That did it. "He is not repulsive at all, curse you! And the reason we have not kissed is because he is a gentleman and would never dream of taking such liberties—"
"Good thing I'm not a gentleman, then." The smug tone and the flare in Hunt's eyes made her stomach leap. "I've dreamed of our sweet kiss, Persephone."
She felt words slipping away from her.
"Aye, I've dreamed of that … and more." A dark, wicked look came into his eyes. "Have you?"
She meant to deny it. But he was staring at her mouth with a greedy intensity that drove all thought from her mind. Her lips tingled with remembered heat. The spicy taste of him flooded her senses, and she felt the firm, velvety thrust of his tongue ...
"So much for our game." His husky voice broke her reverie. "It seems we've arrived."
She realized the carriage had stopped. Flustered, she reached to the curtain to look outside. A dark river flowed into her vision ... the Thames. She saw floating barges filled with people dressed in masks and colorful evening garb, and despite the circumstances, a tide of excitement rushed through her.
"We're taking a boat to Vauxhall?" she exclaimed.
"Indeed." His lips curved. "Been before?"
"Once, on my birthday," she said. "But there was a melee that night, and Mama has not allowed me back since."
"Don't worry," he said, "I will keep you safe."
Who will keep me safe from you?
As if reading her thoughts, a muscle twitched at the side of his mouth, his scar flickering. He lifted the cushion of the seat next him, revealing a hidden compartment. Reaching inside, he withdrew a large, bulging bag and handed it to her.
Curious, she looked inside. "A wig?"
"It's hardly an unfamiliar accessory, is it?"
"I suppose not," she said ruefully.
"There are plenty of feminine whatnots in there—everything you need to disguise your identity and protect your reputation ... as promised." He paused, tapped his chin. "The only other thing you'll need is to a pick a name for the night."
"You mean ... an assumed identity?"
This was getting better and better.
"We can't go around calling you Miss Fines all night if you wish to safeguard your reputation," he said reasonably. "Shall I choose the name or will you?"
"What names do you have in mind?" she couldn't help but ask.
"Hmm. Something exotic and bold to match its owner." His lips twitched. "Juliette. Or Titania, perhaps."
She had to stifle a grin at his estimation of her. "You know The Bard," she said approvingly. With a hint of mischief, she added, "However, I think I'd rather go as Priscilla, thank you very much. And that will be Miss Farnham to you."
"Priscilla Farnham. It does have a ring to it." Opening the door, he sprung easily to the ground. "I'll leave you to your privacy then."
Bemused, she looked at the closed door. She had to admit—the man had a quicksilver wit. Not that it matters. You're only here to help Paul.
Worry gnawed at her as she wondered what her sibling was up to at the moment. Since Hunt had agreed to leave Paul alone, she'd gone to Spitalfields to find her brother, but without success. She'd left him a note, saying that she'd written Nicholas. She'd also stated that she'd negotiated with Hunt and that the latter had agreed to let Nick pay off the debt. 'Twas a half truth and Paul wouldn't like it, but he'd like her actual arrangement with Hunt far less. She couldn't risk him calling Hunt out and getting hurt.
In the meantime, she had to focus on winning the wager. She had a foolproof strategy worked out for the evening: avoid physical contact with the man and remain in full public view. If she stuck to those rules, he wouldn't have any chance of seducing her, would he? As additional reinforcement, she had the magic word at her disposal. Per their signed contract, all she had to do was tell him to stop; at the haberdashery, he'd proved a man of his word.
So there was no harm in playing along until then, was there? Emptying the bag, she sorted through its contents and used them to complete her toilette. When she glimpsed her reflection in the hand-held mirror, a little thrill coursed through her. She couldn't help it: this business of disguises was so much fun. She fluffed her new shockingly red coiffure and examined the gaudy gold hoops dangling from her ears. Removing her cloak, she donned the scarlet silk domino she'd found in the bag; its bold color made her feel dashing, like a heroine on the brink of adventure.
Really, what possible harm could it do to enjoy the sights a little? When would be the next time she found herself at Vauxhall at midnight, after all? Surely she could enjoy herself and best Hunt at his own game. She tied on the last part of her costume, a lacy black demi-mask, and opened the carriage door. "I am ready, Mr. Hunt."
"That was quick—" Turning from where he'd been contemplating the water, he froze. A strange expression came over his face.
"Is something the matter?" She patted the wig. "Is my hair showing?"
"No. But you look ... different."
"That's the idea, isn't it? So I won't be recognized?"
"Right. Of course." He cleared his throat and held out his arm. "Shall we board the barge, Miss Farnham?"
*****
As he watched Percy's rapt expression beneath the famed lights of Vauxhall, Gavin's insides heated with anticipation. Like taking candy from a babe. Just as he'd predicted, she couldn't resist the dark excitement of the bustling pleasure garden. Oh, she'd made a show of keeping a safe distance, scooting as far away from him as possible in the supper box for two. Yet beneath the half-mask, her eyes sparkled, her attention riveted upon the operatic duo currently on the stage. It gave him the opportunity to study her.
Christ Almighty, she tempted his self-control in that disguise. The paints emphasized her natural sensuality, bringing out the naughty pout of her lips and the saucy slant of her cheekbones. Her kohl-rimmed eyes appeared even larger, sultry in their frame of black lace. His only regret was that her shining tresses remained hidden beneath the false curls. How he wanted to tear off that offending wig, sink his fingers into her hair and hold her steady for his kiss—
Don't lose focus. Cast out the lures and let her take the bite.
When the opera singers came to an ear-splitting finale, Percy jumped to her feet, clapping wildly. He had to bite back a smile as she whistled with the rest of the audience for an encore. He found her exuberance charming. It also made him wonder if she'd bring that kind of unschooled energy to bed … and his groin flooded with heat.
"Did you enjoy that, Miss Farnham?" he said.
"That was brilliant. I have a subscription to the Opera, yet I've never heard anything so sublime." Cheeks flushed, she sat down again, reaching for her arrack punch (strong stuff, and he'd subtly re-filled her cup twice). "Why is it that music sounds so much better outdoors?"
"Because that's not where it's usually played. Things tend to capture our interest when they're unusual." His glance slid over her glowing, vivacious face. "Different from our ordinary experience."
"I can vouch for that. In my experience, ordinary is just another word for boring."
"Have a lot of experience with ordinary, Miss, ahem, Farnham?"
She wrinkled her nose. "I'm a middling class miss, Mr. Hunt. My entire life is ordinary. Tonight excepted, nothing interesting ever happens."
That might explain her theatrical bent. If he had to guess, a spirited chit like Percy didn't do well with boredom and would invent excitement if need be. Intrigued, he said, "And by interesting you would mean …"
"Something other than endless rounds of calls and visits to the dressmaker?" Shrugging with a blitheness that made him think the punch was beginning to take effect, she said, "Activities more stimulating than the correct serving of the tea?"
He could show her a stimulating activity or two. "I thought chits liked clothes."
"To a degree." Percy rolled her eyes.
Sauced or very close, he guessed.
"I'd like to think there's more to life than frocks and fr
ipperies … oh, you wouldn't understand."
"Why not?"
"Because you're a man. You get to dictate your own fate. Whereas we ladies have to listen to everyone else's ideas of what we're supposed to do."
You have no idea how hard I fought to secure my future. Before he could reply, a waltz began to play. Percy's attention flitted to the stage where other guests had gathered, whirling in pairs about the makeshift dance floor. Her shoulders swayed with subtle eroticism to the music.
Enough talking—here was his opening.
He stood and held out a hand. "Dance with me."
She looked up at him, and his lips quirked at how torn she looked. "I'm not certain I should ..."
Not quite foxed enough. Then again, he was familiar with that line. A female who shouldn't was one who most often did.
"It is up to you, of course," he said. "My own legs want for a stretch after all the sitting. Perhaps you'd care for a stroll down one of the walks instead?"
Her lashes fluttered as she made the calculation he intended. What was more risky—walking with him along one of the notorious lover's walks or sharing a dance in public?
"I suppose one dance wouldn't hurt," she said.
He bowed to hide his look of triumph. Taking her hand, he led her into the thick of the dance floor. The heat of bodies surrounded them as did the mingled scents of heady perfumes. The night sky blazed with stars as he pulled her close. So close that her skirts brushed against his thighs. Her eyes rounded, but it was too late. The mad whirl of the waltz carried them away.
Being a physical man, Gavin enjoyed dancing. For the vigor of the activity and also for the way it forecasted how his partner might be ... in bed. If you couldn't find rhythm together on the dance floor, matters weren't likely to improve between the sheets. He'd had his fair share of partners—some of them exceedingly skilled—but he'd never danced with anyone like Percy.
By God, how the saucy baggage could move.
This being Vauxhall, rules of propriety had flown to the wind, and Percy seemed to soak up the air of exuberance. She glowed with a youthful, dazzling energy as she danced; he could not take his eyes from her. Neither could other men, and he used his elbows and threatening glares to warn them off. He swung Percy into another dizzying turn, and her breathless laugh rippled over his senses. The infectious sound warmed his chest ... and drove the situation down south to near-disastrous proportions.
He'd never had a partner who could keep up with him this way, step for step. Whose blood—if the delicious flush upon her cheeks was any indication—seemed to burn as hot as his. Her movements matched his in perfect synchrony. To imagine a carnal pairing, that lithe body arching in rhythm to his thrusts ... his hand tightened on the supple curve of her spine as he spun her into another turn. Her red silk cape swished against his erection, and he bit back a groan.
Mayhap her dramatic nature was rubbing off on him because he was sure that he would die if he did not have her tonight. This minute. Wager or no wager. The melody slowed; the song was coming to an end. He had to strike while the iron was hot—and, hell's teeth, at this point his iron was on bloody fire.
"Thank you for the dance," he said. It required every ounce of willpower he possessed to release her from his grip. It wouldn't do to scare her off now.
"That was so ... exhilarating." A needless statement, seeing as she spoke between fragmented breaths. Her eyes were brighter than the stars and thousand garden lights combined. "It was like flying ... like fl-fluttering ... like a butterfly." For some reason, she dissolved into giggles. "Oh, how I wish Signor Angiolini could have seen me!"
Gavin subtly pulled her along through the throng of dancers. "Who?"
"My dancing master. According to him, I dance with the delicacy of a bull."
"The man must be daft or blind. Both, actually." Scowling, Gavin looked back at her. "Anyone with eyes can see you dance beautifully."
She grinned. "Thank you, but I know I have a depressing tendency to lead."
"You didn't have that problem with me," he said.
"I didn't, did I?" She sounded bemused.
He'd maneuvered her to the edge of the crowd and could see the maze of shadowed paths up ahead. The Lovers' Walks. There, the thick canopy of giant elms and dense foliage of bushes provided ample opportunity for trysts. Through the haze of lust clouding his brain, he tried to recall his plan for convincing her to plunge into unknown territory with him.
"Do you like fireworks, Miss Farnham?" he said.
"I do not like them. I adore them," she said.
"They will be set off soon, and I know a place to view them at their most spectacular."
A little crease appeared between her brows. "And where is that?"
Tread with care. "Up ahead," he said casually. "There is a clearing with fewer lights. That way we can see the fireworks in their full splendor."
The merriment fled her eyes. She angled her head at him. "Surely you don't expect a proper miss to go traipsing into a dark and secluded place with a scoundrel bent on seducing her?"
Damn.
"An ordinary miss mightn't." He smiled the devil's smile. "But one never knows what Miss Priscilla Farnham will do."
THIRTEEN
Standing at the crossroads, Miss Priscilla Farnham looked from the well-traveled path to the one less taken. A minute ticked by. "Oh, what the hell," she said and gathered up her skirts.
—from The Perils of Priscilla a manuscript-in-waiting by P. R. Fines
Percy didn't know what it said about her that she could never resist a challenge. Even as a girl, all her brother had to say was "I dare you," and she'd be off climbing the tallest tree in the park or stealing a pie from Cook. No matter how atrocious the outcome, it seemed she never learned.
Case in point? The present moment.
She looked at the fading lights behind and then to the shadowy darkness ahead. Already she and Hunt had passed by the magnificent Octagon temples, which marked the perimeter of the well-populated area. Now they were trespassing into a far more dangerous realm, one containing the infamous twisting walks and lovers' coves. Overhead, colossal elms waved their leafy arms like ancient magicians casting a spell.
A breeze shivered against her cheek, warm from the dancing and the punch … wait, how many cups had she had? Frowning, she realized she felt ever so slightly tipsy. She needed to regroup for a minute, reinforce the rules.
"Before we go any further, Mr. Hunt, I wish to remind you of our contract," she said.
He didn't break his stride. "I haven't forgotten the bloody thing." He looked this way and that, muttering, "The entrance to the clearing is here somewhere ..."
"So if I tell you to cease, you must cease." She cleared her throat. "In whatever you happen to be doing. Correct?"
He shot her a sardonic look. "Haven't I kept my word so far?"
He had honored his promises thus far, and the dancing had been sublime. Besides, people were still gathered here along the main walk, couples mostly, giggling and chatting in the manner of lovers. She had a moment's wonder about what it would be like to be here with Lord Charles instead of Hunt—but the notion was so inconceivable that she let it go. Instead, she inhaled the scent of flowering jasmine and woodsmoke, gravel crunching under her slippers as she followed her companion. From head to toe, she felt giddy with sensation.
"It's marvelous here," she sighed. "I wish I could come all the time. Do you?"
Hunt was poking around in the bushes, an annoyed expression upon his face. "Do I what?"
"Visit Vauxhall. On a regular basis."
"Not usually." Stopping, he contemplated the gap between two elms. "This is the way to the clearing, I think."
She peered at the trail snaking into the blackness. "Are you certain? It looks rather dark in there. I don't see any indication of a break in the trees."
"I know where I am going," he said with a scowl. "Follow me, else we'll miss the fireworks entirely."
Rolling her eyes at the b
road back in front of her, she followed him into the dense maze of hedges. Hunt cleared the way, chopping at the overgrown bushes with a snapped branch. The sounds of the gay crowd faded into the distance, and the ever-deepening dimness took on a surreal quality. The air was sultry against her skin, thickened with the scent of greenery and rich earth. Her heart seemed to beat in rhythm with the whoosh and whack of Hunt's makeshift scythe.
Yet not all adventures ended in success, and after a few minutes it became clear (at least to her) that they were not going to find what they were looking for. By that time, her slippers had accumulated enough pebbles to line a drive, and tendrils of the wig lay pasted against her sweaty forehead.
"Hold up a moment, will you?" Percy said. They'd reached a small opening in the dense brush, what might have once been a lover's nook. The faint moonlight revealed a small bench covered in moss, and she cast herself upon it gladly. She removed one slipper, and gravel showered to the ground. "If you are lost, perhaps we should go back and ask for directions."
"I am not lost." Towering over her, Hunt spoke through his teeth. "I never get lost."
"You and most males," she said.
The dim light glazed the harsh planes of his face. "What did you say?"
"Oh, nothing of import," she said blithely. "No need to get in a lather. Why don't you relax and sit down, have a bit of a chat?"
He remained standing, hands braced on his lean hips, a perfect rendition of a thunderous Hades. Not exactly the type of man one invited for a tête-à-tête. For some reason, the notion made her want to giggle.
"What in blazes do you want to chat about?" he demanded.
Dare she ask the question burning in her mind? The punch must have loosened her tongue, for she said, "How did you get your scar?"
Silence greeted her question. After a few heartbeats, she said, "Um, if that is too personal—"
"It was a gift," Hunt said curtly. "From a friend."
"A friend?" Brow furrowing, she tipped her head to the side. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
When he failed to elaborate, she prodded, "Why would a friend hurt you?"
Her Wanton Wager Page 11
