Wicked Wager Read online

  Aunt Branwell did not exhibit the distaste and horror Celeste felt was justified by such talk.

  ‘Such cruelty is bred of the boredom that comes from having nothing meaningful to do with one’s life,’ her aunt went on. ‘Lord Peregrine has had his every whim granted since the cradle. Both his parents were dead by the time he was nine. He was made the ward of a wastrel of an uncle who managed the estate and who creamed off a considerable proportion, I might add, before he died of his excesses. Meanwhile, Lord Peregrine was brought up by nurses and nannies and encouraged to indulge his appetite for whatever he chose as soon as he was old enough.’ She seemed to be gaining animation from her talk. ‘He’s known no civilising influences since his father—a reformed reprobate himself —drowned in the river accident that took Lord Peregrine’s mother. Nevertheless, I do not believe Lord Peregrine is a bad man. And certainly not the kind who would set out to ruin an innocent young woman for a wager. Or at least, to follow through on such a wicked wager, and that, I would argue, is an important distinction.’

  ‘I believed he loved me.’ Celeste fingered one of the cream rosettes that adorned her gown. She didn’t care that Mary, who was fastening her into her wedding finery could hear. In the eyes of the world Celeste was more than damned and now she was being banished. She could sink no lower.

  ‘And he may well have.’ Aunt Branwell twisted her hands in her lap, her look thoughtful. Briskly she added, ‘But sometimes that’s not enough, my dear. Now, Mary, more rouge for my niece. Let no one tonight assume she’s the dispirited creature she has every right to be.’ She chuckled. ‘My goodness, Celeste, suddenly I’m starting to look forward to this ball assembly. At least, I’m looking forward to testing whether my theory is true.’

  ‘But I’m not going to the ball assembly, Aunt Branwell.’ Celeste threw her a stricken look. ‘I’m to be married in the morning.’

  Aunt Branwell seemed to come to a sudden decision. Clasping Celeste’s wrist as she rose, she asked with quirked lips, ‘Are you afraid that people will talk?’ She stared at their twin reflections in the looking glass. ‘Of course they will, but they’re talking already. Celeste, you have one final chance to speak to Lord Peregrine before you are forever condemned to a life that you know offers you nothing but the greatest unhappiness.’ She sobered as she turned to look at her niece. ‘Tonight you’re still under my care: I would desire that you accompany me to Lady Belcher’s ball.’

  ‘I don’t think I have the fortitude to go out tonight, Aunt,’ Celeste whispered as she moved away from Mary, who was holding the rabbit’s foot loaded with rouge.

  Her aunt seemed not to hear her. ‘You’ll have to change your dress, too, of course. I think the cloth of embroidered gold would be just the thing.’

  ‘No, Aunt. I can’t! I had that made especially for my first public engagement with Raphael.’

  ‘Humour an old woman. I would like to see you wear it tonight.’ Her smile was grim and determined. ‘Unless, of course, you really do want to spend the rest of your life as Raphael’s slave.’

  While Celeste was quaking with terror at the mere idea of going out in public, her aunt looked as excited as if she were contemplating her first ball. Once a highly reluctant Celeste was dressed, she raked her niece’s finery with a frown.

  ‘Celeste, you are a far more enticing prospect than Lady Busselton. Tonight I grant you licence to try one last gambit to make him see the truth. Charge his lordship with the fact he was a calculated cad in setting out to ruin you and hear him out when he denies it, or at least tries to excuse himself. My belief is that he truly accepts that what he saw with his own eyes was simple evidence you and Harry Carstairs have been enjoying a dangerous liaison behind everyone’s backs.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Except that everything we both know about Harry Carstairs refutes the possibility of such a thing. Somebody had a very different motive for engineering your ruin, Celeste, and I don’t believe it was Lord Peregrine. Tonight is your last chance to discover who wanted to discredit you, and why.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Was her heart black with sin or was she a blameless angel?

  Lord Peregrine had never felt so conflicted in his life as he sat opposite Xenia on their short ride to their evening’s entertainment. No, he was not thinking about Xenia. As ever, his thoughts centred upon Miss Rosington.

  He glanced at his well-turned calves in his white silk stockings, above silver buckled shoes and below his black pantaloons. Carstairs used false padding to create what Perry had been granted in a generous allocation of physical attributes at birth. What would prompt Miss Rosington to choose that puny physical specimen Carstairs over himself?

  Then there was the opposite conundrum. If she spoke the truth when she declared she’d been the one deceived, could she truly believe Perry was behind her fall from grace? And if Miss Rosington had indeed been set up to appear a jezebel with Carstairs, then who stood to profit by her ruin?

  He directed a suspicious look at Xenia. She wanted Perry, there was no doubt about that.

  And yet …? Xenia was devious. Could she have had a hand in orchestrating something that appeared quite unrelated to her real motivations?

  With a sigh, he returned to the night at hand. The ball was being held at a beautiful estate by the river. It would provide many an opportunity for secret trysts behind spreading elms along meandering walks. Perry knew Xenia well enough to know it was what she planned.

  Dalliance, however, was the last thing on his mind. No, he needed answers. Answers as to why Miss Rosington was in that bed, naked, with Harry Carstairs. It could not be because she preferred him to Perry.

  He glanced down and noticed his foot beat an agitated tattoo. Xenia’s secretive smile and raised eyebrow suggested she’d made her own interpretations about Perry’s impatience. Fanning herself, she reached across and ran her fingers gently down his cheek.

  ‘How much greater the reward when patience has been exercised,’ she purred. ‘You shall get all that you deserve—and more—my darling Perry, when we have performed this evening.

  ‘You make it sounds as if we’d been engaged to do tricks for the crowd.’ He didn’t mean to sound so terse but he couldn’t help himself. All pleasure had been sucked out of his existence since Miss Rosington was no longer part of it.

  Tomorrow she’d be married. But God, he wanted her.

  He’d grown up indulged, moulded into believing that whatever he wished could be bought. He’d never done anything remotely noble or courageous in his life.

  Perhaps if Miss Rosington were not due to set sail for Jamaica, putting her forever out of his reach, he’d feel differently.

  No. He rejected this. He had loved her.

  He still did.

  ‘My dear, the crowd will be vastly interested in us, I assure you. We are London Town’s greatest celebrities, surely you know that?’ Xenia moved a little closer, releasing a waft of gardenia perfume mixed with desire as she rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I am known to go to great lengths to get what I want—when the prize is worth it.’ She touched her lips to his jawline, whispering, ‘And after ten years I’ve finally decided, my darling, you’re worth it.’

  ‘Two husbands ago you were not of the same mind.’

  ‘Are you still smarting over that, Perry? Surely you understand the vulnerability of youth? Of an unmarried woman?’ She straightened and looked him in the eye. ‘My wishes counted for nothing when my papa had secured a rich, older man, with far greater prospects for aiding a sea captain in his enterprises.’

  ‘So you loved me then?’

  Xenia contemplated the ivory points of her fan. ‘I loved you, but I also knew it was more expedient to marry Sir Edward. And so it proved. My first husband paved the way for papa to become the biggest slaver now in this country.’

  Perry was conscious of a churning in his stomach at the mention of slaves. ‘Nelson, my valet, came over in your father’s first shipment ten years ago,’ he said. ‘He was stolen from a
coastal village when he was a young man, hunting to feed his family who are now, of course, all but dead to him.’

  ‘Perry darling, you speak as if your Nelson has feelings. Why, you have transformed him from a savage into a gentleman since you won him. He should be eternally grateful to you—and to papa, for that matter. Now, kiss me.’

  He looked down at her with dispassion, glad she could not see his expression, for her eyes were closed in anticipation of the prelude to the lovemaking she had planned for later that evening.

  His stomach churned even more at the prospect. No, not with desire. Xenia, like a beautiful effigy and his for the taking, was a poisoned chalice. He’d done her bidding as eagerly as the drooling puppy dog he’d been when he was barely in his majority, and now he was filled with self-loathing. And loathing for everything she represented.

  ‘Tell me, Xenia, did you know the reason your father was so desperate to find Harry Carstairs?’

  She shrugged. ‘Papa said we’d be ruined if the man was not found. That was good enough for me.’

  Yet she was evasive. He did not believe her.

  ‘If all eyes will be on us, Xenia, then for the sake of your dignity I am reluctant to make inroads into the vermillion which colours your lips. We are nearly there. A little more patience will sweeten our reward.’

  He was relieved the carriage lurched to a halt at this point, even though it was to give way to a passing cooper’s wagon, before it rumbled towards its destination.

  With a grumble, Xenia straightened and Perry noticed by the light of the full moon, which drenched the interior of their carriage, the fine lines etched into her porcelain skin. He could see no evidence of smile lines. Not the tiny lines that were in evidence on Miss Rosington’s face and which indicated a sunny temperament, but lines of dissatisfaction at the corner of Xenia’s pouting mouth.

  ‘We have arrived,’ he murmured, and was never more glad to make his escape. Already he was conscious of the interest of the small group of guests who’d gathered at the top of the staircase to the front doors in preparation of being announced. With an enquiring look at Xenia, he whispered, ‘Pray enlarge upon the actual reason we may be of particular interest this evening.’

  Xenia’s gurgle of laughter was genuine. ‘Why, Perry darling, when you championed your sister last week, before escorting me home, and endorsed society’s general disgust over Miss Rosington’s conduct, you were signalling that the terms of the wager had been satisfied.’

  ‘There was no wager, Xenia, beyond your chivvying me to do what any good brother would do to honour his sister, then suggesting that you might like to reward me since you were at a loose end.’

  Xenia raised an eyebrow as they mounted the steps, though she was careful, he noted, to rein in her temper. He could see the tiny muscles working at the corner of her mouth and knew that were they in private, she may well at this moment be looking for a convenient urn to hurl at him.

  ‘That was not how it was, and you know it,’ she hissed. ‘Why, all London knows that you and I wagered whether you could bring down the evil creature who destroyed your sister’s life by proving to the world that she’s not the innocent ingénue she pretended to the world.’ She slowed her steps as she brought home her point, which only increased Perry’s shame for he knew it to be the truth. ‘It’s in the betting books. Good Lord, it was in White’s Betting Book and you’re a member.’ Her eyes, which had flashed fire, took on a softer glow as they were ushered into the warmth. ‘Everyone assumes we’re already lovers. Why, Peregrine, for a man with no conscience, you’re doing a remarkably good job of trying to appear as pure as the driven snow.’

  It was as well they were now at the front doors, stepping into the lobby, the butler announcing in stentorian tones first Xenia and then, “The Right Honourable, the Viscount Peregrine,” otherwise it might have been Perry who lost control of his temper. Nor would it have been solely directed at Xenia, for undeniably there was a good deal of self-recrimination there also.

  He’d acted a cad from the start and now he was being feted as if he’d somehow engineered something very cunning. For there was Miss Fotheringay and her aunt, Lady Louisa, fawning over Xenia and purring, ‘At least poor Charlotte can hold her head up high. But can you believe it? I hear whispers that little trollop Miss Rosington has dared to show her face. She’s with her aunt, which is why I suppose the butler didn’t turn her away.’

  A most extraordinary jolt passed through Perry at this news, though he hid the turbulence in his heart behind an implacable stare, allowing Xenia to voice her moral outrage.

  ‘Come, my dear, we are holding others up,’ he murmured when she’d said her piece, taking her elbow to lead her through the crowd, and determining he’d hunt down Miss Rosington. He wanted to hear from her own lips an expanded account of what he’d been so quick to deride the last time she tried to voice her innocence.

  He was aware of Xenia’s sharp eyes on him as he looked over the crowd. Well, let her see what he really felt, for once.

  On every side they were feted and complimented, as if they were the reigning couple of the day, he noted drily. Undoubtedly, Xenia shone in her gown of blue and silver thread intricately patterned on cream silk. It matched her powdered hair, which was naturally blonde, and cleverly supplemented where needed to achieve the extreme fashions of the day.

  For some reason it brought to mind the occasion he’d chanced upon Miss Rosington with her naturally dark tresses cascading down her back, a reflection which occasioned the most intense surge of desire for her.

  Soon he was collared by a couple of gentleman with opposing political views, which made for some diverting conversation. He was relieved when Xenia found her own coterie of admirers, including Sir Samuel Wray, but once he’d seen she was happily occupied he could not be still. Where was Miss Rosington? Though he might do well to ensure he didn’t stand within throwing distance of a convenient urn.

  So when he was in the midst of discussing his latest piece of horseflesh with Sir Beadnall and a soft, familiar voice enquired, ‘Satisfied, I trust, Sir Peregrine?’ he could not conceal his astonishment. Nor could his companion, whose hooded eyes literally bulged out of his bullet-shaped head.

  ‘I take no satisfaction in the ill fortune of others, Miss Rosington.’ He would have said more, but Xenia was parting the crowd, gliding between them and swinging round with a rustle of skirts, the beeswax candles glinting on her small pearly teeth, bared in a threatening smile.

  ‘Gloating in public, Miss Rosington? How dare you show your face when you have destroyed the happiness of my friend, Miss Paige? Now go!’

  Her words cut through the chatter of those nearby. Miss Rosington raised her chin and Peregrine saw the tears gathered in her eyes. He stepped forward to challenge Xenia. But then Miss Rosington’s aunt was there, her arm upon her shoulder, leading the girl away. He stared after her. Her head was bowed and the forlorn sweep of her shoulders speared the deepest of emotion within him. Not lust, this time, but the most intense, most raw feeling for her.

  He glanced down, as Xenia had slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. ‘Come, let us walk among the lantern-lit gardens,’ she invited him with a secretive smile.

  He went, but his world had shattered and he knew himself the vilest creature to walk the earth; totally unworthy of Miss Rosington’s love, should she in fact be innocent of an illicit liaison with Harry Carstairs. For he had done nothing to champion Miss Rosington in public.

  It was a warm summer’s evening, the full moon casting a glow across the manicured gardens, which led down to the river. Several terraces were cut into the slope, and through the trees he could see a couple of ferries plying a trade across the fast-flowing waters.

  ‘I’ve waited a long time for you, Perry.’ Once they’d gained the seclusion of a copse of small trees, Xenia’s little fingers slid inside Perry’s coat, seeking his bare skin beneath his white shirt. She rested her head against his chest as she rubbed her right hand gently
up and down, sighing her need while he stared dispassionately at the top of her head, preparing to extricate himself, uncaring this time of inciting her rage.

  He could not do this. The moment was upon him and he realised that what he’d desired for so many years was ashes compared to what he’d just thrown away.

  He’d had his chance in the middle of that public ballroom to state clearly his feelings, to declare his belief in Miss Rosington’s innocence. And he’d done nothing.

  Now his so-called reward was the lush and bounteous charms of the woman he’d thought he’d desired above all others. A woman without empathy; a self-serving, venal creature with a cankerous soul.

  He disgusted himself.

  He rested his hand gingerly upon Xenia’s coiffure, wondering if she even felt the pressure, her hair was so extreme.

  Her hand twined up around the back of his neck and she gave a little sigh of satisfaction. ‘Kiss me, Perry,’ she whispered. ‘Do you know, the last time you kissed me was …’

  ‘Just before you married your first husband. I know. I feared my rage would kill me.’ It was true. As a twenty-year-old he’d truly believed he would expire from the force of his feelings. It was the last time he could remember such intensity. But his feelings had been fuelled by rage and pique, not tenderness. No, he did not know how to feel tenderness.

  That was why he and Xenia deserved each other. And why Miss Rosington assuredly did not deserve him.

  He lowered his head. Yes! He’d kiss her, satisfy her desire for a quick fumble in the darkness, and then he’d take her home to her townhouse where he’d spend a night in amorous abandon. He might not deserve Miss Rosington but he deserved Xenia. They were two of a kind: amoral, heartless. The perfect match. His loins should be on fire at the prospect. He’d been living like a monk far too long, lusting after her through two husbands while she’d toyed with him like cat dangling a mouse by the tip of its tail; salivating, savouring the anticipation almost as much as the denouement.