Page 7 of A Private Wager
“Good morning, my lord,” Miss Dawes said coolly.
“Good morning, Miss Dawes,” he replied. “Did you sleep well?”
“Quite well, my lord,” she answered.
It was a lie. He knew that instantly. She had dark circles under her eyes, deep hollows that were the hallmark of a lack of sleep. Was he responsible for it? Perversely, he hoped so. “I did not sleep well, Miss Dawes. I was plagued by intense dreams—pleasant ones, to be sure, but intense none the less. Would you care to hazard a guess as to what those dreams were about?”
Her blush told the truth of it. She did not need to guess. Since the room was empty but for the two of them and a single footman who stood sentry near the door, she walked away from the sideboard laden with breakfast dishes and approached him cautiously. “My lord—”
“War,” he said. “Or Harrison, if you prefer, though I fear I may not always recognize that you are speaking to me if you use that moniker. At least, when we are alone, we could dispense with the formality…couldn’t we, Lucy?”
She glanced over her shoulder, looking at the door and the footman who was ignoring them entirely. They were still along. Still private. “That isn’t wise. Nothing that has occurred between us thus far has been wise.”
“Perhaps it is not. But it is pleasurable. I want to kiss you again, Lucy. I want to kiss you as I did in the garden last night…but I want to do so when and where there is no chance of interruption. I want, more than anything, Lucy, to taste the sweetness of your lips again.”
***
Lucy clenched her trembling hands together in front of her, a pitiful attempt to camouflage exactly how unsettled his words had left her. But it wasn’t simply his words. What unsettled her more than anything was her response to them. She wanted it, too. She wanted to be kissed by him again, to feel his arms around her and his lips pressed to hers. Those desires were the very reason she needed to shore up her defenses and to keep him at arm’s length.
“Do not speak to me of such things,” she whispered hotly. “It is terribly improper.”
“Not as improper as I would like to be with you,” he stated. “Meet me in the garden. There’s a secluded spot just off the path down by the lake. A folly in the same of a ruined Saxon tower. Do you know it?”
“I do know it,” she said. “But this…it cannot happen.”
“It can,” he said. “My intentions are entirely honorable, Lucy.”
“Seduction is honorable?” She scoffed.
“I only want you to see that there are benefits to marriage between us that you may not have considered before. I promise that nothing will happen you do not wish to. And your virtue is in no danger from me.”
“Only a kiss?”
“A kiss to start… Please?”
Someone else entered the breakfast room then. “I will see you there at noon,” she whispered and then abruptly turned away. She couldn’t continue to face him, not when her face was flaming with both embarrassment and something else that she dared not name.
She had lied when she told him she had slept well. The truth was that she had spent the entire night lying awake, thinking of their kiss in the garden. Lord Harrison Warfield, Viscount Harcourt, had made her feel things that she had never experienced in her life. It had left her shaken, left her trembling with embarrassment and need. Now he’d asked her to meet him in the garden, to indulge in those same scandalous behaviors again. And, against all sense and reason, she had agreed. For the first time in her life, she was actively seeking her own ruin.
CHAPTER SIX
Barton Warfield watched Miss Lucy Dawes leave the drawing room with a book in her hand and make for the garden. Most would assume she was going to read in the weak winter sunlight and enjoy what was a relatively mild day. Of course, he knew better. He’d seen Miss Dawes heading into the breakfast room as he left. It had taken only a coin slipped to the stoic footman who’d stood sentry in that room to determine that an assignation between the spinster and his cousin had been arranged for later that day—precisely at the noon hour.
When choosing Miss Dawes for his cousin, he thought she’d been perfect. After all, she’d refused everyone. He had foolishly assumed that she would be as impervious to War’s charm as she had been to every other would-be suitor who had made a play for her fortune. It seemed even the icy Miss Dawes, plump and perpetual spinster, was unable to resist his cousin. It was yet another reason to despise him. War didn’t deserve the title.
Barton’s own estates were profitable but small. They were all recently acquired, as well, through marriages to unfortunate connections in trade. There was nothing that would truly wash away the taint of being a cit… Except a title. And the only way to get a title was for his cousin to die. He’d hoped the wager would be enough to prompt a challenge from him. Duels were frowned upon but not entirely beyond the pale. But, no, not his cousin. Of course not. War had simply done the honorable thing and elected to pursue Miss Dawes for marriage. Like everything else about his cousin, it was a terrible nuisance.
There was only one possible solution. He’d have to court her himself. After all, it wasn’t as if he lacked his own brand of charm. If he could manage to make Miss Dawes fall in love with him, or at the very least prevent her from falling in love with his cousin, then he could secure one part of his future. He needed Stonecrest. Without it, his cousin would be too impoverished to marry, and that would leave him in line to inherit the title.
And, Barton thought, if Miss Dawes was unwilling to accept him as a suitor, there was always abduction. If he ruined her, she’d have no choice.
***
Lucy stared at the pages of her book, yet again not reading a word of it. She had no ability to focus. The small folly that she’d come to for her afternoonassignationwas shielded from the slightly chilly breeze, yet her skin tingled with anticipation as she waited for the viscount. A dozen times since their conversation that morning, she had regretted her impulsive acceptance of his proposition—his very improper proposition. But a traitorous part of her mind always demanded to know which she would regret more: allowing him to kiss her again or missing an opportunity to feel that thrill once more?
She had never been so reckless in her life. In fact, one could argue that she had never been recklessat all. Her refusal toconsider any of the men who had attempted to court her in the past had certainly been looked at as eccentric—foolish, even. After all, she was not a great beauty. Too tall, too plump, with unfashionably dark hair and eyes… She was as far from the ideal beauty of the day as one woman could be. But it wasn’t simply principle that had kept her from accepting those offers of courtship.
No man whom she had ever encountered had made her feel the way that Viscount Harcourt did. Even in their previous interactions at various society events, when he’d danced with her out of nothing more than politeness, she had felt strangely discomfited by his touch. They had waltzed. The spot on her back where his hand had rested had tingled, not unpleasantly, but certainly unnervingly. She’d been acutely aware of the strength in his hand as he’d clutched hers to lead her in that still slightly scandalous dance. But she’d ignored all of those things because he had not pursued her after.
