Her Wanton Wager (14 page)

"Good evening." His voice was as deep and dark as the netherworld. "I trust you haven't been here long."

He held out a hand, and she had no choice but to take it. Even through the layers of leather, his touch scorched her. She snatched her hand away the instant she was aboard.

"I arrived only moments ago myself," she said, scooting to the farthest corner.

To her relief, he took a seat opposite. His presence seemed to fill the plush velvet and leather interior, his clean, masculine scent curling in her nostrils. In the flickering light of the lamp, his features were rendered in harsh relief, his scar raised by shadows beneath it. Her lungs stretched to fill themselves as the enormity of the situation suddenly struck her.
I've a date with the devil.
By then, he'd shut the door, and the carriage spun into motion. Percy had the sensation of gliding into dark and uncharted waters.

The River Styx, perhaps.

"A lady who doesn't keep a man waiting," he said. "How unusual."

His mocking tone annoyed her and dispelled some of her nervousness. "When I sign my name to something, I follow through with it," she said tartly. "Where are we headed, Mr. Hunt?"

"I think we're better friends than that. Let us drop the formalities. Agreed ... Percy?"

"I repeat, Mr. Hunt, what is our destination this evening?"

"You wound me, Miss Fines." He sighed, not at all convincingly. "The fact of the matter is, where we are going is a surprise, so you will just have to wait."

Dash it. Had waiting turned into some sort of national exercise? If she got a penny for every time ... Disgruntled, she lifted the corner of the curtain and peered out at the passing darkness. They were headed down Pall Mall; they could end up anywhere.

She turned to him in exasperation. "Can't you at least give me a hint?"

"I suppose I could," he said. "But I have a better idea."

She gave him a wary look. "What sort of idea?"

"Quid pro quo. I'll tell you the destination if you'll answer a question of mine."

"Which is?"

He studied her with fathomless eyes. "Who is this gent you're infatuated with?"

Blood pulsed in her cheeks. "That is none of your business. And I'm not infatuated—I am in love." She quelled a quiver of uncertainty, raised her chin. "There is a difference."

"Either way, you want to kick up your heels for him, correct?"

"I do not want to ... to do that, you vulgar swine!"

"You don't wish to bed your gentleman, then?" Hunt said in innocent tones. "There must be something wrong with him. He's balding, perhaps ... or fat as our newly crowned King?"

"He is none of those things! Lord Portland is perfect—" Too late, she realized her error.

"You wouldn't mean
Viscount
Portland?" Hunt let out a low whistle. "For a merchant's daughter, you set your sights high."

Do not let him goad you. Remain calm.

"Can't say I blame you for not wanting to make the two-backed beast with that stick-in-the-mud. Though if I were you, I'd at least give it a try," he said. "You wouldn't want to discover on your wedding night that said stick is not in working order."

She kept her lips pressed together.

"Have you kissed him at least? He isn't as repulsive as all that?"

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 fripperies … 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.