A Forbidden Love

by Alexandra Benedict

  “Good evening, Lord Hastings,” the seductive creature purred.

  “Good evening,” he returned in the same throaty vein. Gillingham was sure to hear of his return to the Lion’s Gate, and would naturally wonder why the viscount had come back after so thoroughly expressing a desire to never do so. If Anthony could convince Emma he had returned because of her, there was no cause for Gillingham to think anything was amiss. A lustful viscount was hardly a menace.

  He pried Emma’s fingers off his shoulder, and brought the back of her hand to his lips in a playful display of gallant behavior. “You are a dangerous temptress, madam.”

  A slender blond brow cocked ever so slightly. “Am I?”

  “I vowed never to return after forfeiting a great sum of money to your employer, and yet here I am, unable to endure another night without gazing into your lovely eyes.”

  She gave a husky and spirited laugh, and hooked her hand through the viscount’s arm, steering him through the room. “Lord Hastings, I do believe you are mistaken. If memory serves, it was not my eyes that captivated your attention during our last encounter.”

  “I stand corrected, madam.” His eyes went to the decadent display of her abundant breasts—and narrowed on the familiar gold locket engraved with the face of a lion. He resumed his roguish manner with a downright wicked grin. “It was another lovely pair that captivated my attention.”

  Emma ushered him to one of the cushioned love seats that dotted the outskirts of the arena. Cupping two glasses of spirits from an attentive server, she then snuggled next to him in the seat, her fine lavender fragrance drifting all around him.

  She handed him the glass. Even with a drink in hand, a firm body pressed close to him, and a soft scent tickling his senses, Anthony wasn’t lulled by the deftly orchestrated seduction. He knew the game well. It was all intended to loosen a patron’s purse strings. But he wasn’t there to get his pockets bled. He was there to get some answers.

  “And what is your desire, Lord Hastings?” Emma inclined her head toward the gaming tables. “To try your luck at cards?”

  Anthony followed her gaze to the center arena and the cluster of men at each table. His eyes drifted over the faces, some familiar, some not. He recognized Jeremy Fielding, third marquess of Winbourne, a renowned rake and wastrel in his own right. And then there was General-Major Archibald Adington, whose exemplary service during the Battle of Waterloo had gained him laurels galore. There was also Lord Bradford Derwent, a political man in the House of Lords, and a known thorn to the house for some of his radical views on reform. All in all, it was a rather eclectic mix of patrons.

  And then Anthony’s gaze narrowed to the doxies hanging over the men’s arms. His muscles stiffened at the sight. The women all wore the very same locket as Emma Kingsley! He couldn’t believe his eyes. Was Gillingham marking his whores? If so, why?

  To quell the sudden apprehension rising in his chest, Anthony flashed Emma a dashing smile. “You are much more alluring than a mere game of cards.”

  “Am I?” she coyly quipped again.

  “Most definitely, madam.” And to prove it, his eyes went back to caress the full swell of her breasts. But he couldn’t play this flirtatious game indefinitely. It was time he steered their discourse in a more useful direction.

  In a daring gesture, he fingered the locket cushioned between her breasts, his voice a lazy drawl. “My, what a simple ornament for such a striking creature.”

  Emma’s fingers came up to intertwine with his. “I have always believed, if the ornament glittered and sparkled too greatly, it might detract attention from…my lovely eyes.”

  He chuckled at her double-entendre. But in his gut, frustration was slowly forming. Emma wasn’t being very forthcoming. And he couldn’t continue asking questions about the locket, not when he was supposedly there to dote on her “lovely eyes.” He would end up arousing the woman’s suspicion if he continued with any interrogation.

  Anthony dismissed all further mention of the locket for the time being, and pressed on. “And what will it cost me to gaze into your ‘lovely eyes’ at my leisure?”

  She leaned even closer to him, her breasts pushing up against his arm. “One hundred pounds.”

  Anthony gave her a look of genuine incredulity. He had never heard of such an exorbitant rate. And to spend one night with a whore?!

  “One night with you must rival an eternity in heaven,” he said.

  Her smile was enigmatic. “You shall have to forfeit the figure to find out, my lord.”

  He gave a soft grunt. He would have to forfeit the figure indeed. And he wasn’t the least bit looking forward to it. Imagine dropping another small fortune into Gillingham’s pockets, just so he could ask the woman a few questions in private.

  And then another thorny thought took root in his mind. Once he and Emma were alone, and he had a few answers from her, could he just leave the room, offering the excuse of a forgotten engagement? Or would that appear too suspicious? Would he have to spend a few hours in bed with the woman? And why the devil was he even fretting over the dilemma? Better yet, why did he consider it a dilemma at all? He may be here to learn more about Gillingham, but he couldn’t go about his investigation in a heady manner. He wanted to convince Emma he had returned to the club because of her. If he had to have a tussle with the doxy to prove it, then so be it.

  And yet dread or guilt or apprehension stalked him. He wasn’t sure which of the three it was. It might even be a combination of the trio. He only knew he had never felt this way before. So…nervous about being with a woman.

  What the deuces was wrong with him? He didn’t often pass up an opportunity to sleep with a beautiful wench, especially since he had to pay a hundred bloody pounds to be with her!

  But that unpleasant sensation in his gut continued to gnaw at him, despite his sound attempts to reason it away.

  With some discomfort, he forced a roguish grin to his lips. “I accept your price, madam.”

  Chapter 23

  “H ow about a game?” Vincent uncrossed his legs and moved away from the sofa, where he’d been sitting for the last half hour. “Why gawk at one another in silence the whole night? A game will melt away the time.”

  Sabrina cast him a wary look. They weren’t children. What kind of a suggestion was that? And then she remembered where she was. In the land of the ton. Of course Vincent would suggest the diversion. What else did wealthy gajos do with their spare time except play games and throw parties and chase after skirts?

  An image of Anthony dallying with some buxom wench skipped through her head just then. His mouth pressed on another woman’s lips stabbed through her thoughts. She could see the two lovers tumbling in bed. She could hear the doxy’s giggles and Anthony’s husky laughter. Sabrina could even sense what the other woman must be feeling right about now; Anthony’s touch on her breast, his hands stroking her thighs in a rhythmic caress, making her gasp and pant as he trailed his fingers to the inside of her…

  Sabrina took in a sharp breath of her own, banishing the disturbing vision. The distraction of a silly amusement suddenly held appeal.

  “How about Piquet?” suggested Vincent.

  She shook her head, never having heard of it.

  “Vingt et un?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “Hazard?” he offered hopefully. When she still said nothing, he sighed and waved a dismissive hand. “Then I’ll just teach you the rules of Hazard. Do you have any blunt?”

  Her brows pinned together. “Any what?”

  “Coins?”

  “Oh!” She nodded this time.

  That brought an eager smile to Vincent’s face. “Wonderful. I’ll just duck back into my room and gather a few coins. Be back in a moment.”

  Sabrina found herself staring at the closed bedroom door, mulling over the need for coins in a game, and also pondering why Vincent had a room in Anthony’s townhouse. Surely the man didn’t live here?

  But she would have to
wait until Vincent’s return to learn the answer to that mystery. In the meantime, she busied herself with scraping together what few coins she had.

  Rummaging through the clutter of her bag, she yanked out the bright green skirt she had worn on the night of her wedding celebration. She gazed at the skirt with a pang of longing, thinking of all she had lost. Fondling the velvety fabric in her hands, she bit back her tears and went to work, tearing out the coins she had sewn into the hemline. So much for gold bringing a gypsy good fortune!

  Vincent soon returned to the room and locked the door behind him. “Help me move these chairs.”

  She did as he asked, pushing aside one of the armchairs positioned in front of the fireplace, while he pushed away another, leaving a gap in the carpet.

  He settled onto the floor and motioned for her to do the same. She did, reluctantly sinking to her knees opposite him.

  “Now, all we need are two of these.” His palm unfurled to reveal a pair of dice.

  Sabrina arched a brow. “And what do we do with those?”

  “Well, the rules are…”

  And it was two hours later that the dice were still quietly spilling onto the cushioned carpet.

  Sabrina watched in anticipation as the little ivory blocks tumbled and tumbled, and finally teetered to a stop, revealing the combined number of seven.

  “It’s the main!” she cried with glee.

  A dismayed Vincent could do naught but stare as the last of his coins were cheerfully scooped up by his more fortunate opponent. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  “Shall we play again?”

  “Lord, no!” He shook his head passionately. “You’ve reduced me to a pauper.”

  With a smile, she clumped her winnings together in her hand, and opened the beaded leather pouch tied at her waistband, dropping in her spoils. It was a pity the game couldn’t go on. It had been fun to play—for her anyway. And she’d learned a lot about her appointed guardian during the course of the evening.

  Readily willing to spill forth his life’s troubles to a sympathetic ear, Vincent had revealed much about himself through idle chitchat, and she’d soon discovered he was no more than a harmless, somewhat misguided, wastrel.

  A wastrel who happened to be in a similar bind as herself. It seems they were both in hiding from Gillingham, though for different reasons, but Vincent didn’t know that. While he was content to gush about his recent plight, she was content to just listen to him. In so doing, she realized a lot. For instance, it was through helping Vincent that Anthony had come across Gillingham—and the doxy. The viscount hadn’t been scouring London’s brothels for amusement like she’d first thought, and for some inexplicable reason, she was relieved to hear that.

  There was a quick rap at the door.

  The two occupants of the room exchanged anxious glances.

  “Who is it?” wondered Vincent, slowly approaching the door.

  “Who do you think?” came back the muffled, yet terse, retort.

  “Oh, God,” Vincent gave a soft, but nonetheless desperate, cry. “Hurry!” He motioned to Sabrina. “Put the chairs back.”

  She scrambled to her feet in obedience, wondering what was wrong. Anthony was back. Surely that wasn’t cause for alarm? They’d been awaiting his return after all.

  The chairs were pushed back to their former places. The dice disappeared into Vincent’s pocket.

  But he still didn’t unlock the door.

  Vincent gave her a pleading look. “You mustn’t tell Anthony that we were gambling.”

  “Why not?”

  “You simply mustn’t,” he beseeched. “Promise me.”

  “I promise,” she said in haste, the rapping at the door growing louder and more determined. “Now open the door before he makes any more noise.”

  Vincent let loose a quick sigh of relief and turned the key. He had to leap aside to avoid the swinging door from clobbering him in the face.

  “What the devil’s going on?” demanded Anthony, striding into the bedchamber, his eyes searching for Sabrina. The moment he spotted her in the room, he scanned her from head to foot in a thorough assessment, his heated gaze leaving her feeling ravished. “What took so long to open the door?”

  “Nothing, old chum,” Vincent was quick to dismiss the notion. “It took a few seconds to reach the door, is all. Don’t be in such a tizzy.”

  Anthony’s smoldering gaze moved from Sabrina over to Vincent. “Everything went well, then?”

  “Perfectly delightful,” chimed his friend, who then shifted his uncomfortable gaze away from the viscount’s penetrating one. “You have a very charming ward. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll retire to bed.” He swiveled on his heels. “I have an early start in the morning.”

  “And just where do you think you’re going in the morning?” demanded Anthony, bringing his comrade to a dead halt.

  “Why home, of course.” The man spun about. “The deed is done. The girl is in prime health. What else am I to do here?”

  “You’re not leaving until I say so. I still need you to look after Sabrina.”

  “But—”

  “Goodnight, Vincent.”

  The man gave a weary sigh. “Goodnight, then.”

  At the sound of the key rotating in the lock, Sabrina knitted her arms under her breasts, pinning her fiery gaze on Anthony

  He turned to confront her, a single blond brow arching. “Is something the matter?”

  “Just how long do you intend to keep me locked away in here?”

  “Not too long,” he said in assurance.

  But she wasn’t mollified. “How long? I’m not going to sit in this room night after night, while you go off to dally with some doxy at Gillingham’s club.”

  A vision of Anthony doing to another woman what he had done to her—the very vision she had tried to forget all about by indulging in a distracting game of Hazard with Vincent—came back to haunt her now.

  “I’m not dallying with any doxy,” he insisted.

  But she could smell the untruth. The air was filled with the fragrance of lavender, and unless he’d spent the evening picking flowers, it was perfume she sensed. And Sabrina didn’t wear any perfume.

  “I can smell her all over you.” Her heart throbbed as she made the accusation. She had no right to feel territorial over Anthony. He didn’t belonged to her. He could do as he pleased, with whomever he pleased. She knew that. So why did she feel so betrayed?

  He moved toward a nearby chair and shrugged off his coat, draping it over the head rest. “You may be able to smell the doxy all over me, but she wasn’t under me.”

  The tight ache in her heart convinced her it was time to change the subject. The current one was just too painful. Anthony would only persist in his lies and she’d have to fight even harder to get the truth from him. Trouble was, she didn’t deserve the truth, not about this matter. It was his business what had happened at the Lion’s Gate. And although she felt like screeching and hurling something at him, she also realized her desire to do so was irrational. It was his body. And he got to decide who touched it, not her. Better if she worried about her own body—particularly her neck.

  “What did you learn about Gillingham?”

  Anthony reached for his collar to fumble with the cravat. “That the man is a first-rate scoundrel and blackmailer.”

  Her black brows lifted in surprise.

  “It seems Mr. Gillingham uses his club as a front to wring out his patrons’ darkest secrets before he exploits that knowledge for his own financial gain.”

  “Emma told you this?” She couldn’t hide the incredulity in her voice. Just how infectious were Anthony’s charms if he could get the doxy to betray her employer in just one night?…On second thought, considering her own predicament, did she really have to ask herself that?

  “Emma, no.” He loosened the cravat before sliding it off his neck. “The staff is fiercely loyal to Gillingham, evading any personal questions regarding their employer.
”

  Now she was really confused. “So how do you know about the blackmail?”

  “Observation, my dear.” His vest was next to go, dropped into the lap of the chair. “Gillingham is no one of any political or social importance, and yet, once inside the club, I witnessed how the mighty lords cowed at his feet. Evidently, the villain holds great sins over his lofty patrons’ heads.”

  “And the locket?”

  “A means of communication. All the doxies wear one. I assume, once a gent has been thoroughly doused in spirits, a lucrative secret is coaxed from the besotted fool, scribbled down on a piece of paper, and then stuffed into a locket before being passed on to Gillingham. I witnessed the exchange of such a locket between Gillingham and one of his wenches just as I was leaving.”

  “So what was so important about the address in my locket?”

  He reached for the buttons at his collar. “I’m not entirely sure of that, but it stands to reason that the resident of the mysterious address owes Gillingham a great sum of money. In such a case, it’s understandable why he desperately wants the paper back.”

  “And it took you hours to observe all this?”

  The skepticism in her voice had him guessing—accurately—what she truly wanted to know. “I already told you, I didn’t indulge in any pleasures with the doxy.”

  Sabrina gawked at the discarded shirt, now crumpled on the floor. Her eyes were transfixed at the movement of his hands, reaching for the buttons of his trousers.

  “S-so why were you at the club for so long?” she stammered.

  His trousers were undone, revealing a patch of sandy brown curls all clustered at the opening. He went to tug on his boots next. Thud went one boot onto the carpet. The second followed soon thereafter. She just watched him, mesmerized. She couldn’t even remember what they were talking about.

  He reached for the waistline of his tight-fitting trousers and jerked them down his hips. She gasped. The engorged sight of him caused her heart to miss a beat and her thighs to ache with unabashed longing. If he had been with another woman that night, he certainly hadn’t had his fill of her.