Never Resist Temptation

by Miranda Neville

  It made a curiously tame domestic setting for the denouement of months of planning. Decorated in cheerful shades of yellow and pale blue, the room had been used by Kitty and her companion before his sister’s marriage. Now the center of the room was dominated by a card table, opened to its green baize playing surface.

  “How much?” Candover asked.

  “Shall we say twenty thousand for the partie? There seems a certain—artistic justice in the figure.”

  “Indeed. My slut of a niece cost me a pretty sum. Not to mention my cook.”

  Anthony burned with anger at hearing her uncle’s crude reference to Jacobin. He looked forward to vindicating her too, through Candover’s downfall.

  “Twenty thousand for the partie, you say.” Candover made a pretense of deep consideration, but it seemed to Anthony that the man had already made up his mind. Candover was toying with him. “Twenty thousand it is, but instead of money, I want your cook.”

  It has come down to this, just as he’d intended, and Anthony found he couldn’t close the deal. He couldn’t get Jacobin’s face out of his mind. “I don’t think so,” he said. “The money or nothing. It doesn’t sit well with me to wager a human being.”

  Candover’s great body heaved with laughter. “You weren’t so squeamish before. You were ready enough to take that jade Jacobin, damn her! Are you afraid of losing?”

  Anthony braced himself against Candover’s taunts and fixed the boor with a steely gaze. He remained silent. He sensed that Candover wanted to play. He could outwait him.

  “I never took you for a milksop, Storrington. A lily-livered coward afraid to take the plunge.” The fleshy face thrust forward. Malice glinted from Candover’s porcine eyes. “They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Your father was a weakling too. And your mother was insane.”

  Anthony saw red. “Have it your way, Candover. Twenty thousand pounds against Jane Castle’s contract.”

  Jacobin didn’t know the time, but she must have been at the Queen’s House for three hours, maybe four. She had to face the fact that he wasn’t coming. She buried her head in the pillows and wept.

  Chapter 22

  Candover won the cut and dealt first, giving Anthony the early advantage. After five hands he was comfortably ahead, by seventy-three points. It all came down to one deal.

  Candover held the elder hand and the opportunity for a big score. Nevertheless, only by a disaster could Anthony lose now. He dealt out the thirty-two cards, two at a time. Twelve cards each and eight in the stock for discards. It took tight control for his fingers not to shake as he picked up his hand and inspected it with an expert glance.

  Disaster.

  As an elder hand it wouldn’t have been impossible. Seven spades, lacking only the king. The king and a small card each in hearts and diamonds. And the seven of clubs. But his opponent would both declare and lead first, giving him the possibility of winning the big bonuses for a pique or repique.

  Candover took all five discards to which he was entitled, and Anthony, with the option of only three cards to exchange, assessed his opponent’s hand and his own chances.

  Unless he picked up the right cards the best he could hope for would be a tie in the match, and then only if he played perfectly. But if Candover held the cards to score a repique Anthony’s lead would be wiped out and more.

  He gazed at the three cards remaining in the stock. Without improving his hand, he had almost no chance of avoiding defeat. Yet what to discard? His best hope was to pick up the king of spades, which would give him a winning hand. It would be helpful, and probably avoid defeat, if one of those three cards was an ace. And yet he couldn’t maximize his chances by taking three discards without losing his guard in one of the red suits. If the gamble failed his loss was inevitable.

  Anthony never gambled. He knew the rules: play according to the odds and you’ll always come out a winner. And he almost always did.

  Almost. That was the crux of the matter. In this case almost wasn’t good enough. He craved certainty.

  He tried to calculate the odds, as he’d done a hundred times. His brain felt thick and dark, like the chocolate custard he’d disdained at dinner.

  He fingered the seven of clubs, the one card he could safely do without. What were the odds that a discard of only one would improve his hand? God help him, he couldn’t think.

  Candover was grinning like a cat who’d found a salmon. He knew what he held and what it meant, as well as Anthony did. With an effort of will Anthony brought his mind to bear on the problem, forced all emotion from his thought process, and concentrated on mathematics.

  He knew the answer.

  It was unacceptable.

  He thought of Jacobin, waiting to hear whether she was about to be turned over to her vile uncle. Although, of course, she’d refuse to go. He’d end up paying the twenty thousand and that didn’t matter to him; he’d gladly pay twice, three times as much to save her. But too late he realized that wasn’t the point. It never had been. She’d been right all along.

  He stood up. Threw the cards on the table.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said. “I can’t go through with this. I regret that I must call off the wager.”

  “Then I get the cook!” Candover cried triumphantly.

  “No,” Anthony insisted. “The bet is off.”

  Followed by bellows of rage and threats of social ruin, Anthony walked out of the room.

  He found her in the bedroom. She stood before him, her dress crushed as though she’d been lying down in it, and her eyes reddened. She’d never looked more beautiful. He reached for her, aching for her warmth, aware in the depths of his heart that only Jacobin’s touch could console him.

  The raised flat of her hand held him off. Her eyes were stormy, implacable.

  “So, Storrington. Have you come to deliver me to my uncle?”

  “No—”

  “Oh, you won, did you? Just as you predicted. I suppose you think that makes everything magnifique.” She didn’t actually spit at him but she might as well have.

  “I didn’t play, or at least I did but it wasn’t the way you think—”

  She wasn’t listening. She’d worked herself into a fine state of fury and strode around the room, firing off French insults and gesticulating with clenched fists. “Merdeille! Do you feel better now, bâtard? Has victory made up for all the ills of your miserable life? Tricheur!”

  “Listen, you little spitfire—”

  “You played with Candover and left me out here—alone—for hours. How dare you speak to me? How dare you even try to excuse yourself? So, my lord. Did you ruin my uncle? Are you happy now? All I have to say is take your victory and put it—”

  “Stop!” he shouted, grabbing her wrists. “There was no victory.”

  The words, spoken slow and loud, penetrated her ire. The flailing body stilled and she stared at him, mouth hanging agape in mid-tirade.

  “There was no victory,” he repeated. “If anything I lost much more than my chance at revenge. I’ll most likely be thrown out of my clubs and shunned by most of London’s polite society.”

  “That can’t be true. How can they throw you, an earl, out of anywhere? Unless…Mon Dieu, did you cheat?”

  “Not quite that bad, but almost. I walked out of the game holding a losing hand. ’Struth, I can’t believe I did such a thing.”

  She didn’t appear shocked, though at least he had her attention. Women just didn’t understand these things.

  He sighed and let go of her wrists to run both hands through his hair. “I suppose I’d better tell you what happened.” He slumped onto a bench at the foot of the bed.

  Jacobin perched on the edge of the mattress, but not so close that he could reach her. Once the initial blaze of rage burned off she felt calmer and prepared to listen, though she castigated herself as a weak creature for doing so. He looked haggard and sounded so desolate she felt her foolish heart soften.

  “You asked him to play c
ards?” she prompted.

  “Yes. Or perhaps he asked me,” he said slowly. “I’m not sure. He was just as eager for the game as I.” He smiled at her warily. “Your cooking pleased him excessively.”

  “I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist those dishes, the pig. Go on.” She didn’t add that Candover had discovered who she was, though she couldn’t have said why.

  “We played for a while, then I suggested we increase the stakes.”

  “Did you offer me?”

  “No, I didn’t want to. I tried to make him play for money but he refused. Then he suggested playing for your contract of service.”

  Her heart thudded. “How much?” she whispered.

  “Twenty thousand again.”

  “Did you agree?” She could hardly breathe.

  “Not at first. But then—” He stopped and turned his head aside, and she found it hard to judge his expression. “But then…he called me a coward.”

  Foolish male pride, she thought with returning irritation.

  “He called me a coward, just like my father. And he said my mother was mad.”

  “The filthy bastard! Poisoning was too good for him. I wish he’d choked on a vol-au-vent!” Even she could see how unbearably Anthony had been provoked, deliberately so if she knew anything about Candover.

  “So I agreed.” He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry. I should never have agreed. In my damnable arrogance I thought I couldn’t lose.” He looked up again and his lips stretched in a smile without a hint of humor. “You were right about that, of course.”

  “Finish the story,” she said gently.

  His voice was flat. “We played and I was winning. Then in the final hand, the cards turned against me. The chances were minuscule that I would win. And I couldn’t go through with it.”

  Candover must have been furious. Jacobin had spent her life among French liberals and English servants, giving her an imperfect perspective on the values of the English upper classes. But she hadn’t spent all those years in the household of an English gambler without learning about the sanctity of the wager. A gentleman never reneges on a bet. A gentleman always meets his debts of honor. The refrain roared through Hurst Park whenever her uncle hit a losing streak and came home to demand Edgar find the money in the estate.

  She didn’t set much store by Candover’s maxims, given his complete lack of any quality she found gentlemanly. But Anthony shared those values. By ending the card game he’d violated every tenet of his upbringing. He’d been wrong, dreadfully wrong, to agree to her uncle’s stake, yet he’d atoned for his sin in a spectacular fashion.

  “And he called you a coward! He was wrong. What you did took great courage. And you did it for me.”

  “When it came to the point I found I couldn’t risk you.”

  She jumped up and in an instant was in his lap, cradling his head in her hands and covering his face with kisses. She caressed his head and made soothing noises. His face, which had over the weeks become so dear to her, was drawn and weary. He needed consolation. In fact he deserved it. She kissed him on the lips, stroking the tips of her fingers around his ears.

  He seemed to like that, emitting a little guttural sound of appreciation, so she did it some more, and ran her tongue along the seam of his mouth. It opened and welcomed her in while his arms returned her embrace, exploring the curves of her body even as hers moved lower to revel in the muscular contours through superfine cloth. They kissed deeply and hotly, as though they would devour each other.

  “I need you so much,” he said softly between kisses, and the desire in his syrup-thick tones matched the swelling of his body beneath her legs. She needed him too. She was in bliss after the dismal hours waiting for him to come, fearing that he wouldn’t, in despair because he seemed to have made the wrong choice.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, drawing back. He gave a moan of protest and moved to recapture her lips. She placed a hand over his mouth. “You made me wait here all evening for you. You might have sent me a message at least.”

  “I didn’t know you were here. I never looked on the terrace until after the card game. I didn’t expect you.” He hugged her tightly. “Thank you for being here.”

  It was even better than she’d thought. He’d come to his senses without the incentive of bedding her. He deserved a reward and she was most willing to provide it.

  “Come to bed,” she said.

  Chapter 23

  She disengaged from his lap and stood up to look at him, her head tilted to one side, chestnut curls an untidy halo around her roguish face.

  Yes, oh yes. Desire surged through him as he followed her to his feet in one smooth movement. She touched his neck cloth, and even that small contact made him think about that hand, graceful yet so capable, touching bare skin. The muscles of his torso quivered.

  “Are you going to act as valet?” he growled.

  Her mouth curved and he wanted to consume her whole. “If you’ll be my lady’s maid.” The smile broadened. “You’re rather large for a maid. But that hint of a beard will play havoc among the footmen.”

  “And you,” he said, holding her by the shoulders at arms’ length and scanning her figure appreciatively, “are, for a change, not dressed like a valet. Not that I’m complaining. That style”—he waved his arm in imitation of the curves so delightfully complemented by her frothy white gown—“a new fashion?”

  “A very old one. I found it in the wardrobe.”

  “Turn,” he ordered, and loosened the strings gathering the neckline of the dress, untied the sash, and relished the warm silken skin under his fingers as he slipped it down her shoulders.

  “Wait,” she said, holding the wispy fabric at her elbows and turning again to face him. Her voice dropped an octave. “Hm. I’m a very good valet, I think. Your cravate is very well arranged.” She patted the elaborate waterfall of starched linen.

  “You can’t take credit for it. I always tie my own,” he whispered. He couldn’t be expected to concentrate on playful banter when she was naked almost to the waist. His hand reached out to cup one breast, small but sweetly rounded and soft to the touch, to sense its gratifying weight against his palm. He flicked the strawberry pink tip with his thumb, eliciting a purr from deep in her throat.

  She unwound the cloth from his neck and unbuttoned his shirt as his other hand mimicked the actions of its mate. Then she put her arms around his neck and drew his head down for a kiss, and all he could think of was that she was too far away. He crushed her against him and still she wasn’t near enough, so he tugged at her skirt, searching beneath it, and his questing hand found…a petticoat. And another and another until finally—oh triumph!—satin skin and no drawers.

  With an incoherent grunt of approval he used both hands to push aside the layers of material and cradle the firm, soft curves of her bottom. And, wonderfully, she raised herself on tiptoe to rub her core against the hardness straining through his trousers.

  “You’re not doing your job,” he muttered. “I’m still wearing a lot of clothes.”

  She grinned at him wickedly. “I’m afraid I’m not up to the task. My fingers don’t seem to be working properly. I resign.” And broke away from him to back onto the bed, where she faced him, half seated, half reclined, supported behind by her elbows, long elegant legs parted and emerging from a sea of white froth.

  She was the personification of allure, from the enticing smile on her full raspberry lips to her dainty feet, one bare and delicately arched, the other still partly hidden by a beaded slipper hanging from the tips of her toes. He couldn’t resist and made no effort to do so. Urged by the need to possess her, to drive himself into her delectable body and forget every trouble in the world outside the Queen’s House, he tore off his shirt and unfastened and lowered his nether garments with unthinking agility; threw himself on her and pulled up her skirts again, intent only on finding the haven he ached for.

  Unmistakably, she flinched. With a superlati
ve effort he made himself draw back. He lay beside her on the bed and gathered her into his arms, burying his face in the curve of her shoulder, where vanilla-scented curls tickled his nose. In his own need he’d forgotten her inexperience.

  Jacobin was ashamed of herself for revealing her momentary panic. She wanted him as much as he seemed to want her. The logical side of her brain knew there’d be no pain this time, but another part of that organ, over which she seemed to have no control, remembered the shock of their first, abortive coupling.

  “I’m sorry,” he said through deep breaths. “I’m going too fast. We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”

  She took his head between her hands and they lay face-to-face on the mattress, inches apart, eyes locked, guilt discernible in his expression. Her first impulse was to deny her reluctance, but she wanted honesty between them.

  “I’m just a little afraid,” she said softly, “though I know it shouldn’t hurt this time. I do want you, very much.”

  One of his hands, firm and warm, reached between her thighs, and she knew she was wet there as he stroked the spot he’d once driven mad with his mouth.

  “I’m glad you’re not totally unprepared,” he said, “but I was a selfish brute not to make sure. Let’s take this slowly. I want your trust as much as I want you. What would you like me to do?”

  “I like that,” she said, her voice wavering as he continued to caress her.

  “What else?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know much about this.”

  “Is there anything you’d like to do to me? Any way you’d like to touch me?”