Page 49 of A Wicked Game

He glanced around the perfectly clean hallway. “Sorry to disappoint. I keep Trellech as my den of iniquity. Rhys and I have a valet and a cook when we’re here, but I’ve given them both the day off.”

She raised her brows. “Rather presumptuous, wasn’t it? Were you so confident you’d win?”

He shrugged. “I’ve always been lucky. And here we are.”

Here they were indeed.

She clenched her fingers in her skirts. “So, what do we do now?”

He took her hand and threaded his fingers throughhers. Her pulse rate doubled. His fingers were warm and slightly rough, so much larger than hers.

“Now we throw off the bowlines. Catch the wind in our sails.” He sent her an irresistible smile and tugged her toward the staircase.

Harriet let herself be drawn along the corridor and up the stairs. She could scarcely believe that this was happening, that she was actually here, in Morgan’s house—in his bedroom—as he led her into a surprisingly large room decorated in navy and gold.

Her steps faltered.

A large wooden-framed bed stood against one wall, the headboard crested with a carved shell and a confusion of rococo scrolls, like a cartouche on one of her maps. The bedspread was a rich royal blue piled high with an assortment of pillows.

She barely glanced at the rest of the room: She was vaguely aware of the dark shapes of a wardrobe and dressing chest, a couple of armchairs. The bed dominated her attention.

Morgan released her hand. Without prompting, he strode to the windows and drew the curtains closed, shutting out the daylight, enclosing them in a cocoon of shadows.

Still without speaking he crossed to the fireplace, took a tinderbox from the mantel, and crouched to light the fire that had been laid. Only when bright flames danced merrily in the grate did he rise and turn to her again.

Harriet was practically shaking with nerves. It was one thing to fantasize about being a wicked adventuress, quite another when faced with the opportunity in real life. Her breathing quickened as he stopped an arm’s length away from her. Holding her gaze, he tugged at the cuffs of his ruined jacket and shrugged out of it, tossingit carelessly on the back of one of the armchairs that flanked the fire.

Harriet stared at him, a queer, intense squeezing sensation in the region of her heart. In the fire glow he looked perfectly wicked, a pirate prince in his shirtsleeves. A brigand who promised nothing but adventure and heartbreak.

Irresistible.

Well, if she was going to get her heart broken, it might as well be with the only man she’d ever really wanted. The only man she’d ever imagined giving herself to.

Summoning her nerve, she unbuttoned her own fitted jacket and placed it on the opposing chair, a mirror image of his own, and his eyes brightened at the hint of a new game. As if to test her, he put his hand up to his throat, untied his cravat, and laid it over the jacket.

She tugged the thin lace fichu from her neckline and put it on hers.

Tit for tat, a silent game of one-upmanship.

His lips twitched in appreciation. He flicked open the first button of his shirt and sent her a raised-eyebrow challenge.

She undid the first button of her own shirt, glad that the design fastened at the front and not at the back, and bit her lip to quell her own spurt of laughter. It had been like this between them forever. Why should lovemaking be any different?

His shirt didn’t button all the way down. He undid the remaining three buttons, revealing a wedge of smooth, tanned skin at his throat, but when Harriet was about to do the same, he closed the distance between them and caught her hands.

“Allow me.”

She held her breath as he undid her buttons all the wayto her waist, revealing her thin chemise and stays, and slid it down her arms. She shivered, despite the warmth from the fire, as his hot gaze roved over the top swell of her breasts, the smooth curves of her shoulders. He reached out and stroked her neck, the jut of her collarbone, and her stomach contracted in sweet confusion.

“As someone who’s done this before, might I make a suggestion?” he murmured.

“By all means.”

Their exaggerated politeness only reinforced the crackling tension arcing between them.

“Allowing me justonekiss is extremely restrictive. I guarantee you’ll have a more enjoyable time if you grant me a series of kisses.”

Harriet tried to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks and the way his fingers stroked oh-so-softly over her skin. “Very well. I suppose I should bow to your experience in this matter. Carry on.”

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