Wicked Wager Read online

  She knew she must appear like a gaping fish, yet still the rest of the words needed to make sense of her sentence refused to come.

  ‘Kissing you back, my lord,’ she finally corrected him. ‘I am not in the habit of such rash and inexcusable behaviour. In fact, I have never been so close to any gentleman stranger, alone, in such circumstances.’

  He took a step closer and circled her waist, and though she gasped with surprise, she did not move back. No, she closed her eyes and swayed in his embrace, her mind drinking in his words, delivered in a compelling, husky murmur, as if they were some drug.

  ‘So despite your nuptials nearly upon you, you are telling me that when I strayed into your orbit you were impelled by impulses beyond your control to seek alternative excitement. Namely, that which I offered?’

  She opened her eyes briefly, signalling a flare of indignation, for he made her sound no better than a strumpet.

  But with his face only inches away from hers, her defences crumbled. With a brief incline of her head she opened her mouth to admit this was exactly the case; and then his lips were on hers, a sweet touch that instantly turned her into a melting puddle of desire.

  Raphael had never kissed her and Celeste knew he never would. So she savoured the moment, surrendering entirely to the soft, teasing touch of his hand that cupped the back of her neck, offering no resistance when the arm about her waist pulled her closer. The feel of his hard chest pressing against her breasts fired off desires she’d never experienced, strong and confusing, coursing through her body which seemed to succumb to an almost mindless, euphoric ecstasy. It was this that galvanised her into pushing him away; this unfamiliar lack of self-control when she had spent a lifetime obeying strictures.

  Her future was arranged. It was only now she realised how foolish and impossible were her ideas of marrying to please her heart. The gorgeous philandering viscount embracing her knew she was to be wed in two weeks. This alone was well nigh the reason he considered himself safe in making up to her. He was certainly not about to declare he couldn’t live without her and make her a marriage offer within the requisite time to free Celeste from a lifetime bound to Raphael.

  Moreover, he was dangerous; not just for the feelings he unleashed in her, but the fact he was Miss Paige’s brother.

  So what was Celeste doing out by the mulberry tree, alone … yes, with a man reputed to be a libertine? Sheltered she might be, yet she had heard the stories—she should be deporting herself with the decorum required as Raphael, Lord Ogilvy’s future wife. Hadn’t Raphael said he would give her license to follow her heart? Well, only on the basis that no hint of scandal be attached to her for the first years of her marriage. Later, with Raphael’s family line secured, she could do as she wished. Her future husband had said so in just those words. Though what desires she might choose to pursue in Jamaica was another matter.

  Oh Lord, but it all sounded so sordid. She didn’t want such affairs to be her only means of satisfying the needs of her heart.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  He sounded surprised when he yielded sufficiently to look into her face. She might almost have believed he was genuinely disappointed as she shook her head, pushing completely out of his arms and saying over her shoulder as she turned, ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake in coming here, my lord,’ before she fled back to the house.

  ***

  Celeste had gained sufficient countenance to face the viscount over the dinner table during dinner, though she avoided his eyes. It was the only way she could keep the heat from her cheeks and form coherent sentences as she engaged in conversation with the vicar on her left.

  When the subject turned to trade in Jamaica, she felt the blood thrum through her veins and, glancing down, saw the blush spread from her bosom upwards. She only hoped that what was noticeable to her would be dismissed as the heat by everyone else.

  What if Harry Carstairs’ name were to be brought up? The disappearance of the wealthy Jamaican plantation owner was bound to become a topic of discussion.

  Especially when he was to have married the sister of the man sitting across from her, Lord Peregrine.

  With sinking heart, Celeste picked at her food. He’d not know that she had just as much reason for finding Harry as he did.

  ‘I hear the captain of the Batavia’s put in a hefty insurance claim for the loss of so many slaves on the high seas,’ Lord Cowdril remarked as he tucked into his beef. His deep voice cut across the tinkling conversation, which dulled to a murmur before all ears were on what was apparently the latest on-dit.

  ‘Slaves?’ His wife raised her eyebrows. ‘An insurance claim? Well, a lucrative commodity whose loss would surely hurt the captain’s pocket, to be sure.’

  ‘Yet a human being, with all due respect, Lady Cowdril?’ Lord Peregrine looked more enquiring than combative, though Celeste heard the edge to his voice. She was surprised to see that the lips, which had claimed hers with both tenderness and passion so recently, were set in a hard line.

  Lord Cowdril dabbed at the goose fat dribbling down his chin. ‘Ain’t your manservant a slave, Perry? Don’t know how you can sleep at night for fear he’ll cut your throat.’

  Lord Peregrine raised an eyebrow as he carefully put down his cutlery. ‘I’ve never had a more loyal manservant than Nelson.’ The cold cast of his features made Celeste think suddenly how much she’d dislike crossing him. The passionate, interested viscount she knew was not in evidence now.

  ‘Nor do I fear for my life, since it is due to my manservant that I indeed still have a life,’ Lord Peregrine went on.

  ‘So he valiantly snatched you from the jaws of death. From footpads, I recall. Of course he did what he needed to secure his position with you.’ Lord Cowdril waved a dismissive hand. ‘You disapprove of slavery, Perry, and of calling them commodities, and yet do you not concede that you’ve bought this man—or rather his loyalty?’ He looked triumphant.

  Celeste watched Lord Peregrine obviously choose his words with care. ‘I won Nelson at cards and yes, I admit it, I considered him a commodity at the time. Only since I’ve come to know him as a human being have I come to disapprove of slavery.’

  Lady Cowdril’s vermillion-stained lips curved into a thin smile as she patted her pomaded locks. ‘Your conversations on slavery with Lady Busselton must be diverting, Perry. Her position was secured entirely through her father’s reliance on the slave trade.’

  Celeste felt herself go even pinker while a certain horror rose within her. She hadn’t known Perry was a friend of the captain’s daughter. She studied him covertly. His answer was imperative to what she’d have to report to Raphael.

  ‘Lady Busselton occupies a place in society which, as you correctly point out, is thanks to her father’s trading success, but I assure you, our conversations do not encompass trade. Especially not her father’s.’

  Lady Cowdril shuddered, as if the idea of trade were more repugnant than slavery. Lord Cowdril looked satisfied. He drained his wine glass and smiled. ‘‘Course not, Perry, and no intention of lancing you at the table like that. Unpardonable.’

  The conversation appeared to be headed for less controversial waters, but there was still too much Celeste did not know.

  Boldly, for she was not yet married and speaking up at the dinner table was not sanctioned for one in her position, she ventured, ‘How did these slaves die?’

  Five shocked faces turned to her, as if she’d uttered blasphemy.

  ‘Good Lord, girl, what does it matter?’ her hostess replied. ‘They’re slaves.’

  The vicar on her left patted her hand and sent her a warning look, as if counselling her to hold her tongue. Only Lord Peregrine eyed her with more sympathy and interest than hitherto, as Lord Cowdril said, ‘Disease, Miss Rosington. Once the first one succumbed, the rest went down like flies.’

  ‘Like flies, my lord?’ She repeated his words, imbuing them with the faintest scepticism. Lord Cowdril appeared to take offence, but Lord Peregrine,
she noticed, looked surprised.

  Interesting, she thought, assuming the subject was about to be turned to another topic by Lord Peregrine’s thoughtful silence. She was just responding to a murmured question from the vicar when the viscount suddenly remarked, in a tone he’d use to address a girl barely out of the nursery, ‘Miss Rosington, you are very young but you do understand that as Lord Ogilvy is a notable slave owner in Jamaica, you, yourself, will lose many of the wretched creatures through disease, and no doubt your husband will rail at the financial impost.’

  Lady Cowdril put down her fork with a clatter. ‘Come now, Perry, you are being unfair on my poor guest. What does she know about slaves? She is an innocent, not yet married, and you are making her the focus of the entire table by your remark. Miss Rosington has no interest in whether her husband’s slaves succumb to disease or any other such nonsense.’

  Disregarding his hostess, Lord Peregrine went on, ‘She will most certainly care if the loss of such an investment impacts on her dress allowance.’

  Celeste raised her chin as anger needled her. ‘It is true that I had not considered the fact that my husband is a slave owner, my lord. I gather from your tone you are an abolitionist. Well, I can only hope you and my future husband do not lock horns on the issue.’

  Lady Branwell gave a nervous titter. ‘Of course not, Celeste. Let us turn the topic, for it is not one for young ladies, besides.’

  ‘And why is that, Lady Branwell?’

  Celeste had to hide her smile at her aunt’s patent discomfiture.

  The older woman shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, slaves … We’re discussing trade, and what can you know of trade? They’re slaves, not human beings.’

  Lady Cowdril clicked her tongue. ‘Please don’t encourage Perry, my dear Mariah,’ she murmured. ‘As you can surely tell, our esteemed Lord Peregrine begs to differ.’

  Lord Peregrine smiled. ‘“The hare which changes colour in snowy conditions is still the same creature whatever its outward appearance”,’ he quoted. ‘Black or white, we are the same creatures underneath. But for the sake of everyone’s comfort I shall redirect the conversation. Miss Rosington, might I say that the shade of pink you are wearing has become a fetching camouflage. The porcelain hue of your complexion when you sat down to dinner is now nowhere in evidence.’

  Celeste stared at him a moment, horrified, then dropped her eyes as Lady Cowdril said indignantly, but with a coquettish smile, ‘And dearest Perry, the colour of your black coat is the very same as your eyes and, I’ve been told, your heart.’

  ***

  Perry sipped his port, responding distractedly to questions put to him by his host after the ladies had retired from the dinner table. He knew he had to atone. He’d been unpardonably rude focusing attention on Miss Rosington and insinuating she was somehow diminished by the fact her future husband owned the slaves that would garnish her lifestyle.

  Future husband. When Miss Rosington had wondered aloud if he and her future husband would lock horns, the thought had evoked some confusing responses. He didn’t like the idea of Miss Rosington belonging to another man … though there were certainly advantages for Peregrine if she were safely married—and dissatisfied.

  The niggling thought returned that Xenia’s self-righteous condemnation of Miss Rosington relied to a large extent upon the young lady’s apparent hypocrisy. But that charge could not be levelled at her if she were not in love with her betrothed.

  Of course, her involvement with Harry Carstairs was an entirely different matter.

  It was the very—and supposedly only—reason Peregrine was furthering his acquaintance with her. Instantly he banished doubt and guilt by reminding himself that he was charged with the task of ascertaining whether or not Miss Rosington really was the demure virgin she presented to the world. She had been caught enjoying intimate relations with Harry Carstairs, and her enthusiastic responses to Peregrine’s overtures belied the wide-eyed innocence she maintained for the rest of society.

  She was his sister’s nemesis.

  Oblivious to the conversation between Lord Cowdril and the vicar, he ran his finger round his cravat to let in a little air as his glass was replenished by a smart footman in powdered wig and livery. If Peregrine chose, he could entertain like this and supplement his rich, if sedate, lifestyle with amours as he chose.

  All he would need was a wife.

  He sighed. There was the rub. Perhaps there was a kernel of honour lodged in the depths of his depraved heart. He would, at least, like to begin his marriage in full faith that he would stay true.

  Yes, he did nurture the faint hope that he could be like his father, the reformed reprobate whose life had been claimed by the muddy Thames during his foolish and ultimately futile attempts to rescue his beloved wife.

  What must it be like to love a woman to such distraction, so deeply, that one would take the risk his father had that fateful day the three of them had gone boating?

  Peregrine shuddered. Now was no time to torment himself with failure. He’d been only nine, a poor swimmer, but he had tried. Nor could he blame his father for his foolishness, for hadn’t Peregrine done the same? Attempting to save his mother when their boat upturned was the last heroic action he could ever claim before his uncle became his guardian and his soul went to the dogs.

  Suddenly he was aware of Cowdril and the vicar’s eyes upon him. He raised an enquiring brow.

  ‘I said, what do you really think is behind this business with Carstairs?’ his host asked him. ‘Rumour has it he was found by your sister with a woman the last time he was seen. Can you confirm it? Everyone is close-lipped and I’ve no intention of making public something that would further distress poor jilted Miss Paige, but what do you know, Peregrine?’

  There was a very good reason Peregrine was an excellent poker player. ‘A false rumour, my lord,’ he murmured, ‘otherwise Charlotte would have said something.’

  Indeed, his hysterically inclined sister had said a great deal, though Perry had been glad when Charlotte reported that Xenia had counselled her not to make public the fact that she’d clearly identified Miss Rosington as the woman in question.

  The caveat, though, was now making Peregrine increasingly uncomfortable. Xenia had reassured Charlotte that when the time came for Miss Rosington to be revealed for the marriage-breaker she truly was, it would be done in ‘spectacular fashion’.

  But at the time Peregrine had agreed to becoming involved, Miss Rosington had been nothing more to him than a jezebel whose crime against his sister needed to be publicly exposed.

  However, each encounter with Miss Rosington seemed to suggest the case was not as clear-cut as he’d presumed. Certainly, there was something she wasn’t telling him, but Peregrine was becoming increasingly sceptical regarding Xenia’s adamant charges against the young woman.

  Not to mention increasingly susceptible to Miss Rosington’s damnably effective manner of combining sweetness and supposed innocence with an allure that promised a world of unknown delights, if he only trod carefully with her.

  Without a doubt, she was an enigma.

  Without a doubt, also, Miss Rosington must have had some knowledge as to where Harry Carstairs had been heading the night he jilted his sister, even if there was a plausible reason she’d been caught alone with him in a room strewn with petticoats. He had to acknowledge also that Harry Carstairs and Miss Rosington’s cousin and betrothed, Lord Ogilvy, were friends. The three would be well known to one another. Could there be some as yet unknown explanation behind the apparently mad scramble that night? One that had nothing to do with the conclusion to which Charlotte and Xenia had jumped and which he’d meekly accepted before he’d become involved with—he took an uncomfortable swallow of his brandy—exposing Miss Rosington.

  Savouring the heat that coursed down his throat, but not the direction his thoughts were taking him, he repeated, blandly, ‘Not heard a thing, Cowdril.’

  ‘Well, where in God’s name is Harry Carstairs?�
�� his host said with uncharacteristic vehemence, followed by an apologetic glance at the vicar. ‘The man owes me five hundred pounds.’

  ‘I’d be more concerned with what has become of Harry Carstairs,’ the vicar mumbled. ‘His aunt is beside herself with worry. She’s not heard a word from her nephew in three weeks. Did he see his lawyer and collect his inheritance, only to fall foul of cutthroats in some staging inn? Not that I suggested as much to Mrs Carstairs.’

  ‘What’s his lawyer have to say about it, Peregrine?’ Lord Cowdril demanded in his most insistent tone; the one he used whenever he’d had too much to drink. ‘A mighty hefty inheritance it was, from all accounts.’

  Peregrine shook his head. ‘His lawyer knows nothing of Carstairs’ intended movements, either.’ He was not going to mention the locket containing the mysterious message.

  With the mystery surrounding Carstairs assuming ever increasing proportions, Peregrine wished heartily he could have directed his focus towards winning his wager with Xenia so that, in good conscience, he need not worry about the whys and the wherefores behind the mystery of which Miss Rosington was at the centre. His role had been to simply persuade Miss Rosington into wrapping her white, elegant limbs around him in mindless passion, but he was now caught up in a moral dilemma.

  Miss Rosington might be damnably tempting and easy on the eye, but clearly her involvement with Harry Carstairs was more complicated than it first appeared.

  Dammit, he thought, as he downed another brandy, his conscience really was getting in the way, if the truth was a prerequisite for following through on his carnal desires.

  Though perhaps a little persuasion might induce Miss Rosington to be more forthcoming with the truth surrounding her involvement.

  ***

  After the guests drifted off to play whist or were repairing to their respective quarters, Perry awaited his opportunity. He knew he had offended Miss Rosington over dinner but he was confident she would not stay angry with him for long. She was far from immune to his charm. Anyone could see that, he thought with a degree of smugness. And she certainly would not be once he’d offered her the most elegant apology he could formulate.