.

  Begging for his bare hands to glide across—

  She looked into his eyes and saw triumph. He knew he could make her body crave for, burn for, combust with want of his touch. And he knew—knew—she would be thinking of nothing else all evening.

  “Harlow.” Henry’s stern voice broke the spell.

  With shame filling her body, and any advantage now in tatters—like her pride—Caitlin slipped out from between his hardness and the bookcase, away from the disturbing essence of him.

  She walked toward the faro table taking big gulps of air. She could hear Henry’s murmured chastisement… something about behaving like a gentleman. Gentleman? Harlow didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  The game commenced on time and Caitlin couldn’t help the fleeting image of her house passing before her eyes. If she could only win this game. There was no way Ace of Spades would lose to Dangerfield’s stallion Champers. She’d done her research. Champers was the fastest horse in his stable—in fact, the fastest horse he owned. Champers had also been entered into the Two-Thousand Guineas at Newmarket.

  Her own light weight and small size gave her added speed. A win tonight would take the pressure off the baking challenge.

  She gathered her wits and, as the first turn played, remembered her strategy.

  She started conservatively, watched Harlow, and matched his bets. However, as they got nearer to the middle of the pack, she knew she’d have to change strategy if she were to win. She needed more coppers than he before they got down to the last few cards. If she were well ahead, Harlow would have to risk more on the last few turns.

  To her frustration, the rest of the turns progressed evenly. When she won big, the next hand she lost big as well. Harlow won consistently. Not large amounts, but enough to see him inch into the lead. She was not losing, but neither was she gaining enough ground on his winnings. He watched every bet she made and countered it accordingly.

  Finally they arrived at the moment of truth. The next turn would decide the game. They were down to the last three cards. She knew they were the Ten of Hearts, the Three of Spades and the King of Diamonds.

  “I’ve taught you well,” he said affably. He stared at the pile of coppers in front of her and then at his pile of the same relative size. “But are you willing to risk it all at the end? Women are not known for their bravado.”

  “I believe I’ve aptly demonstrated bravado by accepting this wager.” With that statement she looked at his current bet. Harlow had wagered his entire pile of coppers on the King of Diamonds.

  Caitlin closed her eyes to block out the glittering dare in Harlow’s sinful eyes. He was goading her into making a mistake. If she simply matched his bet, then he would win as he had slightly more coppers than her. If she simply bet everything on the chance a higher card was dealt—a two in three chance—she’d win if the losing card turned up happened to be the Three of Spades.

  There was only one way to beat Harlow if the King of Diamonds was the player’s card. She couldn’t simply match his bet. That would only prolong the game. She opened her eyes and steeled herself for what was to come. Ignoring his raised eyebrow Caitlin said, “I call the last turn.”

  To call the last turn was to name the order in which the last three cards would play. Very risky, but this would see her trounce Harlow. It was the only way to win. All or nothing.

  Harlow’s mouth curved up. “Risky. Don’t want to bet with me, sweeting?”

  “It hasn’t worked at any of our practices. This way, if the King is turned, I will still have a chance to beat you.” She gave a mocking smile, “How’s that for bravado?”

  Henry sighed. “Caitlin, don’t let him force you into taking risks.”

  Caitlin hesitated for a moment before impatiently saying, “This wager is a risk and no one forced me into it.” She simply wanted it over. Her nerves were frayed and for once she felt the cards were on her side.

  “So, what order do you call the last three cards?” Marcus asked, as the banker.

  “Ten of Hearts, King of Diamonds, and Three of Spades.”

  Harlow shifted his feet slightly. She gave an inward whoop of triumph. He was nervous. If the King was the player’s card, and she got her order right, then she’d win four times the amount he’d win and, more importantly, she’d win the game.

  Win the first wager.

  Marcus asked if they were ready, and when they both nodded he drew the loser’s card. It was the Ten of Hearts, and Caitlin couldn’t stop a squeal of delight. Henry clapped—before getting a cold look from Harlow.

  The tension in the room was nearly audible as Marcus drew out the player’s card. He hesitated before turning it over and Caitlin’s heart rose to lodge in her throat. When she looked down the Three of Spades greeted her.

  She’d lost.

  But so had Harlow. Her shoulders slumped and she resigned herself to having to play another game.

  “I win the first wager.” Harlow’s voice was filled with satisfaction.

  Her head jerked up. “How so? You lost too, if I recall. You bet everything on the King.”

  He raised his hand and twirled a copper across his knuckles. “I bet everything but this one copper. I believe that makes me the winner.”

  Her mouth dried. She looked to Henry and saw her defeat in his eyes.

  “I knew you’d be all in, it was the only move that would see you win. So I held one copper back. If I didn’t win with the King, neither would you.” Dangerfield leaned forward until his face was inches from hers. “But it wasn’t who won the last turn. It was who won the most money overall. You kept nothing back. I did.” He withdrew to his side of the table and held up the copper. “I win by one copper to none.”

  Caitlin looked as though a mule had kicked her in the stomach and, when she rose to her feet, she swayed, her face pale.

  Henry rushed to her side to offer support.

  She straightened and turned to him, her head held high. “Well played, Your Grace. If you’ll excuse me gentlemen, it’s been a long night and I wish to go home.”

  “I’ll escort you.” There was no way Harlow was letting her drive home alone at night, especially in this state. She was hiding her disappointment well, but he saw through her stoic countenance to the devastation underneath.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said with steel in her tone.

  He moved around to stand before her. “I insist. It’s late at night and I’m responsible for you being here.”

  He watched her fight for composure. Her breaths were short and sharp and her fists clenched at her side.

  Henry urged her to agree. “Don’t let your pride drive your decisions. It would be safer to let Harlow see you home.”

  She eyed him as if he were a fire-breathing dragon. “Safer than what, I ask myself,” she said, dryly.

  “I assure you I will conduct myself as an utter gentleman.”

  “Do you know how?”

  Her witty reply made Marcus laugh, and something akin to annoyance heat Harlow’s blood. He was a gentleman. Only the hoyden standing in front of him ever made him forget that. Why was it so easy for her to bait him? H
e never usually cared what women—or for that matter, anyone—thought of him.

  By the time she’d donned her cloak, Henry’s butler announced her gig was ready.

  “I’m sure you’ll have better luck with the cake baking, Lady Southall,” Henry said as he helped her into the driver’s seat.

  Caitlin patted Henry’s hand and nodded goodbye to Marcus. Harlow secured Champers to the back of the gig before joining her.

  The night was dry and warm, with a full moon above—the perfect setting for seduction and a romantic carriage ride with a beautiful woman. Except, of course, the woman was feeling anything but romantic.

  The first mile flew past in stony silence with Caitlin sitting as far away from him as possible. He moved his leg sideways until it brushed hers, and felt her shiver at the contact. Whether in pleasure or dislike he wasn’t sure.

  “Do you have to take up so much room?” she snapped at last.

  Dislike. “Tsk. I’d never have thought you a sore loser.”

  “Just because I do not wish to rub against your person does not make me a sore loser. Besides, I’m not stupid. You touched me on purpose.”

  “Why do you have to make everything a battle, Caitlin? I did not challenge you to this wager. You approached me. I also did not have to accept your challenge. I won Mansfield Manor fairly.”

  “Why?” The word seemed to sigh from her. “I do not understand why you hate my father. You don’t need Mansfield Manor. You deliberately went after it. Why? That’s all I wish to know.”

  Harlow’s jaw clenched. What did he tell her? He’d promised Jeremy that he would never reveal the truth of Jeremy’s parentage to her. The boy was adamant. “You need to ask your father that question.”

  “My father?” Caitlin gave an unladylike snort. “He won’t tell me either. Besides, my father rarely speaks to me unless it is to berate me. I’m a disappointment. He wanted a son.”

  Harlow tried to keep the anger out of his voice. “If he wanted a son why did he not remarry? Your mother died when he was still in his prime.”