Her spine arched as he tugged off her pelisse. “As a friend?”
He groaned. Her skin was as tempting as fresh cream. “That and more. Let me make love to you.”
She went very still. “What do you mean?”
Douglas traced his fingertip along her collarbone. “Let me show you.”
She shivered. “The way you show tavern maids and ballet dancers?”
His finger stopped.
“Let me guess. They are coy and coquettish. They simper and giggle. Then they take you into their beds, or let you carry them off to yours, and let you have your way.” She shook her head, even though she still sat astride him, breathless and seductively mussed. “Girls like that know how delicate a man’s dignity is. I can hear how they cry out, moaning and screaming as you bend them over or bid them straddle you on a chair.”
“What have you got against chairs?” he asked in a low voice.
Her eyelashes fluttered, the only sign his words affected her. “Nothing. But that is not making love. That is tupping.”
Douglas ran his hand down her back, imagining her bare skin. “Does it matter what you call it if both people find it highly satisfying?”
“So they tell you—but they’re well paid to do so, aren’t they?”
He smiled and lowered his lips to her bosom again. “Money has nothing to do with it.”
She drew back. “Are you sure of that?”
“Yes,” he said at once.
This time she shrugged. “Then try it. The next time you have one on your knee, eager for a romp in bed, tell her you have no coin. Tell her you are destitute, and see how eagerly she leads you up the stairs for a tumble.”
Douglas pulled a face, half amused, half annoyed at her insistence. “I’d rather have you show me what you think making love should be.”
She lifted his chin. His gaze snagged on her lips, soft and red and parted in invitation. “Try it.”
He didn’t really want to think of a buxom barmaid on his knee right now, not when he was consumed by thoughts of Madeline. Just the thought of leaning forward and kissing her until she gave up this nonsense about the difference between tupping and making love was driving him wild. “You seem very sure of it,” he said, trying to keep his mind focused on the conversation. “What would you wager on it?”
He knew as soon as he said it that it had been a bad idea. Hadn’t he lost every wager with her so far? But it was too late now, and maybe his luck was about to turn. It was certainly due. He didn’t like to think that it would be a lost wager that got her into his bed, but at the moment, he was reckless enough to chance anything.
Her shoulders straightened and her lips compressed. He caught a flash of gold in her eyes. She scrambled off his lap and took a long look at him, from his boots to the top of his head. Her unashamed and unhurried study sent the blood roaring through his veins. God, he wanted this woman, and he’d wager his last possession to get her. “If I’m right and she turns you aside, you won’t speak to me again, or call on me, or trouble me in any way.”
Douglas recoiled. He didn’t want to agree to that. “Why that?”
“Why not that? If you’re certain you’re right, what does it matter what I might win? You have nothing to lose.”
He didn’t like it. He didn’t wager what he couldn’t bear to lose. “You’d have to balance that with something very tempting indeed.”
“Hmm.” She tilted her head. “If you win . . . Let me think, what would tempt you? If you win . . .” She paused for a long moment. Douglas’s imagination ran wild, picturing all the things he’d like to win from her. “If you win, I will publicly own authorship of my writing.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Douglas stared. How the devil—? Curse it all, giving her those quills had been a mistake. He’d tried so hard to hide his curiosity about that large order of paper, and had obviously failed. “What?” He tried to recover. “What writing?”
Her glance was almost reproachful. “Asking if I intend to write a novel or publish a newspaper. You suspect me of something. That’s what you wagered on the night you first spoke to me, isn’t it? Someone has dared you to discover my secret.”
“No,” he said indignantly. “It was for a dance.” The wager she mentioned hadn’t happened until after he spoke to her, therefore what she said wasn’t exactly true.
She didn’t look persuaded. “No?”
He could feel his face getting hotter, which only made him act more affronted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We aren’t true friends if you would lie to me so easily.” She rose and started to walk away.
There was a battle within Douglas’s breast, harsh and swift. He vaulted to his feet. “If that’s what you wish to stake, so be it. But it’s not something I care to win.”
“Perhaps you won’t.” Her face was averted, but her body was as taut as his.
Now he really didn’t want to make this wager. Lose, and he’d have to bow out of her life forever. Win, and his ugly, ill-considered bargain with Spence would come out. Spence was too much of a scoundrel not to tell of collecting the bounty, and if he sensed Douglas no longer wanted any part of it—and Douglas didn’t think he’d be able to hide that—Spence would take great delight in “sharing” the credit for solving the mystery. Then Madeline would see him for what he was, or at least what he had been: an idle gambler who wagered without thought or care for the subject of his bets.
Damn it. Either way, he was going to lose her.
“Never mind a wager,” he said abruptly. “I shouldn’t have suggested one.”
“No?” Still she didn’t look at him. “You’re afraid you’ll lose.”
And just as afraid he might win. “You said you don’t wager. I was wrong to press the issue.”
“But that’s your usual way of settling matters, isn’t it? So we shall wager, as you wished. Am I not to be treated with the same honor and respect you would accord other gentlemen wishing to test each other?”
There had to be a flaw in her argument, but Douglas didn’t see it. He was doomed if he took it, but if he didn’t she might begin to wonder why he wanted to back out only after hearing her stake. He cursed himself for not being more temperate and canny. “I hardly think of you in the same way I regard other gents wishing to wager,” he said stiffly, “but if you insist, we have an agreement.”
All brightness and humor of the outing fled. It was a quiet and uncomfortable drive back to town. He racked his brain for any way out. It had seemed such a lark: Expose the infamous Lady Constance, and get to sample her charms in person. Somewhere along the way, though, the nebulous figure of Constance had diverged from the very real, very intriguing Madeline. He cared nothing for the feelings of Constance, who was surely tempting fate by writing as she did, but for Madeline . . . For Madeline, he was coming to care a great deal. And if they turned out to be one and the same . . . he didn’t know what he’d do.
In Brunswick Square she stepped down without waiting for his assistance. “Thank you for the cherries,” she said quietly. “It was a lovely outing.”
Until the end. He scrambled after her, not even bothering to tie up the horse. “I only meant to bring you pleasure,” he said, trying one last time to extricate himself. “As one friend to another. I wish . . .”
She regarded him steadily. “You wish to be more than friends.”
He did. He thought about kissing her every time she opened her mouth. He thought about holding her every time his hand touched hers. “I do,” he said, undaunted by how rough and pleading his voice sounded. Perhaps it would spur her to relent, at least on that wager. He knew she was attracted to him. Hadn’t he proved himself honorable and decent? Hadn’t he won any small part of her affections? It would be crippling if she really cared nothing for him. “Every day I scheme for some excuse to call on you. I look forward
to tedious balls and soirees because I know you’ll be there. You enchant me, Madeline, and while I want to be your friend . . . Yes, I also want much more.”
For a moment it seemed to have worked. Her lips parted and her eyes widened with wonder. He eased a few inches closer and dared to run his fingertips over the back of her hand, still clutched around the basket handle. “Will you give me a chance? Forget the wager. Don’t say you want to turn me away forever . . .”
She flinched and stepped backward, away from his touch. “Are you crying off?”
Douglas curled his hand into a fist. “Yes. Unless you insist upon it.”
“I do,” she murmured. “We shall see what Fate decides. Good-bye, Mr. Bennet.”
He was left standing on the step, bereft, as she went inside without another word. Slowly he turned back to the curricle, fortunately still there. The horse could have trotted off to Islington and he wouldn’t have noticed.
Damn it. How could he avoid losing that wager? Could he just never put it to the test? She had all but admitted she was Lady Constance, and she must know what it would mean to publicly confess it. Why on earth had she staked that?
Because she wanted him out of her life forever. You won’t speak to me again, she’d said.
Douglas was caught off guard by how hard that hit him. Hadn’t she been happy with him today? Perhaps she didn’t think him worthy of marriage, but surely at least as a friend . . . ? Not that he wanted to be only her friend. More than ever he yearned to be free to take her hand, to see her eyes light up when he came into the room, to share a private joke with her and know that he had made her laugh. Even if he never had the pleasure of kissing her, holding her, making love to her, he would miss that impish delight in her face when he said something amusing.
He would miss . . . her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Madeline suffered alternating bouts of doubt, regret, and misery all day.
Douglas’s plea had nearly wrecked her resolve. He does care, whispered a little voice inside her head. Are you mad to turn away such a man? Her conscience tried to argue: Everything is a wager to him, and as soon as he wins you over he’ll lose interest. She began to regret following her mother’s counsel to send him away. Instead of making her feel better, Douglas’s reluctance to take the unwinnable wager had only torn at her heart. Leaning against her door with a basket of cherries clasped in her arms, listening to the faint rattle of wheels as he drove away, Madeline tried to quell the sinking feeling that she’d made a mistake.
This is an important test, she told herself. It had sounded much easier and definitive when her mother had described it, but she could endure it—in fact she must—because she desperately needed to know the truth of Douglas’s intentions. Were all his signs of friendship solely to seduce her, or had he actually come to care for her? Give me a chance, he’d begged. He even tried to cry off from the wager, undermining his roguish reputation.
“Stop it,” she hissed. Her hands were shaking, she was gripping the basket handle so hard. He tried to cry off because he didn’t want to give her heart and mind time to calm down and reach the sensible conclusion that he was no good for her. Mama was right. As long as he kept seeking her out at balls and driving her home and walking with her on tedious errands around London and taking her on beautiful picnics to orchards, she would remain in this feverish state of attraction and longing . . . and hope. Hope that she would be the one who inspired him to change his ways. Hope that his attentions weren’t all a ploy to seduce her. Hope that she wasn’t an idiot to feel as giddy as a girl in the first throes of love every time he caught her eye and grinned.
“You are not in love with him,” she whispered, still scolding herself furiously. She was a sane, sensible woman who would not be so foolish as to lose her head—or her heart—over any man of Douglas’s reputation. He was a rogue, a gambler, a notorious rake who pursued women on whims and discarded them just as capriciously. Her mother would be horrified to see her falling for such a man.
Of course Mama had also admitted her resolve to leave Canton never lasted once he went away. Could Douglas be the same as Canton? He hadn’t even been gone an hour and already Madeline yearned to run through the streets until she found him and called off the wager.
“Madam?”
At the sound of Constance’s uncertain query, Madeline gave a shriek and nearly dropped the cherries. She clapped one hand to her throat, where her heart seemed to have jumped. “Yes?”
Her maid drew back a step. “A note for you from Mr. MacGregor. It arrived while you were out.”
“Oh.” Madeline stared at the paper Constance offered. “Yes. Thank you.” Belatedly she remembered she had an appointment with Liam later today. She handed Constance the basket and read the note. Liam only wanted to delay their appointment half an hour, which was fine with her. It would probably take that long for her heart to beat normally again.
“Is aught wrong?” asked Constance, still looking at her askance.
“Of course not. What makes you ask that?”
“The way you leapt like Mr. Nash at the sight of water when I spoke.” Constance examined the cherries. “Mr. Bennet, I suppose. I’ve a mind to send George to thrash him.”
“George?” Madeline blinked in confusion.
“I’ve been thinking a footman might be a sight more useful than a driver or a butler. He’d be in the house most of the time, which would be handy even when there isn’t a gent in need of thrashing—”
Madeline gave her a jaundiced look. “Bored of Mr. Steele already?”
The maid shrugged. “Footmen’s wages are lower than butler’s. I thought the odds of George might be greater. He needn’t be tall, just strong. I imagine he’ll have dark eyes and long hair, down to his shoulders—just right for a girl to run her fingers through . . .”
“Who said Mr. Bennet needed thrashing?” Madeline ignored the speculation about nonexistent footmen and took off her pelisse. She would have to change before her appointment with Liam; there were grass stains on her skirt and spots of cherry juice on the bodice where Douglas had kissed her—
“You went out with him smiling and humming, and come home looking as though he ripped out your heart and took it with him.” Constance glanced at her reproachfully. “It’s not my place—”
“No, it isn’t.”
“—but I’d say he did something wrong.”
Madeline gripped the newel post for strength. What had he done wrong? He’d made her want to fall in love with him. “It’s not your place,” she told the maid quietly but firmly. “I have a feeling Mr. Bennet shan’t be around much longer for you to worry about.”
“Shall you advertise for George, then?” Constance called after her as she hurried up the stairs. “Or Mr. Steele?”
“No!”
Madeline tried not to think about Douglas after that. She dashed off a note to her mother relating what had happened, hoping Mama would reassure her she had done the right thing. She sent Constance to deliver it, then forced herself to finish her piece for Liam. Normally she took pride and pleasure in her writing, but not today. She wondered how Douglas had come to suspect her of writing for the Intelligencer. Liam was the only person who knew for certain. Constance probably knew, although Madeline had never told her directly. But Douglas looked so guilty when she said she would publicly own her writing. He must have made a wager about it; perhaps that was the only reason he had ever paid her attention.
Mr. Nash jumped onto the desk and walked across the page. Madeline started to scold him, but gave up. She stroked his back. “Tell me I did well,” she murmured to the cat. He sat right on top of her paper and gazed at her, purring loudly. With a reluctant smile she scooped him into her arms and buried her face in his black and white fur. “I still wish I hadn’t done it.”
At four she went to Wharton’s Bank, a short walk away. Liam was already there,
sprawled in the chair with one foot on the fender. “I hope you weren’t waiting long,” she told him, taking the opposite chair and laying her packet on the table between them.
“No.” Liam studied her. “When we began this . . . partnership, how long did you expect it to last?”
She lifted one shoulder. “As long as it was profitable. Perhaps a month, perhaps years.”
“It’s been nearly a year. Are you still pleased with the arrangement?”
A fortnight ago she would have laughed at him for asking. Today she could only manage an indifferent “Yes.”
Liam’s sharp eyes were relentless. “You haven’t grown tired of keeping it secret? Of moving among the cream of society and reporting their indiscretions?”
Madeline sighed. “If you want to know something, please ask.”
“Will you give me warning before you marry Douglas Bennet? The Intelligencer really should have that news first.”
She started. “Marry—? Where on earth did you get that idea?”
“One of the most eligible bachelors of the ton, who previously avoided any ball unless the card room rivaled a gaming hell, now makes his way directly to your side and spends every evening there. He drives you home. He squires you around town.” He raised his brows. “What idea did you think that would give?”
She clenched her hands together in her lap. “He’s not a marrying man.”
Liam laughed. “So says every man until he meets the woman who undoes him!”
Longing shivered through her. “Nevertheless, it’s not marriage on his mind. And I’ve taken steps to get rid of him.” It gave her a physical pain in her chest to say those words.
“You told me that weeks ago. Either you didn’t mean it or you underestimate his interest.”
“He suspects I write for you,” she said abruptly. “He may mean to expose me.” If she didn’t distract him, Liam would soon pry out of her that his charge was true on both counts: She didn’t want to drive Douglas away, and part of her desperately hoped his interest was even greater than she knew.
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