Lord Libertine

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He groaned at the mere thought. God, what he’d like to do to her to make her tingle! She turned to him at the sound and her eyes widened. “Oh! I should have paid you back, shouldn’t I?”

“Noir!” the croupier called.

He shrugged. “Too late. All gone. And now how do you feel?”

She watched the croupier scoop her pile of counters away. “Determined to win it back.”

“I fear I’ve done you no favor, Bella. You have all the makings of an incorrigible gambler. Soon you will be impoverished, and ’twill be all my fault.”

“Truly?”

“Aye, but I could show you other ways to take a risk. Ways to find that same thrill and more.”

“You could?”

Ah! How telling. If she were truly a courtesan, she would not have missed that innuendo. Perhaps she was an adventuress, or an ingenue seeking a protector. And again his curiosity was piqued. Who was she, really? And what was her game? She intrigued him more than any woman he’d ever known. He took her hand and led her toward the dim end of the huge salon and one of the many curtained alcoves reserved for private play.

Whirling her into one of the empty niches, he snapped the draperies closed. Darkness surrounded them, intimate and dangerous. He found her narrow waist and pulled her against his chest. Instinct led him to her mouth, and the merest brush of his lips stifled her little gasp of surprise. Oh, but he would not claim his kiss so soon. He paused to nibble at her full lower lip and slide his hand down the length of her spine, pressing her closer. Her lips parted in anticipation, and he answered with a soft tantalizing touch, still not a proper kiss. Her arms circled his neck and she tried to deepen the contact. Yes, just a few more moments and she would be his for the taking.

He kissed the line of her jaw up to her earlobe and paused there, running his tongue along the curve of her ear until she shivered.

“What price, sweet Bella?” he whispered in that delicate opening, not wanting to cheat her of her due, nor willing to wait much longer. “Name your terms.”

She moaned and he was lost. Whatever she wanted, she’d have it. He was no schoolboy, but she made him feel like one, caught up in the wonder of a first kiss. All he could think of was the way she felt against him, the way she tasted, the sweetness of her response and the heart-wrenching sound of her yearning whimper.

He returned to her mouth and hovered there. She would have to come up on her toes to make the final contact. The choice would be hers. Ah, but he knew his women, and Bella lifted toward him. The last rational fragment of his brain worked feverishly. Could he take her here, on the banquette behind this velvet curtain? Should he whisk her home to his bed? Or was there somewhere she’d rather go? To her rooms, perhaps?

The curtain snapped back and the spell was broken.

Chapter Six

“Damn!” Bella heard someone say.

She blinked and came back to herself with a start. Andrew Hunter steadied her with an arm around her waist as she found his brothers, Lord Humphries, Mr. McPherson and a blondish man she did not know staring at them with rapt interest.

Mr. McPherson, who had uttered the curse, frowned, looking for all the world like a scorned lover. “I say! What the deuce do you think you’re doing, Hunter?”

Mr. Hunter sighed and released his hold on her. “I would think that is obvious, McPherson. A better question might be what the deuce you are doing here,” he challenged.

“Come now, good fellows. Shall we all be friends again?” Lord Humphries—Dash, she thought they called him—made a conciliatory gesture. “’Tisn’t as if she is anyone’s wife.”

Mr. Hunter glanced at her and gave her a reassuring smile. “Nor anyone’s mistress,” he allowed. “And therefore, open to…proposals of any sort.”

“Whatever he proposed, I will double it,” Mr. McPherson said. He fastened her with a look so possessive that she wondered if he was in his right mind.

And then she realized they were bidding on her like some sort of horse at auction. They thought she was for sale. Well, why not? Her behavior had favored such speculation. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks.

“Mr. McPherson, you do not have enough to buy me, nor do you, Mr. Hunter. I’d have told you so if any of you had asked. Kindly refrain from addressing me in the future.”

And with that, she lifted her chin and swept past the men with what she prayed was an air of aristocratic self-possession.

And found herself confronted with the stark reality of her position. Alone. In a gambling hall. With two men determined to have her. Mr. McPherson was brutish in pursuing his goal, but Mr. Hunter was even more dangerous in his own way. He had nearly seduced her with something less than a kiss.

But, worst of all, she still didn’t know the truth. Mr. Hunter’s near kiss had been utterly confusing. He had played with her, brushing his lips across hers, nibbling, kissing a path to her ear, where his breath had been hot and moist, then returned to her mouth, this time hovering, waiting, savoring his victory over her senses. At some point he had moistened his lips, but when? And then they’d been interrupted, and they hadn’t had time to deepen the kiss.

If Andrew Hunter had been Cora’s beau, wouldn’t she have mentioned more than that particular trait? His seduction was transcending enough to have enthralled Cora, but of all the things she might have been able to say about him, would she have thought about him moistening his lips or tasting bitter? What of his bottomless, enigmatic eyes? What of his self-mocking smile or his wit?

She shuddered and came back to herself. Such silly musing! The moment had meant nothing to Andrew Hunter and even less to her, and she had more important things to worry about. She would simply get a straightforward kiss from him next time they were together. She scanned the people in the crowd, standing at tables, sitting in front of croupiers, talking in groups, and realized she could not bear the thought of kissing any of them tonight. Or ever. Her stomach twisted and she stumbled, nearly doubling over with the pain. Avenge me, Bella.

Mr. Hunter was at her elbow, steadying her and turning her toward the foyer. “Do you need assistance, madam?”

“No!” She jerked her elbow away from him. “I believe you’ve done enough, sir. Go back to your friends.”

He gave her that infuriating grin when he should have been mumbling an apology. “If I cannot escort you, allow me to have Biddle hail you a coach.”

With a snap of his fingers, her cloak appeared and he draped it around her shoulders. At his nod, Biddle hurried ahead of them and stepped into the street with a raised hand to summon a coach. And before she could protest, he was handing her up and asking her address. She opened her mouth to reply when she realized what he’d done.

“Tell the driver to turn right on Whitehall and I shall call to him where to stop.”

Again came that infuriating grin. “’Twas worth a try, Bella.”

She was saved the trouble of a reply when the coach lurched into motion.

Edwards cleared his throat for the third time, and Andrew realized the valet was not going away. He sat up and pushed his fingers through his snarled hair—testament to a restless night. “What is it, Edwards?”

“A note, sir.’ Tis urgent.”

He pushed the bed curtains back and winced at the midmorning sunlight, then swung his legs over the side of his bed and took the letter from Edwards. He recognized the handwriting and the seal. Bryon Daschel, Lord Humphries. What could have gotten him up so damn early? He broke the seal and read the short letter.

Whatever cobwebs remained from his sleep were wiped clean. He stood and went to the basin to splash water on his face. “Tell His Lordship I will be down when I’ve dressed, Edwards. Have Cook make coffee.”

“Coffee, sir?”

“Yes, coffee.” For once, it was too early to start drinking. And too damned important.

Edwards bowed and closed the door behind him with a mercifully soft click.

Andrew dried his face on the soft cotton towel and regarded his reflection with disgust. No time to shave. He ran a comb through his hair and stepped into the trousers that Edwards had laid out for him the night before. He was dressed in record time and hurried to the library.

“Tell me you’re jesting, Dash.” He crossed the room to the coffeepot that Edwards had just delivered and poured them both a cup. Disdaining cream or sugar, he took his cup to his desk and sat, looking for a sheet of paper and a pen.

Dash brought his cup to sit across from Andrew. “Not jesting, Drew. And I believe I’ve already notified all our mutual friends,” he said in a quiet voice.

Andrew stilled and sat back in his chair. “What happened?”

“After you left us last night, Jamie and Charlie decided to go to Thackery’s and see what ladybirds might be available. McPherson and I went looking for friends down by the docks. You know McPherson’s fondness for opium dens.”