Regency Surrender: Ruthless Rakes: Rake Most Likely to Seduce / Rake Most Likely to Sin

‘There can be more than one villain,’ she replied coolly.

‘There may be, but they are not me. I was your best choice at that table.’

‘Were you? That’s an arrogant statement.’

‘I did not ravish you. You are still in possession of your virginity,’ Nolan pointed out, enumerating his evidence on his fingers. ‘I doubt the other men at the table would have allowed you to keep it. Secondly, and more importantly, you are still in possession of the choice regarding who to give that particular feminine jewel to. Thirdly, I offered to set you free of the wager.’ He was well aware she had artfully manoeuvred him into defending himself. This was not what he wanted to discuss. He wanted to discuss the count and whatever arrangement she had with that blackguard.

She arched a dark eyebrow over her coffee, unimpressed with his accomplishments. ‘You are a veritable saint.’

‘Does that make you the martyr in this scenario, then? We’re quite the pair, the martyr and the saint.’ In all likelihood they were both liars, hardly candidates for such religious monikers. She wasn’t forced to play the suffering victim. He’d given her the choice and heaven knew he wasn’t anywhere near a saint when it came to her. She’d been stunning in his white shirt when she’d entered the room, the tails skimming the tops of her knees, leaving her long, slim legs bare to his gaze, urging a man to run up their length until they disappeared beneath the fabric and the eye was drawn to the curve of hip visible only to the discerning eye beneath the fine linen, and above that, the slope and swell of her breasts, provocative reminders that every inch of her was naked beneath his shirt.

He had to get this conversation back on track before his mind and body decided he didn’t need to play the gentleman. He could have her, he could seduce a ‘yes’ right out of her, right now, an hour at most and they could both be enjoying that big bed in the other room. But in the long run, that wasn’t what he wanted. There would be no thrill in conning her into sex. He wasn’t sixteen any more, cajoling a lonely widow into bed just to see if he could do it. These days, the more sophisticated thrill was in the choice, in being chosen.

Nolan recrossed his legs and tried a different tack. ‘You are only protecting him with your refusal to answer. I confess to finding that a rather odd strategy to adopt on behalf of someone who sold you against your will.’ Nolan feigned nonchalance and reached for another piece of toast.

‘If I were in your position, I’d be furious. I’d want revenge.’ He looked up from buttering the bread and knew a moment of sweet victory. He had shocked her. She was trying to hide it, but it was there in the stillness of her body. It was funny how people found the truth shocking, their own truths even more so when repeated back to them. ‘Is that why you want to stay? Do you think I will help you with your revenge?’ He took a self-satisfied crunch of his toast. He’d hit the target.

‘It’s not revenge, exactly. I just want what is mine.’ Sweet Heavens, the man was a mind reader. If she’d been a target, he’d have hit the bullseye and she didn’t like it one bit. He would be so much harder to manipulate if he knew what she was up to. She knew now that she’d been naïve last night when she’d thought her luck might be changing. But, no, she’d managed to be won by the only mind-reading card player in Venice, a man who could see right through her, linen shirt and all. And he was looking. He had been since she’d entered the room. He might not have ravished her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested. A smart woman would use that to her advantage. He might be a mind reader, but he was still a man.

‘I couldn’t possibly consider leaving Venice without that which is mine.’ She dropped her eyes at the last moment, a gesture that was demure and well practised from hours in front of the mirror, designed for precisely this sort of situation. She didn’t want this disclosure to be a challenge, she wanted it to be...compelling. She counted silently in her head. One, two, three, four...come on, bite.

‘Why would you leave Venice?’ Nolan said at last.

That was the wrong bite. She wanted to scream. Why couldn’t he be curious the way a normal man was curious? Anyone else would have asked what the count had that was hers, which was precisely the question she wanted him to ask. Only in retrospect did she see how she’d overplayed her hand. She should have said nothing about leaving Venice. It gave away too much, it invited too many questions, questions Nolan Gray was well on his way to asking and she didn’t want to answer.

She speared him with a disdainful look that said the answer was obvious. ‘I can’t possibly stay in a city where everyone knows my guardian wagered me in a card game.’

‘Where will you go? Do you have plans?’ he asked, calmly unfazed by her attempt cut him down to size. He was trying to test her truth and her resolve, wondering how much of this was made up. He folded his hands over the flat of his stomach with long slender fingers that gave his gestures a touch of elegance. Those hands had undressed her last night, those fingers had worked the buttons of her gown. They’d been competent and swift, reminders that he knew his way around a woman.

She infused her tone with a touch of hidden despair. ‘I don’t know where I’ll go. I can hardly think of such things before I have my resources to hand.’ She tried again to lure him into asking the question she wanted. She wanted him to offer, wanted his assistance to be his idea. Men worked better that way and she had no intentions of owing any man anything ever again. She wasn’t going to beg him to help her—then she would owe him. There would be a debt between them.

‘I could loan you the funds, gift them to you, if that would help,’ Nolan offered. He was so very eager to get rid of her. That was interesting in itself. She needed to remember that. Last night he’d offered her freedom and now he was offering her money. Therein lay her leverage. She could bargain with her absence. She would leave as soon as she had what she needed. He would quickly see that his help would expedite that.

Outwardly, she opted for genteel chagrin. ‘I am not asking you for money!’ She flung an arm towards the bedroom. ‘I have enough pearls on that ruined gown in there to see me on my way and then some.’ And that pride went before her fall. She could almost hear proverbial fabric ripping as she metaphorically tripped. Nolan wasted no time calling her out.

‘Yes, you most certainly do, not to mention the necklace and earbobs. A resourceful woman could turn those into a comfortable living if she were frugal.’ A wide smile took his face, mischief lit his silver eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking quite satisfied with himself. ‘It seems we’ve established you could indeed leave Venice tonight, despite your earlier claim to the contrary. Now, why don’t you tell me what your father has that you so desperately need?’

‘He is not my father.’ If she had to give up some truth, it might as well be this one. ‘He’s my stepfather and not a very good one. That’s the sort of man who would sell his daughter’s virginity to cover a bet.’ The same sort of man who would propose to his stepdaughter and then threaten her when she refused such an unholy alliance. But she was not about to tell Nolan Gray that. She didn’t have to. No doubt he already surmised there was more to it than the count’s random whim to wager her. Cataclysmic events didn’t happen in isolation. They occurred as end results of a sequence of events that led up to them.

An honest shadow of sadness passed through his eyes. ‘I am sorry.’ For a moment, they were no longer embattled opponents; she trying to hold on to her secrets, he trying to pry them loose. They were allies of a sort and in that moment. She sensed his compassion transcending their agendas, as if he knew what it had meant to live with the count. The compassion was there, just as it had been when he’d dragged her out of the canal, helped her out of her gown, saw to her bath, asking nothing for himself in exchange, not even that to which he was entitled on the base of the wager.

Those three words, I am sorry, were more compelling than any argument he could have made, and, oh, how they tempted her to spill every last secret. Which of course was what he wanted. Logic waved its red flag. That’s what he wanted you to believe last night, just as he wants that now. He is using it to sneak past your defences. Trust like love was a very dangerous thing to give.

‘I won’t send you back,’ he said in even tones that matched the firm set of his jaw. There was a steel in him that had not been there before and it did things to her stomach she couldn’t blame on the brandy. ‘But perhaps I won’t have to. Perhaps he will come looking for you?’ He asked it casually, but she was not fooled. There was a feral tension uncoiling in him. ‘Tell me, Gianna, is the count dangerous?’

She thought of Nolan’s knife. He would be better able to protect her, maybe even more willing to assist her if she told him the truth about this as well. She gave him her second truth. ‘Yes.’

Nolan grinned. ‘Well, so am I.’

In more ways than one. Her mind-reading, knife-wielding, card-gambling, virgin-winning Englishman might protect her from the count, but who would protect her from him? She wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d offered out of altruism. He would expect to get paid.

Gianna wet her lips in a quick motion and untucked her legs, hoping to guide his response with the movements of her body. ‘What do you want in return?’ Her voice was low and throaty, a temptress’s tone.

‘What I’ve wanted all along, Princess.’ He let the words hang in the air long enough to make her pulse race, to steer her thoughts down a dark, seductive path, only to yank them ruthlessly back to reality. ‘I want you to leave.’ He rose and strode towards the door. ‘I have plans of my own and you do not figure into them. But since you won’t take my money or my offer of freedom, perhaps you will take my help.’

He opened the door as if he’d heard a silent knock. On cue, a porter stood there with two women and their trunks, their arms draped with the frills and lace that denoted feminine garments. ‘Thank you, Antonio. Ladies, do come in. You are just in time.’ In time for what? Gianna wondered. Nolan turned to her. ‘You’ll need clothes if we’re to do this. You can’t wear my shirt for ever.’ He fished a folded sheet of paper out of his coat pocket. ‘Signora, here is a list of the things we’ll need, perhaps you will also have some ready-made items to leave today.’

The dressmaker smiled knowingly. Gianna knew what the woman was thinking: here was a rich Englishman outfitting his Italian mistress, and she bristled at the implication. It was hard to hold on to one’s dignity dressed in a man’s shirt, no matter how good it smelled. ‘Signor, I know exactly what to do,’ she assured Nolan.

‘I know you do.’ He swept her a bow and then made one to Gianna. ‘I leave you in Signora Montefiori’s capable hands. If I have left anything off the list, please order it. I will see you tonight for supper.’

It took Gianna a moment to register what was happening. He was leaving her here, in this room, to be fitted for clothes while he went off and did who knew what with who knew whom. She was in no position to protest. What woman turned down new clothes? Certainly not the woman who literally hadn’t a thing to wear.

Besides, she had no claim on him. She could not make him stay nor, in reality, would she want him to stay. Right? On a practical level, being fitted for clothing was a rather intimate experience. Did she want him to be present while she stood in nothing but undergarments—assuming the dressmaker had brought some temporary ones—to be measured and draped, those grey eyes fixed on her for hours?

The thought made her hot. She was a wicked girl not rejecting the notion out of hand. But she needn’t worry about that particular event coming to pass. Nolan was gone, the door shutting behind him and his promises to return for dinner.

‘Signorina, if you will stand here?’ Signora Montefiori brought forward a small dais. ‘Allora! We will get started. We have a lot to accomplish this afternoon. We have a man to please, no?’ She clapped her hands, and her two assistants sprang into action; taking out measuring tapes and notepads from their baskets, opening the trunks and pulling out bolts of cloth. In a matter of minutes, the room could have passed for a dressmaker’s shop.

Signora Montefiori walked the perimeter of the dais, a finger tapping against her lips, murmuring indistinct sounds every so often. ‘Mmm-hmm, mmm... Ah, sì.’ Then, she stepped back and went to work, issuing commands to Gianna this time. ‘Raise your arms, straighten your shoulders...’

Gianna followed the instructions automatically, her mind disengaging from the process. Her mind was more interested in contemplating what had just happened with Nolan than it was in pins and fabric. Apparently, an accord had been reached: his help in exchange for her promise to leave so they could both get on with their lives. It was precisely what she wanted, except for one small catch. She wondered how he would feel once he discovered there wasn’t just one thing she needed to retrieve from the count, there were three.

She would have felt guilty about not fully disclosing that titbit if not for the fact that he’d done a little misleading of his own in an attempt to bilk information from her. He’d made his mind up to help her before they’d sat down to breakfast, before he’d been asking questions about the count. She’d not needed to persuade him. He’d already decided, yet he’d opted to play with her, to see what she would give up, what she would be willing to bargain with in order to get what he’d already decided to give.

The dressmaker was proof of it. He’d known down to the minute when she’d be outside his door, evidence that he’d arranged for her in advance; some time between getting drunk last night and getting dressed this morning. She’d got what she wanted. She should be ecstatic.

Gianna turned on the dais and held out her arms for another measurement. But the victory was hollow. He’d decided to help her and yet he’d still left, turning her over to strangers; proof that the help he offered was offered begrudgingly. His departure this afternoon made it clear assisting her wasn’t a priority, merely a means to an end. When that end was achieved, he’d wash his hands of her. Unless...unless she could entice him to keep her longer. He would have to want her more than he wanted his plans, whatever those might be.

That should be for the good. She didn’t want a lingering attachment any more than he did. When she had her things, she would pack up her new clothes, her pearls, and she would move on to a new life just as he would move on with his. It was what had been decided. By him. Maybe that was what galled her. She’d got what she wanted, because he’d decided to give it to her. Somehow, in spite of her best efforts to maintain control of the situation, the decision hadn’t been hers.

Chapter Eight (#u74f51329-3077-5fc2-9a52-b93f355dc298)

He’d made the decision to help her when he’d seen the little puddle of drool drying on her cheek that morning. It was the best conclusion Nolan could come up with as he lingered over coffee in Piazza San Marco, reviewing the last fourteen hours and his rather surprising capitulation this morning. It was slightly past four o’clock and the piazza was busy with late-afternoon strollers taking in the day before winter darkness fell.

In Venice, this had become his favourite time of day. He’d made a habit of sitting in the piazza, bundled up in his greatcoat and muffler, watching people, guessing their stories. He’d helped one young man a few weeks ago find the right words to mend a quarrel with his sweetheart. Words were simple enough things when you knew which ones you needed. Unfortunately, most people didn’t.

Usually, he had company; one of the many friends he’d made in Venice—novelists and artists, people like himself who made a living from understanding others, or the Austrian Countess Louisa von Haas, who was wintering here for Carnevale. She was an elegant, worldly woman who understood the physical pleasures available in such a setting. Nolan had availed himself of those pleasures on occasion. He was by no means the only man in Venice who had. But today, he sat alone—no artists, no writers, no temporary mistresses—and preferably so. Today, he wasn’t watching people as much as listening to his own thoughts.

Common sense dictated that if he’d truly wanted to be rid of her, he should have taken Gianna back to the count, returned her immediately to the security of her home. Only, there was no security to return to, something her reaction to his knife in the bathing room had confirmed long before she more explicitly confirmed it over breakfast. Of course, he hadn’t needed such confirmation. He’d known from the start. A man who wagered his stepdaughter was no protector at all.

Such a situation had found purchase with him. There’d been no security in his own home life growing up. Once he’d decided to leave his family, he’d had no desire to be returned there either. He certainly wasn’t going to inflict on her a fate he would not have wished for himself. He knew what it was like to be alone in the world, entirely reliant on one’s own resources. Frankly, it was scary, but the thought of going back was even more frightening.

He took comfort in knowing there was a basic explanation behind his motives for helping Gianna: his decision had merely been influenced by the experiences of his own past. Those experiences had been helped along by emotions such as the elation he’d felt when he’d realised she hadn’t stolen from him. The drool had been the pièce de résistance. She’d looked vulnerable and young asleep on his bed, hardly a femme fatale to be feared and thrown out into the world to fend for herself, but a person in need of some luck.

He’d decided he could be her luck as long as that luck didn’t extend beyond giving her a place to stay for a few days, buying her some clothes and offering her some money. Those items wouldn’t interrupt his plans and at present he had the funds to spare. Venice at Carnevale had proven very lucrative. That was as far as he was willing to go and that was the plan he’d had in place before breakfast. Anything more would have to be refused. But that’s not what had happened.

At breakfast, everything had changed. She’d refused his initial position, turned down his money, and then had the audacity to renegotiate with him. Somewhere between his third and fourth piece of toast, he’d found himself straying from his original offer to an offer of actual physical assistance. In return, she would leave after he helped her retrieve something from the count. Goodness knew what that might be and what it might involve. Certainly, it would involve covert action and that meant it would involve risk. He would be ready for it. To that end, he had two more stops to make before dinner. The sooner they could expedite their association the better.