"Can we?" He gave her a considering look.
Taking a breath, she said, "I'm assuming you've heard of the Marquess of Harteford?"
"I've heard of Harteford." Though his insides roiled, he kept his voice even. "So?"
"Nicholas—Lord Harteford, I mean—happens to be a dear friend of my family. In fact, he's practically a Fines. When Nick was just a young man, Papa mentored him in the business and later the two became partners. After Papa passed away, Nick tried to persuade Paul into taking over the helm, but my brother hasn't any interest in the company … except for his share of the profits, of course. So Nick runs things and gives Paul a share of the dividends."
"This Nick of yours sounds like a right upstanding gent."
Apparently immune to sarcasm, she gave an enthusiastic nod. "He is the very epitome of a gentleman and truly like an older brother to us. In fact, he's bailed Paul out of trouble numerous times. And if you agree to release my brother today, Nick might be persuaded to pay you,"—she inserted a dramatic pause—"... with interest."
He regarded her silently, gears turning in his head. His original plan for vengeance was simple: destroy everything Morgan held dear. He could, of course, simply off the bugger, but what fun would that be? No, Morgan was going to suffer as he had. Gavin had identified his foe's two areas of vulnerability: Morgan's company and family. With Fines' majority shares in hand, Gavin planned to execute the first part of his revenge by tearing Morgan's life's work apart piece by piece.
Next, Gavin had intended to get to Morgan's wife, the marchioness. Seduction, mayhap, though the scheme would have its challenges since Morgan's marriage was apparently a love match. Even so, women were fickle, unreliable creatures; Gavin had resolved to find the chinks in Lady Harteford's armor. Now, however, he had a better, easier plan. Here was his enemy's sister—clearly in heart, if not in blood—dangling like a ripe peach in front of him. The opportunity was almost too perfect. He could ruin the little hoyden while Morgan frolicked on vacation, helpless to intervene. Powerless, as Gavin had once been. The notion drove his pulse faster.
Who'll be holding the knife then, Morgan? Whose throat will be exposed? When you plead with me, I'll show you the same mercy you once showed me.
Despite his simmering rage, Gavin perused his quarry with cold detachment. If the rest of Percy was anything like her eyes, seducing her would be no hardship.
With a touch of nervousness, she said, "There's one small problem. Not even a problem, really—more of a temporary snag. You see, at present Nick is travelling on the Continent. However, I'll write him immediately, and I'm certain when he receives my message—"
"Then your precious Nick is not here, is he?" Aye, this new stratagem was falling neatly into place. "Nor is his money."
"Not at the moment," she said. "But he will be. And the Marquess of Harteford is not a man one would wish to make an enemy—"
Fury breached Gavin's wall of control. "You think I'm afraid of that bloody bastard?"
"I never said—"
"I'll take what's owed to me, and I'll take it now." Pushing up from the desk, he stalked toward her. Threatening him, was she? And with Nicholas Morgan of all people—toting the backstabbing bugger like he was some sort of hero. By God, the reckless chit needed a lesson.
She jumped to her feet, backing away from him. She held her hands out as if she could ward him off. His blood fired. Nothing roused him more than a chase.
"Now, there's no need to get hasty," she said, her eyes wide. She'd forgotten to disguise her voice, her tones rising to a level of a squeak. "We can always negotiate further."
Three more steps, and he'd have her against the wall. "I'm done negotiating," he said.
"But—oof."
Her hat toppled off. Before it hit the carpet, he had his hands planted on the scarlet damask on either side of her head. Trapped, she stared up at him, long lashes rapidly aflutter.
"Done with your games, too," he added, reaching for the mustache.
He peeled it off in one swift motion.
"Ouch," she yelped.
"That's better," he said.
Better than he'd even expected. With that nasty strip of hair removed, her features blossomed before him. Softly rounded cheeks tapered to a piquant little chin. Lips, rosy and full, parted on a breath, and he noted the bottom one had an inviting divot at its center. Unable to help himself, he traced his thumb over the reddened area where the mustache had been. Soft as down.
"Wh-what are you doing?" she stammered.
"Seeing who I'm dealing with. Now let's have a look at what's under here."
He plucked off the wig … and the discovery slammed into him like a blow to the gut.
Sunshine tumbled down. Wavy locks ranging from pale to deep gold spilled into his hand, falling in tangled streamers to her waist. With her dark lashes and brows, he'd expected a brunette ... not this. His fingers closed reflexively around a shining tress; it slipped like satin against the roughness of his palm. God's teeth, he'd always had a liking for blondes and more so for the rare natural ones. And Miss Persephone Fines appeared to be completely natural.
"So you knew all along?"
Her breathless voice drew him back. Distracted him from the cockstand burgeoning in his trousers. With deliberate insolence, he tucked the strand of hair behind her ear, his knuckles grazing the tender shell. Satisfaction flooded him when she trembled in response to his touch.
"There's little I don't know, you naughty minx," he said. "The sooner you understand that, the better things will go for you."
Her eyes rounded, and she grew even pinker. Aye, seducing the impetuous little goddess would be a simple matter. Almost too easy. He didn't know which would be the sweeter, having her or his revenge. In this instance, however, he wouldn't have to choose.
By the time he was done with Percy Fines, he'd have his cake and eat it too.
THREE
Separated from her party, Miss Priscilla Farnham came upon a fork in the road. The path on the right was clear and unhindered and likely the way back to the picnic. The other path was dark and cast with shadows, winding deeper into the mysterious forest.
"Oh dear," the intrepid miss said. "I wonder which way I should go?"
—from The Perils of Priscilla, a shelved manuscript by P. R. Fines
Percy was having trouble breathing and not just due to the strip of linen binding her bosoms beneath the waistcoat. Sweat trickled beneath her cravat as she stared up at the villain who controlled her brother's fate and who now held her captive. His brawny arms emanated a barely restrained power as he caged her; her heart beat a rapid staccato as his heavy-lidded eyes perused her, the crimson scar pulled taut along the right side of his face.
After her meeting with Paul the other day, she'd concluded that the best plan of action was to confront Gavin Hunt. Clearly, her brother was in no shape to do so, and with no one else around, it fell to her to step in. To defend her brother's future and her family's legacy as any self-respecting heroine would. Yet as she looked up at the beast breathing upon her, she acknowledged with a tiny frisson of unease that attempting this feat on her own had been a tad, well, imprudent.
But she could hardly have invited her ladies companion along, could she? First off, Lady Tottenham—known to intimates as Tottie—was recuperating from last night's excesses at supper; at this hour, Tottie could scarcely handle a hair of the dog, let alone negotiations with an infamous scoundrel. No, it was better that the dear remained blissfully unaware of Percy's whereabouts.
Percy reminded herself that she'd never been a shrinking violet, and here was the opportunity to prove her mettle. Steeling her spine, she said, "Please release me, sir. There is no reason why we cannot talk things over in a civilized fashion."
Hunt ignored her request. He continued to finger a strand of her hair, and the gesture affected her strangely. Her blood grew hot, her chest tight. The tips of her breasts stiffened, chafing against the linen. As he continued his bold appraisal o
f her, she saw that his irises were the brown-black of coffee and embedded with flecks of copper, giving the impression of a burnished gleam. With his thick, tawny brown hair and hard-edged features, Hunt possessed a distinctively wolfish mien.
"Go ahead and talk," he said.
How could she, with the dratted man standing so close? His scent, woodsy and uncompromisingly masculine, curled in her nostrils, and the proximity of his tall, muscled form set loose a swarm of butterflies in her belly. Nerves, that must be it. She was simply unused to gentlemen contemplating her as one might a tasty snack.
Not that Hunt was a gentleman. Oh, he made efforts to carry himself off as such. His ink-black jacket and grey trousers were exquisitely tailored, molding to his long, virile lines. Above the dusky plum waistcoat, his cravat held a perfect knot. Even his accent was polished and not the Cockney she'd expected, making her wonder about his origins.
What does that matter, you ninny? Perhaps he didn't grow up in the stews or he's had elocution lessons ... who cares? Beneath that civilized veneer lies a predator.
"I am very sorry to have misled you," she said, clearing her throat. "But you must understand I only did so out of necessity. Having a reputation to consider, I could hardly walk in here as myself."
"How prudent of you."
Flushing, she said, "Would you mind taking a step back, sir? It is difficult to converse when you are standing so close."
His hard mouth curled in a mocking manner, but he did as she asked.
"Thank you. As I was saying, I did not mean to deceive you. Given my brother's dire situation, I had to resort to desperate means."
"Talked to him lately, have you?"
Though Hunt said the words casually, she sensed his keen interest. His ears might as well have pricked. Well, she was no feather-wit. If he thought she'd betray Paul's location, he was sorely mistaken. She held herself to her full height which, unfortunately, brought her only eye level to his chest. She had to tip her head back to gaze beyond the broad span of his shoulders and past the granite edge of his jaw to meet his eyes.
"Even if I had, Mr. Hunt, I would not tell you. I know that you are after him for the deed to his shares," she said. "So long as you cannot find him, my brother remains safe."
Hunt's gaze darkened. "A coward can only hide so long, Miss Fines. If I am forced to hunt your brother down like a dog, I will do so. I do not treat kindly those who betray me."
He paused, no doubt to let his threat sink in. Her gaze flitted from the damaged side of his face to the massive, large-knuckled hands bearing countless marks of violence. What manner of a man was Hunt? What was he capable of? Up until this point, the only villains she'd encountered were those who populated horrid novels. 'Twas fitting that Hunt's club was named The Underworld for she fancied he possessed the cruel, merciless demeanor of Hades.
On second thought, given her own namesake, 'twas a mythology better left untapped. As she thought of the Hades and Persephone of legend, a shiver passed over her. She slid an uneasy glance at Hunt; even he wouldn't go so far as to cart her off and ravish her ... would he?
"There must be something that can sway you. I have an allowance," she said in a rush, "and jewels. It would not cover the debt, of course, but perhaps it might buy a little time—"
"This is not a lending institution, nor a jar in which to toss a few shillings now and again." He cast a pointed glance around the room. "Do I look like I need your paltry baubles?"
She could not deny he was a man of obvious means; the abundance of gilt, marble, and mahogany screamed wealth—if not precisely good taste.
"I suppose you've plenty in that arena," she said with a sinking feeling. Dash it, negotiations were going nowhere ... was she bungling things up yet again? She could practically hear Mama's exasperated voice: For heaven's sake, think before you act, Persephone.
"Why the dejected look? You seem like an enterprising sort, Miss Fines. I am sure between the two of us we can come to an agreeable solution," Hunt said.
To her surprise, he bowed and waved her toward the sitting area. After a moment's hesitation, she scurried past him to the seats clustered around a coffee table and perched on the edge of a settee. Instead of taking the adjacent chair as any gentleman would, however, the blighter sat down next to her. He took up his cushion and some of hers, pulling her toward his center of gravity. She had to cling to the arm of the settee to prevent from tumbling onto his lap.
Seeming oblivious to her predicament, he leaned back and stretched out his long legs. "That's more comfortable, isn't it? Now back to the matter at hand. Since money has no appeal to me, perhaps there is something else you might care to offer."
"Such as?" she said guardedly.
"A service you could render, perhaps. A way to get into my good graces so I might consider leniency toward your brother."
Eyes narrowing, she said, "What kind of service?"
He raked her over with a slow glance. "Your charming company would suffice."
"My ... company?" When he confirmed her suspicions by waggling his brows, she jumped to her feet and backed away, cheeks aflame. "You must be touched in the upper works! There is no way on earth I'd consent to … to …"
"Warm my bed?" he suggested, following her step for step. "Do the buttock jig with me?"
No one had ever spoken to her in such a fashion before. Shock temporarily divested her of speech. All she could do was scramble away from him, her lungs burning.
"I assure you it's no hardship to share my bed. So I've been told." The immodest scoundrel continued to stalk her through the sitting area. "Something tells me you and I would suit very well in that regard."
"You insult my honor, sir," she said furiously. "If I were a man, I would call you out!"
"Good thing you're not a man, then. For more reasons than one." The bounder had the gall to flash straight, white teeth. "And 'twas a compliment, Miss Fines, not an insult. Typically I would not bother with an inexperienced virgin such as yourself. But I have the feeling that you would be worth the trouble ... and then some."
His masculine appraisal sent a quiver all the way down to her toes. No one had ever looked at her with this level of … intensity. A strange thrum entered her blood. Was this how a deer felt when cornered by a wolf? All instincts screamed run, and yet her limbs remained frozen.
She shook herself out of the daze. Blast it, what was this effect Hunt had on her? Perhaps he possessed Mesmeric skills, which would only be fitting for a villain.
"Your tricks are wasted on me," she declared. She'd read enough novels to know how a heroine ought to react. Like arrows of virtue, words flew unerringly from her lips. "I will never succumb to your advances. You might as well know that I have already found my one true love, and nothing could make me betray him."
A copper gleam lit Hunt's gaze. "You do have a flair for drama, do you not Miss Fines?" he drawled. "Those sound like tired lines from an insipid play."
Drat the man. Those were lines from her manuscript. In truth, she'd shelved The Perils of Priscilla for two reasons: as part of her self-improvement plan, yes, but also because she'd found herself sadly short on inspiration. Her own hum-drum existence provided nothing original or exciting to write about. To have Hunt catch onto that fact riled her.
"The point is," she said through clenched teeth, "my affections are already taken."
"Dear God, what has affection to do with anything?" He sounded genuinely surprised. "We're talking about lust here, not love—if indeed the latter exists. Which I doubt."
She stared at him with jaw slackened. Did he just say the word lust in her presence? And what sort of a person did not believe in the existence of love?
"Love does exist," she sputtered.
"In novels," he agreed, "and the minds of feather-brained females who read them."
Percy held onto the fraying edge of her temper. Barely. "I wouldn't expect a man like you to know anything about love and romance."
"Perhaps not. But I do know human
nature."
"You do not know me."
"Really." His look turned level, challenging. "Would you care to wager your brother's freedom on that?"
She blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"I am asking whether or not you are willing to back up your righteous convictions by engaging in a little bet," he said. "To sweeten the deal, I'll make the stakes your brother's debt."
Don't listen to him. It must be some sort of trick.
Just to be safe, she scooted behind a coffee table, rattling the bowl of fruit on its surface. An apple wobbled at the top of the pile; if need be, she'd pelt him with it.
She inched closer to the fruit. "Explain yourself. What kind of a bet?"
"A wager of seduction, if you will." He stood on the other side of the coffee table. Scarred and foreboding, all he lacked was a cape and a cackle to make the perfect rogue. "My carnal skills pitted against your notions of love and fidelity. In short, I shall attempt to divest you of your virginity, and we shall see if you can resist."
"That is absurd," she said, "and of course I could resist you, you arrogant ass!"
"Then prove it. If you win, I'll release your brother's vowels. If you lose,"—his nostrils flared—"you will deliver your brother and his deed to me forthwith."
"Do you think I came into the world yesterday?" she retorted. "I am well aware of how a villain's mind works. In this so-called wager, what is to stop you from drugging me or tying me up or resorting to some other dastardly means to claim your victory?"
"My, what a wild imagination you have." His slow smile made her belly quiver like an aspic. "But that wouldn't be sporting, would it? I enjoy a fair challenge, Miss Fines. You have my word that I will not coerce you in any way. Ask anyone: my word is my bond."
Even her brother had said that Hunt was a man of his word. That he never forgot a favor or a debt. Which was precisely what made Paul's position so precarious. She chewed on her lip. There must be some hidden angle to all of this. Something she was missing ...
"So you are saying you'd abide by my wishes? That, according to the rules of the wager, you would have to … desist when I tell you to?" she said skeptically.
Her Wanton Wager Page 3
