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

He bowed and gestured for her to continue.

She inhaled a deep breath, forcing her unruly thoughts back in control. She needed seven points to have any hope of winning this game. She had done it in the past. Not often. And not for a very long time. She looked at the table, the balls back in position. It would not be an easy shot.

She steadied herself against the table and lined up her cue. Her mouth felt terribly dry and her hands were shaking. The hit on the red was clean, it cracked nicely and shot across the table spinning, while her cue ball downed his ball in the nearby corner. The red ball hovered at the edge of the centre pocket and stopped.

It stopped. Surely it would topple over. She stared at it. Willing it to move. A fraction.

She could not believe it.

‘Oh, too bad,’ he said and sounded sincere.

She shrugged. ‘I won four points.’ She’d wanted seven.

‘We could take it as potted. It is so close.’

Her back stiffened. ‘I’m not a child, sir. I haven’t lost yet.’ She brushed her hair back from her shoulders. ‘You have four items to remove, remember?’

He smiled and shrugged. He took off his waistcoat and watch, then slowly released the buttons of his shirt, all the while keeping his gaze on her face.

Heat blazed in her cheeks. She was having trouble breathing and she couldn’t look away.

He tugged the shirt free of his waistband and pulled it off over his head, tossing it on his growing pile of clothing.

He was beautiful. ‘Oh, my,’ she whispered.

Merry had never seen such a virile gorgeous male. Not out in the fields at haymaking or in the mills, where the men often discarded most of their clothing in the heat of the summer. And certainly Jeremy had looked nothing like this. Although she’d been fascinated at the sight of his body, she’d not been in awe.

The lean and heavily muscled Tonbridge, with his skin of pale gold as if he sometimes exposed it to the sun, left her breathless. The scar, puckered and white, ravaging tight sculpted flesh from breast to hip, emphasised the perfection of his form.

She felt a strange urge to touch the scar, to run her fingers along its length, to press her lips to it as if somehow she could make it disappear. A little shiver ran down her spine. Pleasure. Lust. She knew it for what it was, but had it firmly under control. Didn’t she?

She raised her eyes once more to his face. He was watching her closely as if trying to read her reaction. Perhaps other women were repulsed by the sight of his ruined flesh. A tension that had not been there before invaded the room.

Oh, there had been tension, between them. The sort of electricity one felt before thunderstorms as they fenced verbally. She had found it quite exciting. This, however, felt more like the undercurrent in a fast-flowing river. An irresistible tug of unseen emotions.

She forced a bright smile. ‘What will you remove next?’

He chuckled. A deep sound in his lovely broad chest. ‘Not much left for either of us.’

And it was his turn to play. This was going to be very embarrassing. Four points would be bad enough. Seven would have her completely disrobed.

‘Do you want to stop here?’ he asked.

Why did he have to be so gentlemanly? And yet there was a knowing look in his eyes as if he guessed she would never forfeit a game. ‘That would be cowardly,’ she managed.

Her gaze darted from his face to his chest. ‘What happened to you?’

‘A sabre.’

‘Duelling?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I think duelling is a foolish pastime,’ she said, frowning at the scar. ‘Real men resolve their problems without hacking each other to pieces.’

The hobnail-booted grasshoppers had returned. This time they were running around in a frenzy. Out of self-defence she turned her attention to the table. It didn’t help, because he walked around retrieving the balls from her last shot, his upper arms bulging and stretching as he replaced them on the table.

She took a deep breath and realised with horror her hands were shaking and damp.

He leaned a hip against the edge of the table. ‘My shot.’

His shot. This was going to be a disaster.

He leaned over the table and his elbow slid smoothly forwards, but he dropped his shoulder. His ball missed the red by such a small fraction, for a moment she was sure he was about to get another seven.

Relief flooded through her body in a hot wave.

He stood staring at the table as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. ‘By Jove,’ he said, frowning.

‘You lowered your shoulder at the last minute,’ she said.

He grimaced and removed his signet ring. It tinkled against the other jewellery as he set it down with a snap.

He took a deep breath and the underlying bones in his chest expanded, drawing attention to the narrowness of his waist and lean hips, though she tried her best not to let him see she had noticed.

She was going to win. He had almost nothing left to remove. She wiped her hands on her gown. She ought to stop now. She really ought to.

But he needed taking down a peg or two.

And she wasn’t going to look when he removed the last of his clothes.

Not one peek. He would remove them and leave.

‘Your turn, Merry.’

For some reason, she loved the way he said her name. It was as if he savoured each syllable and consonant. As if he tasted them on his tongue.

‘Yes,’ she said. Her hands trembled. She didn’t need to do anything fancy. Put his ball in the corner pocket.

‘Whenever you are ready,’ he said quietly.

She jumped. Desperate to have this over and done she took her shot quickly, neatly caroming off the red, the ball ricocheting into the pocket at the end of the table.

He made a sound like a laugh quickly stifled.

A second later she realised why. She’d downed her own ball.

‘Hell,’ she said.