A Regency Courtesan's Pride: More Than a Mistress / The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

Ignoring his burgeoning arousal, he sauntered around the table, replacing the balls, while he felt the touch of sparkling eyes on his body.

‘How many pieces of clothing do you think you are wearing?’ she asked.

‘Less than the number of points required to finish the game,’ he said, instantly guessing the direction of her thoughts.

‘Good,’ she said, but there was an undercurrent of nervousness behind her bold front. An unease. Unless he wanted her to be better than she appeared? Surely not?

‘You didn’t tell me you were an expert at this game,’ he said, rubbing the end of his cue with chalk.

Her gaze flew from the cue tip to his face. ‘I used to play with my grandfather all the time. It passed the long winter evenings and while we played he taught me about the mill.’

‘He sounds like a grand old gentleman.’

‘He was. A darling.’ Her face brightened. It was as if she’d lit a candle inside, she became so dazzling. The brightness wasn’t true, he realised. It flickered and wavered as if a sharp gust of wind would blow it out. But why would he care? He had enough baggage to shoulder of his own without delving into hers. She’d made it quite clear from the beginning of the evening that she was interested in a dalliance. The idea became more attractive as the evening wore on. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt quite so enlivened.

Her ball was easily accessible. His guarded the red. She played her next shot with consummate skill, knocking his aside and giving her access to the red ball.

He leaned in for his shot. A flick of the wrist and he struck the red and white in quick succession. They fired off into the centre pockets. ‘Seven points,’ he said calmly, straightening.

Her mouth dropped open. Her blue eyes were wide with shock, staring at the table. ‘You cheated.’

He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Oh?’ He raised a brow and stared down his nose. His ducal-heir-look, Robert always called it.

She flushed. ‘I mean, you pretended you were not very good at this game. Only an expert can make a shot like that.’

‘Are you wishing to forfeit the game?’

She stiffened, her gaze meeting his with blue sparks of anger. ‘Certainly not.’

As he’d suspected, Merry Draycott did not back down from a fight. The small qualm of contrition for goading her wasn’t strong enough to make him concede. ‘Seven items, then, Merry.’

She tugged three hair ornaments from her artfully arranged curls. Long black silky tresses fell to her exquisite sloping white shoulders. She placed the ornaments on the table with her pearls. Her bracelet followed. Her wince said that was the last of her jewellery.

She sent him a resentful glance and he tipped his head on one side as if completely unaware of her concern.

She glanced at his bare feet, sat down on a chair and started untying the ribbons around her ankles. Her hair fell forwards as black as a raven’s wing, hiding her face.

‘Do you need any help?’ he asked.

Chapter Three (#ulink_edac5291-dab4-5850-a29d-90e90937380e)

Merry felt a blush crawl up her face. ‘I can manage.’ She ducked her head, untied the bow at the back of her ankle and slipped the shoe off.

Oh Lord, seven points, he only needed four to win. And what would she have left to remove if he won another seven points? She should never have let him convince her to play such a shocking game. He had cheated. He had let her think he was a hopeless player.

And then, when he’d offered her a chance to forfeit, she’d let her pride speak instead of common sense. But a Draycott never backed down, be it in a bargain or a game.

The ribbon snagged. She tugged at it. The knot drew tighter.

His bare toes appeared within her vision, which was restricted to her feet, the hem of her gown and the carpet. He dropped to his knees. ‘May I help?’ he asked again.

The sound of his voice was like a taste of hot chocolate, warm and rich and wickedly tempting.

‘I can manage.’

He sat back on his heels. Sweeping her hair back, she glanced up at his face. His gaze remained fixed on her foot, on the knot. She let go a huff of impatience. ‘Very well. See if you can untie it.’

She couldn’t breathe. She had a huge fluttery lump stuck in her throat. Her mouth dried.

The wretch grasped her ankle and lifted her foot to rest on one knee. The heat of his hand, the feel of those long strong fingers taking the weight of her leg, sent ripples of pleasure through her body. She swallowed a gasp.

‘Such a pretty ankle,’ he murmured as he worked at the ribbon.

A melting sensation weakened her limbs. Oh, dear. If he made her feel this way with a touch on her extremity, how would she feel if he wanted to help her with her garter? She could not, nay, would not let him undo her like this. ‘La, thank you, sir,’ she said and was infuriated by the breathy note in her voice.

He glanced up at her face with a smile. ‘No need to thank me. I speak only the truth.’

The man was impossibly handsome when he smiled like that. A dark inscrutable devil with the expression of an angel. In her heart she knew it for what it was, an act, a flirtation, but he played his part so well he almost had her convinced.

She pointed at her foot. ‘The slipper, my lord.’

He bent his dark head to the task. His dark brown hair fell in thick luxurious chocolate-brown waves. She had the urge to touch it, to feel its texture. She gripped the chair arm instead.

He untied the ribbon around her ankle and slid the shoe from her foot, his palm caressing the arch. Delicious. Intoxicating. She wanted to wriggle her toes. She kept a bright smile fixed on her face. Bright and teasing, when inside she wanted to weep at the tenderness in his touch.

Gently he placed her foot on the ground. She wished she had a fan close at hand instead of a cue. She was glowing from the inside out. How could this be? She wasn’t some innocent schoolgirl to have her head turned by a handsome man. Particularly not one with a title. And yet she wanted to melt into this man’s arms. Feel that broad chest pressed against her breasts. Run her fingers through his hair and feel his strength beneath her fingers. Utter foolishness.

‘I don’t need your help with the garter.’ Her voice sounded strangled.

His head snapped up. ‘You disappoint me.’

She managed a quick calming breath and a light laugh. ‘Intentionally, sir. To allow such familiarity would be more reward than you have earned. Turn around.’

He stood. His rueful gaze made her heart beat just a little too fast. ‘Saving your life is worth so little, then?’

‘Unfair,’ she cried, laughing a little herself at the neat way he’d tried make her feel guilty. Oh, this man was a rake indeed and she was a fool to continue their game. ‘Am I not feeding you and giving you lodging as well as helping you wile away the hours before bed? ‘

His lips twitched, but he bowed and turned his back.

The clock on the mantel struck midnight. She glanced at it to make sure. She could not believe so much time had passed so quickly.

She leaped out of her chair, turned her back, in case he should decide to peek, and untied her garter, a pretty thing made of the finest lace from Nottingham she’d bought on a visit to look at their mills. She walked to the chair and laid it on top of his cravat. The rug felt odd under her stockinged feet, the silk no barrier to the rougher nap of the woollen tufts.

‘Let us finish our game,’ she said, trying to sound as if it didn’t matter that one of her stockings was slowly sliding down her calf, or that the heat inside her seemed to have reached the temperature of a furnace. He’d been right when he said their blushes would keep them warm.

Or her, anyway. He seemed remarkably unaffected.

‘It is my turn.’