Her Wanton Wager (15 page)

He'd never had a partner who could keep up with him this way, step for step. Whose blood—if the delicious flush upon her cheeks was any indication—seemed to burn as hot as his. Her movements matched his in perfect synchrony. To imagine a carnal pairing, that lithe body arching in rhythm to his thrusts ... his hand tightened on the supple curve of her spine as he spun her into another turn. Her red silk cape swished against his erection, and he bit back a groan.

Mayhap her dramatic nature was rubbing off on him because he was sure that he would die if he did not have her tonight. This minute. Wager or no wager. The melody slowed; the song was coming to an end. He had to strike while the iron was hot—and, hell's teeth, at this point
his
iron was on bloody fire.

"Thank you for the dance," he said. It required every ounce of willpower he possessed to release her from his grip. It wouldn't do to scare her off now. 

"That was so ... exhilarating." A needless statement, seeing as she spoke between fragmented breaths. Her eyes were brighter than the stars and thousand garden lights combined. "It was like flying ... like fl-fluttering ... like a butterfly." For some reason, she dissolved into giggles. "Oh, how I wish Signor Angiolini could have seen me!"

Gavin subtly pulled her along through the throng of dancers. "Who?"

"My dancing master. According to him, I dance with the delicacy of a bull."

"The man must be daft or blind. Both, actually." Scowling,        Gavin looked back at her. "Anyone with eyes can see you dance beautifully."

She grinned. "Thank you, but I know I have a depressing tendency to lead."

"You didn't have that problem with me," he said.

"I didn't, did I?" She sounded bemused.

He'd maneuvered her to the edge of the crowd and could see the maze of shadowed paths up ahead. The Lovers' Walks. There, the thick canopy of giant elms and dense foliage of bushes provided ample opportunity for trysts. Through the haze of lust clouding his brain, he tried to recall his plan for convincing her to plunge into unknown territory with him.

"Do you like fireworks, Miss Farnham?" he said.

"I do not like them. I
adore
them," she said.

"They will be set off soon, and I know a place to view them at their most spectacular."

A little crease appeared between her brows. "And where is that?"

Tread with care.
"Up ahead," he said casually. "There is a clearing with fewer lights. That way we can see the fireworks in their full splendor."

The merriment fled her eyes. She angled her head at him. "Surely you don't expect a proper miss to go traipsing into a dark and secluded place with a scoundrel bent on seducing her?"

Damn.

"An
ordinary
miss mightn't." He smiled the devil's smile. "But one never knows what Miss Priscilla Farnham will do."

THIRTEEN

Standing at the crossroads, Miss Priscilla Farnham looked from the well-traveled path to the one less taken. A minute ticked by. "Oh, what the hell," she said and gathered up her skirts.

—
from
The Perils of Priscilla
a manuscript-in-waiting by P. R. Fines

Percy didn't know what it said about her that she could never resist a challenge. Even as a girl, all her brother had to say was "I dare you," and she'd be off climbing the tallest tree in the park or stealing a pie from Cook. No matter how atrocious the outcome, it seemed she never learned.

Case in point? The present moment.

She looked at the fading lights behind and then to the shadowy darkness ahead. Already she and Hunt had passed by the magnificent Octagon temples, which marked the perimeter of the well-populated area. Now they were trespassing into a far more dangerous realm, one containing the infamous twisting walks and lovers' coves. Overhead, colossal elms waved their leafy arms like ancient magicians casting a spell.

A breeze shivered against her cheek, warm from the dancing and the punch … wait, how many cups had she had? Frowning, she realized she felt ever so slightly tipsy. She needed to regroup for a minute, reinforce the rules.

"Before we go any further, Mr. Hunt, I wish to remind you of our contract," she said.

He didn't break his stride. "I haven't forgotten the bloody thing." He looked this way and that, muttering, "The entrance to the clearing is here somewhere ..."

"So if I tell you to cease, you must cease." She cleared her throat. "In whatever you happen to be doing. Correct?"

He shot her a sardonic look. "Haven't I kept my word so far?"

He
had
honored his promises thus far, and the dancing had been sublime. Besides, people were still gathered here along the main walk, couples mostly, giggling and chatting in the manner of lovers. She had a moment's wonder about what it would be like to be here with Lord Charles instead of Hunt—but the notion was so inconceivable that she let it go. Instead, she inhaled the scent of flowering jasmine and woodsmoke, gravel crunching under her slippers as she followed her companion. From head to toe, she felt giddy with sensation. 

"It's marvelous here," she sighed. "I wish I could come all the time. Do you?"

Hunt was poking around in the bushes, an annoyed expression upon his face. "Do I what?"

"Visit Vauxhall. On a regular basis."

"Not usually." Stopping, he contemplated the gap between two elms. "This is the way to the clearing, I think."

She peered at the trail snaking into the blackness. "Are you certain? It looks rather dark in there. I don't see any indication of a break in the trees."

"I know where I am going," he said with a scowl. "Follow me, else we'll miss the fireworks entirely."

Rolling her eyes at the broad back in front of her, she followed him into the dense maze of hedges. Hunt cleared the way, chopping at the overgrown bushes with a snapped branch. The sounds of the gay crowd faded into the distance, and the ever-deepening dimness took on a surreal quality. The air was sultry against her skin, thickened with the scent of greenery and rich earth. Her heart seemed to beat in rhythm with the whoosh and whack of Hunt's makeshift scythe.

Yet not all adventures ended in success, and after a few minutes it became clear (at least to her) that they were not going to find what they were looking for. By that time, her slippers had accumulated enough pebbles to line a drive, and tendrils of the wig lay pasted against her sweaty forehead. 

"Hold up a moment, will you?" Percy said. They'd reached a small opening in the dense brush, what might have once been a lover's nook. The faint moonlight revealed a small bench covered in moss, and she cast herself upon it gladly. She removed one slipper, and gravel showered to the ground. "If you are lost, perhaps we should go back and ask for directions."

"I am not lost." Towering over her, Hunt spoke through his teeth. "I never get lost."

"You and most males," she said.

The dim light glazed the harsh planes of his face. "What did you say?"

"Oh, nothing of import," she said blithely. "No need to get in a lather. Why don't you relax and sit down, have a bit of a chat?"

He remained standing, hands braced on his lean hips, a perfect rendition of a thunderous Hades. Not exactly the type of man one invited for a
tête-à-tête
. For some reason, the notion made her want to giggle.

"What in blazes do you want to chat about?" he demanded.

Dare she ask the question burning in her mind? The punch must have loosened her tongue, for she said, "How did you get your scar?"

Silence greeted her question. After a few heartbeats, she said, "Um, if that is too personal—"

"It was a gift," Hunt said curtly. "From a friend."

"A friend?" Brow furrowing, she tipped her head to the side. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

When he failed to elaborate, she prodded, "Why would a friend hurt you?"

"Because it was better than the alternative," he said flatly. "Because people hurt one another. Friends, enemies, lovers,"—his eyes flickered, and a strange, answering twist emerged in her belly—"it's just a matter of degree."

"What a horrid, cynical notion," she said.

He shrugged. "'Tis reality. I'd wager you couldn't name one person you've loved who hasn't caused you pain."

She opened her mouth to snap back a reply ... and realized in astonishment that she had none forthcoming. She'd never doubted her family's love for her and yet ... An ache wriggled into her chest as she thought of Papa. Recalled the countless hours of her childhood spent waiting for him to come home. Longing for his attention, for more than the distracted pat on the head when she showed him her latest painting or poem. She'd so desperately wanted his approval, to be
seen
.

Perhaps to make up for Papa's absences, Mama had been wont to give the children extra attention. A little too much attention, as far as Percy was concerned. For as long as she could remember, she and her mother had been at odds over something—that something usually involving her wayward behavior. Percy knew that Mama meant to improve her hoydenish disposition; for some reason, however, the endless lectures only made her want to rebel
more
. With a stab of remorse, Percy thought of the grief she must have caused her mother over the years; the disappointment that had driven Mama to another Continent.

"Can't do it, can you?" Hunt said with a smirk.

"No one's perfect," she said, swallowing. "What matters is that I know they love me, and I love them. We'd do anything for each other."

"As you say." Hunt sounded bored.

A sudden boom sounded overhead. Relieved for the interruption, she looked upward.

"Do you hear that? Sounds like the fireworks, doesn't it?" As a series of whistles and booms followed, both of them looked up into the thick awning of leaves. She squinted. "Over to the left, I think I saw a bit of a red spark—"

Her words ended in a squeak. In a disoriented flash, she registered his hand covering her mouth and his arm trapping her at the waist. He'd dragged her off the bench, holding her captive against his rigid form. Panic and disbelief collided. After all his promises, he meant to assault her?

She began to struggle with all her might, but his arms confined her like steel bands. His fierce whisper heated her ear. "Be still. There are men afoot. They move like footpads."

Her eyes widened.
Footpads?

Before she could digest that piece of news, the dark figures emerged from nowhere. Three of them, large and menacing. Something glinted in their hands … She hadn't time to note anything else, for the next instant Hunt shoved her behind him. The force sent her sprawling into the brush. 

"Run," he roared.

Shock froze her in place. She couldn't run ... couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but watch as the three strangers circled Hunt like dogs a baited bear. One went in, blade raised. Hunt evaded the swipe of the knife and landed a blow to the cutthroat's jaw, knocking the man to the ground. In a swift movement, he reached into his boot, pulled out his own blade. Just in time, for the other two pounced upon him.

Hunt dodged their deadly attacks. He caught one of the brutes by the arm; there was a sickening crack like a twig being snapped, followed by a loud groan. But the last footpad took the opportunity to attack Hunt from behind.

"Behind you!" The words flew from Percy's lips.

Hunt pivoted in the nick of time. Barely. The blade missed his back but caught the edge of his domino. He cursed and launched himself at his assailant. They exchanged lethal swings of their knives. Hunt was quicker, fiercer; ducking the arc of his opponent's blade, he rammed his fist into the other's midsection, the force loosening the weapon from the man's grip.

Just as Hunt hauled his foe up by the scruff, Percy saw a sudden movement. One of the footpads—felled, she'd thought—grabbed Hunt from behind and collared him by the throat. Hunt gasped for air. His knife fell to the ground as his hands went to grapple with the choking hold.

"I got the bastard," the villain hissed to one of his partners. "Get yer blade an' finish 'im off."

Hunt struggled like a frenzied beast while the other brute rose, steel shining with sinister malice in his hand.
Two against one—the bastards!
Anger dissolved the last of Percy's panic, and, without another thought, she yanked off her slipper and rushed into the fray. She glimpsed the attacker's look of surprise the instant before she let loose the contents of her shoe. Gravel and sand sprayed him directly in the face.

"You bloody bitch!" he yelled, grabbing at his eyes.

Pulse pounding, she turned to Hunt; in the brief moment of distraction, he'd freed himself from his attacker's grip. He and his opponent crashed onto the ground, grappling. As she dashed over, Hunt gained the upper hand. His fist smashed into the other's face. The man groaned and lay limp.

A rustling came from the brush, the sound of rough voices.

"O'er here!" The blinded footpad shouted an alert to his comrades. "They're gettin' away!"

Hunt grabbed her hand. "
Run.
" 

FOURTEEN

He dragged her through the winding maze, his eyes scouting the darkness. He sensed that whoever they were, the ruffians were not far off. He had to get Percy to safety.

His lungs burned, his mind racing through the options. The cutthroats had planned their attack well, chasing him and Percy farther and farther away from the populated areas. Here, deep in the heart of Vauxhall's dark gardens, the bastards could slit their throats with none the wiser. Alone, Gavin might consider fighting them off, but he would not risk endangering Percy.

He would have to find some way to evade their pursuers.

He saw a wavering brightness in the distance, and it hit him. The bloody meadow. He'd found it at last. In the next instant, he recalibrated his sense of direction.