Page 95 of A Gentleman's Wager
“Good morning,” she murmured, as she rubbed warmth back into her arms. Since Wakefield’s departure, she and Lord Pennerley had exchanged no more than a handful of words.
Vaughan shrugged off his heavy greatcoat and set about removing his gloves with his teeth. These he cavalierly cast onto a chair, before arranging himself with similarly careless grace. “It’s a bitter morning, whether it’s also a good one remains to be seen.”
He looked her up and down in such an appraising way as to send her scuttling back to her seat at the easel. The problem with Pennerley, was that coupled with his menace and beguiling beauty, he possessed a lethal form of magnetism. It did not matter how diligently one worked at ignoring him, one inevitably found oneself captured by that pull.
Unintentionally, Louisa found the curve of his cheek taking form in the margin of her painting. Vexed, she smeared black over it immediately.
Pennerley cannoned out of his indolence and took possession of the gilt-framed looking-glass above the mantle, where he stood smoothing out his curls, so they settled about his shoulders in an unruly tumble. In London, the men were all cutting their hair, ditching wigs, and queues for shorter styles. Pennerley showed no such inclination, a fact about which Louisa discovered herself to be glad.
“You needn’t look so frosty,” he remarked, flicking his gaze to her countenance reflected in the silver. “Even scoundrels take days off. I’m not set upon robbing you of coin or virtue. It’s too damnably cold. Why the devil isn’t this fire lit?” He grabbed the servant’s bell and rang it vigorously.
“It’s only cold because you compelled me to open the door,” Louisa replied, immediately regretting her response. This was how it would begin, with an innocuous, polite exchange, then somehow, they would end up in a compromising position, her mind in a muddle, the taste of him in her mouth, and possessed of an uncomfortable awareness of her own body. Warily, she sucked the end of her paintbrush. It would’ve been altogether smarter to ignore him completely and concentrate on her painting.
The sound of his footsteps coming towards her made her hackles rise, though she resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at him. Vaughan stopped directly behind her. He did not touch her, but his scent—sandalwood and rosemary—prickled her senses.
“It’s quite a talent you have. You never cease to amaze me, Miss Stanley. One wonders what other accomplishments you’ve yet to reveal beyond embroidery, piano, and painting.”
“None.” Her voice emerged as a squeak. “Unless you include a smattering of French.”
“I’m sure that cannot be true.”
“Well, I assure you, it is.” Where was this conversation leading? She did not wish to turn around, to do so would put her head on a level with his loins—a portion of his anatomy she was already more intimately acquainted with than was right or proper. Frederick had grown stout in response to her kisses, but it was the pressure of Pennerley’s rod pressed against the small of her back when he’d invited Freddy to suck on her breasts that she most vividly recalled.
After a moment or two, Pennerley reached over her and picked up an unused brush. He tested the bristles against the back of his hand, then against hers.
Louisa snagged her lower lip between her teeth. All her instincts told her to pull away, but she guessed that was exactly the response he was looking for, so instead, she kept her hand still, and stoically continued to paint.
Vaughan brushed the coiled loop of her hair to one side so that she could feel his breath on the side of her neck. It took everything she possessed not to swat him away. He tickled her ear with the tip of the paintbrush. Louisa twitched. He did it again.
And again.
“You’re ignoring me. Don’t you think that’s a little rude?”
“If I am, it’s your own fault.”
“How so?”
She stood abruptly, twisting to face him, brandishing her brush like a dagger. “As if you require a reminder. You know precisely what you did. I thought you a gentleman, but you—”
“I?”
Two hot flashes streaked her cheekbones. “You took advantage!”
Vaughan coolly drew himself up to his full stature. “Do you truly mean us to quarrel over this?” he asked infuriating her with his composure. “Did I press my advantage when it was opportune to do so? Why—”
“You behaved abominably.”
“Yes, I did. Am I the one who hurt you that night? No. That honour lies elsewhere. I seem to recall you enjoyed my touch. That was until we were rudely interrupted.”
Nervously she wetted her lips. She didn’t want to speak of Frederick, of the colours he’d shown that night, which she’d foolishly chosen to ignore. If she had done otherwise, she would have saved herself a great deal of grief. Nor did she want to think about the spell Pennerley had somehow woven around her. It had been in this very room, in practically the same spot. Her mouth turned dry, and she swayed unsteadily. Vaughan pressed a hand to her shoulder, and her legs gave way. What surprised her was that he followed her down, falling onto his knees so she was at least spared the embarrassment of staring directly at his loins. Gently, he extracted the paintbrush from her grip and set it aside.
“Poor, poor, lamb.” He enfolded her hands in his larger ones. “It must be terribly exhausting being terrified all the time. You really ought to let go of your fears.”
“What you mean is that I should allow you to take advantage.”
His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “What I mean is that you should grow a spine.”
“Aye, in order that I might choose to romp with you. You don’t care a fig for me. You only paid me interest before to taunt Frederick. Well now he is gone, so you may excuse yourself from any further effort.”
