Never Resist Temptation (21 page)

C
andover won the cut and dealt first, giving Anthony the early advantage. After five hands he was comfortably ahead, by seventy-three points. It all came down to one deal.

Candover held the elder hand and the opportunity for a big score. Nevertheless, only by a disaster could Anthony lose now. He dealt out the thirty-two cards, two at a time. Twelve cards each and eight in the stock for discards. It took tight control for his fingers not to shake as he picked up his hand and inspected it with an expert glance.

Disaster.

As an elder hand it wouldn't have been impossible. Seven spades, lacking only the king. The king and a small card each in hearts and diamonds. And the seven of clubs. But his opponent would both declare and lead first, giving him the possibility of winning the big bonuses for a pique or repique.

Candover took all five discards to which he was entitled, and Anthony, with the option of only three cards
to exchange, assessed his opponent's hand and his own chances.

Unless he picked up the right cards the best he could hope for would be a tie in the match, and then only if he played perfectly. But if Candover held the cards to score a repique Anthony's lead would be wiped out and more.

He gazed at the three cards remaining in the stock. Without improving his hand, he had almost no chance of avoiding defeat. Yet what to discard? His best hope was to pick up the king of spades, which would give him a winning hand. It would be helpful, and probably avoid defeat, if one of those three cards was an ace. And yet he couldn't maximize his chances by taking three discards without losing his guard in one of the red suits. If the gamble failed his loss was inevitable.

Anthony never gambled. He knew the rules: play according to the odds and you'll always come out a winner. And he almost always did.

Almost. That was the crux of the matter. In this case
almost
wasn't good enough. He craved certainty.

He tried to calculate the odds, as he'd done a hundred times. His brain felt thick and dark, like the chocolate custard he'd disdained at dinner.

He fingered the seven of clubs, the one card he could safely do without. What were the odds that a discard of only one would improve his hand? God help him, he couldn't think.

Candover was grinning like a cat who'd found a salmon. He knew what he held and what it meant, as
well as Anthony did. With an effort of will Anthony brought his mind to bear on the problem, forced all emotion from his thought process, and concentrated on mathematics.

He knew the answer.

It was unacceptable.

He thought of Jacobin, waiting to hear whether she was about to be turned over to her vile uncle. Although, of course, she'd refuse to go. He'd end up paying the twenty thousand and that didn't matter to him; he'd gladly pay twice, three times as much to save her. But too late he realized that wasn't the point. It never had been. She'd been right all along.

He stood up. Threw the cards on the table.

“I'm sorry, my lord,” he said. “I can't go through with this. I regret that I must call off the wager.”

“Then I get the cook!” Candover cried triumphantly.

“No,” Anthony insisted. “The bet is off.”

Followed by bellows of rage and threats of social ruin, Anthony walked out of the room.

 

He found her in the bedroom. She stood before him, her dress crushed as though she'd been lying down in it, and her eyes reddened. She'd never looked more beautiful. He reached for her, aching for her warmth, aware in the depths of his heart that only Jacobin's touch could console him.

The raised flat of her hand held him off. Her eyes were stormy, implacable.

“So, Storrington. Have you come to deliver me to my uncle?”

“No—”

“Oh, you won, did you? Just as you predicted. I suppose you think that makes everything
magnifique.
” She didn't actually spit at him but she might as well have.

“I didn't play, or at least I did but it wasn't the way you think—”

She wasn't listening. She'd worked herself into a fine state of fury and strode around the room, firing off French insults and gesticulating with clenched fists. “
Merdeille!
Do you feel better now,
bâtard
? Has victory made up for all the ills of your miserable life?
Tricheur!
”

“Listen, you little spitfire—”

“You played with Candover and left me out here—alone—for hours. How dare you speak to me? How dare you even try to excuse yourself? So, my lord. Did you ruin my uncle? Are you happy now? All I have to say is take your victory and put it—”

“Stop!” he shouted, grabbing her wrists. “There was no victory.”

The words, spoken slow and loud, penetrated her ire. The flailing body stilled and she stared at him, mouth hanging agape in mid-tirade.

“There was no victory,” he repeated. “If anything I lost much more than my chance at revenge. I'll most likely be thrown out of my clubs and shunned by most of London's polite society.”

“That can't be true. How can they throw you, an earl, out of anywhere? Unless…
Mon Dieu
, did you cheat?”

“Not quite that bad, but almost. I walked out of the game holding a losing hand. 'Struth, I can't believe I did such a thing.”

She didn't appear shocked, though at least he had her attention. Women just didn't understand these things.

He sighed and let go of her wrists to run both hands through his hair. “I suppose I'd better tell you what happened.” He slumped onto a bench at the foot of the bed.

Jacobin perched on the edge of the mattress, but not so close that he could reach her. Once the initial blaze of rage burned off she felt calmer and prepared to listen, though she castigated herself as a weak creature for doing so. He looked haggard and sounded so desolate she felt her foolish heart soften.

“You asked him to play cards?” she prompted.

“Yes. Or perhaps he asked me,” he said slowly. “I'm not sure. He was just as eager for the game as I.” He smiled at her warily. “Your cooking pleased him excessively.”

“I knew he wouldn't be able to resist those dishes, the pig. Go on.” She didn't add that Candover had discovered who she was, though she couldn't have said why.

“We played for a while, then I suggested we increase the stakes.”

“Did you offer me?”

“No, I didn't want to. I tried to make him play for money but he refused. Then
he
suggested playing for your contract of service.”

Her heart thudded. “How much?” she whispered.

“Twenty thousand again.”

“Did you agree?” She could hardly breathe.

“Not at first. But then—” He stopped and turned his head aside, and she found it hard to judge his expression. “But then…he called me a coward.”

Foolish male pride, she thought with returning irritation.

“He called me a coward, just like my father. And he said my mother was mad.”

“The filthy bastard! Poisoning was too good for him. I wish he'd choked on a
vol-au-vent
!” Even she could see how unbearably Anthony had been provoked, deliberately so if she knew anything about Candover.

“So I agreed.” He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands. “I'm so sorry. I should never have agreed. In my damnable arrogance I thought I couldn't lose.” He looked up again and his lips stretched in a smile without a hint of humor. “You were right about that, of course.”

“Finish the story,” she said gently.

His voice was flat. “We played and I was winning. Then in the final hand, the cards turned against me. The chances were minuscule that I would win. And I couldn't go through with it.”

Candover must have been furious. Jacobin had spent her life among French liberals and English servants,
giving her an imperfect perspective on the values of the English upper classes. But she hadn't spent all those years in the household of an English gambler without learning about the sanctity of the wager.
A gentleman never reneges on a bet. A gentleman always meets his debts of honor.
The refrain roared through Hurst Park whenever her uncle hit a losing streak and came home to demand Edgar find the money in the estate.

She didn't set much store by Candover's maxims, given his complete lack of any quality she found gentlemanly. But Anthony shared those values. By ending the card game he'd violated every tenet of his upbringing. He'd been wrong, dreadfully wrong, to agree to her uncle's stake, yet he'd atoned for his sin in a spectacular fashion.

“And he called you a coward! He was wrong. What you did took great courage. And you did it for me.”

“When it came to the point I found I couldn't risk you.”

She jumped up and in an instant was in his lap, cradling his head in her hands and covering his face with kisses. She caressed his head and made soothing noises. His face, which had over the weeks become so dear to her, was drawn and weary. He needed consolation. In fact he deserved it. She kissed him on the lips, stroking the tips of her fingers around his ears.

He seemed to like that, emitting a little guttural sound of appreciation, so she did it some more, and ran her tongue along the seam of his mouth. It opened and welcomed her in while his arms returned her embrace,
exploring the curves of her body even as hers moved lower to revel in the muscular contours through superfine cloth. They kissed deeply and hotly, as though they would devour each other.

“I need you so much,” he said softly between kisses, and the desire in his syrup-thick tones matched the swelling of his body beneath her legs. She needed him too. She was in bliss after the dismal hours waiting for him to come, fearing that he wouldn't, in despair because he seemed to have made the wrong choice.

“Wait a minute,” she said, drawing back. He gave a moan of protest and moved to recapture her lips. She placed a hand over his mouth. “You made me wait here all evening for you. You might have sent me a message at least.”

“I didn't know you were here. I never looked on the terrace until after the card game. I didn't expect you.” He hugged her tightly. “Thank you for being here.”

It was even better than she'd thought. He'd come to his senses without the incentive of bedding her. He deserved a reward and she was most willing to provide it.

“Come to bed,” she said.

S
he disengaged from his lap and stood up to look at him, her head tilted to one side, chestnut curls an untidy halo around her roguish face.

Yes, oh yes
. Desire surged through him as he followed her to his feet in one smooth movement. She touched his neck cloth, and even that small contact made him think about that hand, graceful yet so capable, touching bare skin. The muscles of his torso quivered.

“Are you going to act as valet?” he growled.

Her mouth curved and he wanted to consume her whole. “If you'll be my lady's maid.” The smile broadened. “You're rather large for a maid. But that hint of a beard will play havoc among the footmen.”

“And you,” he said, holding her by the shoulders at arms' length and scanning her figure appreciatively, “are, for a change, not dressed like a valet. Not that I'm complaining. That style”—he waved his arm in imitation of the curves so delightfully complemented by her frothy white gown—“a new fashion?”

“A very old one. I found it in the wardrobe.”

“Turn,” he ordered, and loosened the strings gathering the neckline of the dress, untied the sash, and relished the warm silken skin under his fingers as he slipped it down her shoulders.

“Wait,” she said, holding the wispy fabric at her elbows and turning again to face him. Her voice dropped an octave. “Hm. I'm a very good valet, I think. Your
cravate
is very well arranged.” She patted the elaborate waterfall of starched linen.

“You can't take credit for it. I always tie my own,” he whispered. He couldn't be expected to concentrate on playful banter when she was naked almost to the waist. His hand reached out to cup one breast, small but sweetly rounded and soft to the touch, to sense its gratifying weight against his palm. He flicked the strawberry pink tip with his thumb, eliciting a purr from deep in her throat.

She unwound the cloth from his neck and unbuttoned his shirt as his other hand mimicked the actions of its mate. Then she put her arms around his neck and drew his head down for a kiss, and all he could think of was that she was too far away. He crushed her against him and still she wasn't near enough, so he tugged at her skirt, searching beneath it, and his questing hand found…a petticoat. And another and another until finally—oh triumph!—satin skin and no drawers.

With an incoherent grunt of approval he used both hands to push aside the layers of material and cradle the firm, soft curves of her bottom. And, wonderfully,
she raised herself on tiptoe to rub her core against the hardness straining through his trousers.

“You're not doing your job,” he muttered. “I'm still wearing a lot of clothes.”

She grinned at him wickedly. “I'm afraid I'm not up to the task. My fingers don't seem to be working properly. I resign.” And broke away from him to back onto the bed, where she faced him, half seated, half reclined, supported behind by her elbows, long elegant legs parted and emerging from a sea of white froth.

She was the personification of allure, from the enticing smile on her full raspberry lips to her dainty feet, one bare and delicately arched, the other still partly hidden by a beaded slipper hanging from the tips of her toes. He couldn't resist and made no effort to do so. Urged by the need to possess her, to drive himself into her delectable body and forget every trouble in the world outside the Queen's House, he tore off his shirt and unfastened and lowered his nether garments with unthinking agility; threw himself on her and pulled up her skirts again, intent only on finding the haven he ached for.

Unmistakably, she flinched. With a superlative effort he made himself draw back. He lay beside her on the bed and gathered her into his arms, burying his face in the curve of her shoulder, where vanilla-scented curls tickled his nose. In his own need he'd forgotten her inexperience.

Jacobin was ashamed of herself for revealing her momentary panic. She wanted him as much as he seemed to want her. The logical side of her brain knew there'd be no pain this time, but another part of that organ, over which she seemed to have no control, remembered the shock of their first, abortive coupling.

“I'm sorry,” he said through deep breaths. “I'm going too fast. We don't have to do this if you're not ready.”

She took his head between her hands and they lay face-to-face on the mattress, inches apart, eyes locked, guilt discernible in his expression. Her first impulse was to deny her reluctance, but she wanted honesty between them.

“I'm just a little afraid,” she said softly, “though I know it shouldn't hurt this time. I do want you, very much.”

One of his hands, firm and warm, reached between her thighs, and she knew she was wet there as he stroked the spot he'd once driven mad with his mouth.

“I'm glad you're not totally unprepared,” he said, “but I was a selfish brute not to make sure. Let's take this slowly. I want your trust as much as I want you. What would you like me to do?”

“I like that,” she said, her voice wavering as he continued to caress her.

“What else?”

“I don't know. I don't know much about this.”

“Is there anything you'd like to do to me? Any way you'd like to touch me?”

She shivered, some half-formed thoughts tumbling through her mind, but she shook her head. He removed his hand, and she gave a moue of disappointment.

“Let's play a game,” he said. “We'll tell each other what we'd like. It can be very…arousing, you know.”

She didn't know and he must have read bafflement in her face.

“I'll go first. Stand up.” He was on his feet and reached a hand down to her. Without another word she obeyed his gesture and followed him to the cherrywood dressing table. He arranged her on the backless seat, her bare buttocks on the velvet cushion, skirts spread about her.

“Have you ever been to the opera?” he asked.

“Once, when I was a little girl in Paris,” she replied, puzzled.

“Picture yourself in a box at a theater. The table in front of you is the wall of the box and you're looking out at the crowds in the pit. The stage curtains are drawn, waiting for the performance to begin.”

She could see him in the mirror, standing behind her. His lips twitched.

“Tut, tut,” he said. “You're displaying rather more than is seemly in public. We'll have to do something about that.” He leaned in from behind and, without even brushing his fingers over her flesh, raised the top of her dress to conceal her breasts and carefully tightened and tied the drawstring and the sash. She
wanted to cry out, tell him to touch her not cover her up. “That's better. Me too,” he added, fastening his trouser buttons.

Their eyes met in the glass, his more blue than gray and glowing sensually. She ached for his hands on her, yet found something erotic in his distance, making her keenly aware of velvet under her thighs while her mind conjured other sensations on her skin.

“The orchestra is beginning to play now and the curtain goes up. You are lost in the music.” She closed her eyes, envisioning the scene, the scent and heat of oil lamps, the sounds of the crowds below her mingling with that of harmonious singing. Ever aware of the man standing behind her, and of his voice, the dearest sound in the world to her.

Suddenly she felt cool air at her lower back and opened her eyes. He was leaning over her and raising her skirts, which he tucked into the back of her sash.

“I stand behind you,” he continued, low and husky, “and I care nothing for the opera, only for you. I want you now. So I raise your skirts and caress your sweet little rump.” He made no move to touch her but her inner passage throbbed at his words, and she leaned forward over the dressing table and involuntarily arched her back, further exposing her bottom.

“Yes, my love. Slide back on the seat and open yourself to my hands as I stroke your silken skin. So smooth, so perfect.”

In the mirror she held his torrid gaze, the cool gray
eyes transformed into a stormscape of roiling seas and St. Elmo's fire. And groaned with frustration as he continued to stand motionless.

“Hush, my love. The people in the next box will notice what we're doing if you make a sound. Lean on the padded front of the box and fix your attention on the stage so that I can pleasure you without anyone noticing.”

Gritting her teeth, she rested her arms on the dressing table. Who would have known mere words could be so arousing. So frustrating.

“Now I kneel behind you and kiss every exposed inch, run my tongue along the valley between your buttocks, and my fingers tangle in your hair and slide into your hot, wet center to tease you where it feels best.”

She'd give him tease! She was going to scream if he didn't touch her soon.

But he used words alone, describing what he did to her with his hands and lips, lavishly praising her response, graphically delineating his own reactions. Words that aroused her to a peak of longing without his laying a single finger on her.

Her breath came in gasps and she was an inferno, ready to explode, to shatter into a shower of embers. Maddened beyond reason she shifted to kneel on the velvet seat, thrust her face into her arms on the dressing table and raised her behind above parted thighs to offer herself to him.

“You're so hot, so wet, so ready for me. And I'm
so
ready for you, hard and aching.”

“Anthony,” she cried. “Now! For God's sake now!”

“Quiet, love. Not long now. I'm undoing my buttons.” She couldn't see or hear anything and feared he was doing nothing of the sort. She was becoming insane with lust.

“Now!” he said. “Now at last I'm inside you, thrusting into you, feeling you warm and slick and tight around me. You're adorable, driving me wild.”

He was driving her wild. She was on the edge of that ecstatic tumble into oblivion, but she couldn't quite get there on words alone. She cried out his name in frustration.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” he shouted in an escalating rhythm. Then with a final cry of triumph he fell silent. And sighed. “That was perfect.”

And that was all.

After some moments she struggled to her feet in disbelief. “You can't leave me like this!” she shrieked, slewing around to face him. He was grinning at her, but she was glad to see lines of strain about his mouth, a hint of her own dissatisfaction mirrored in his eyes. And judging by the bulge in his trousers, he was far from done for the evening.

“Fun, isn't it,” he said, reaching for her and drawing her into his embrace.

“Fun! Fun?” she fumed. “I'll give you fun.”

“Later,” he said, still smiling. “Don't forget what I said about anticipation.”

He looked so pleased with himself she had to smile back. “You are outrageous. Would you actually do that in a crowded theater.
Have
you ever?”

“The thing about fantasies is that they don't have to be something you'd care to do in real life. The answer is no and no. For a start the box walls are the wrong height and the chairs have backs. Worse still, everything would be in full view of the people in the adjoining boxes, and this isn't something I like to do with an audience. But one can dream.” He kissed the top of her head. “Now it's your turn.”

“Turn for what?”

“To tell me what you want to do to me. I should think you'd have some ideas after that.”

“I most certainly do,” she said, her voice rising with the return of a kind of annoyance. “What I'd like to do is tie you to the posts of that bed so you can't move.”

“Yes?” he prompted. He didn't seem at all upset at the notion. “Then?”

She recalled their adventures with the profiteroles and cream. “Then I'd cover you with
crème chantilly
over every inch of your body and lick it off, especially”—she pointed at the bulge between his thighs—“
there
. And then I'd leave you before you were satisfied.”

He roared with laughter and tightened his embrace. “I adore you, Jacobin, though that's not very kind. At least in my fantasy
you
were satisfied.”

“You didn't say so.”

“Didn't I? Well, I assure you that you were. And I promise you will be in truth before much more time passes.”

She was relieved to hear it and looked longingly at the bed. Any hint of dread had vanished, and she couldn't
wait to become horizontal again. He was nuzzling her ear and creating new tremors in her eager body.

“Come to bed,” he said.

He was rock-hard and almost dizzy with longing. Seduced as much as she by his own words, he'd had to exert every bit of control he could muster not to make his fantasy real. But this wasn't just any woman. This was Jacobin, the most important thing in the world to him. He wanted, needed, to show her that he'd changed, that his selfish concerns were dust in the wind compared to her happiness. So he hesitated, his ingrained self-confidence dissolved with his arrogance. How could he make it perfect for her?

“Well?” she asked with a touch of impatience. “Should we undress?”

Trust her to not wait for his lead. For a moment he'd made the mistake of imagining her a shrinking violet. Yet she'd never shown a hint of shyness or diffidence. Not his Jacobin. She charged into events headfirst, and he suspected he could spend the rest of his life happily following her.

She ran a hand over his bare chest and rubbed a nipple with her thumb. His cock burgeoned and ached harder, though he wouldn't have thought it possible. “Look at me,” she said. “I'm fully dressed and you should be dismissed for incompetence.

“
Mon lapin. Mon coeur
,” he whispered, untying the strings at her neckline again.

“Your French is improving.” She replaced her thumb with her mouth.

Without finesse he reached behind her and jerked at the sash. She shrugged the loosened gown from her shoulders, and it fell to the ground with a muslin rustle. Then she set her lips to the other nipple and used her tongue to play with it.