A Scandalous Wager Page 11

  ‘You tricked me.’ She began to walk towards the refreshment table with determined strides. He did not immediately follow.

  Any man can be kind, she told herself, when he was after something. What if she were to give in to him, then what? Then who might he turn out to be? Someone like Nathaniel? The thought was too terrible to contemplate.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked her, his smile long gone. ‘You look…upset.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She picked up a glass of wine from the table and took a sip, closing her eyes for a moment.

  ‘Are you sure because —’

  Setting her glass down with trembling fingers she turned to face him. ‘I said, I’m fine!’

  He raised a brow. ‘Countess, if that is even remotely true then your definition of fine and mine are very different indeed.’

  ‘Bellamy —’

  He took her elbow in a strong grip and escorted her to the end of the room with quick strides. So different from earlier, he was not protecting her now. It just went to prove her point.

  ‘Unhand me, now!’ she hissed.

  He pulled her around to face him. She gasped at the dark look in his eyes.

  ‘I was going to wait for a more private moment but now I am just going to ask you. Were you and my brother lovers?’

  Lisbeth’s shocked confusion did not seem to give him the answer he wanted for he said something under his breath before he scowled at her even darker.

  She said, ‘Why would you think I knew your brother?’

  ‘Because he knew you.’

  ‘And when did he tell you this?’

  ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘Bellamy, I cannot be responsible for the imaginings of men.’

  ‘Henry talked to my aunt about you…in some detail it seems.’

  So, the aunt was alive. Not completely alone then. ‘I can’t imagine why, I met him but a few times.’

  ‘Only a few times?’

  Her eyes grew huge with indignation and anger. ‘Yes! He was a very nice man. We talked of the weather once. Why are you questioning me like I am somehow responsible for a wrong done to your brother?’

  ‘Aren’t you? You and your husband both?’

  ‘The speculation had nothing to do with me,’ she replied.

  ‘You were the sole benefactor of its collapse.’

  ‘Benefactor? Benefactor! I got no benefit from that accursed speculation. It ruined my life.’ Lisbeth walked off but Bellamy caught up to her in two strong strides.

  ‘You are rich as Croesus. Do not tell me you did not benefit.’

  ‘Financially, yes, but it was not my choice. I never even knew until the reading of the will. It has not given me one day of happiness I assure you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you give the investors back their money?’

  ‘Oh, if only it had been that simple. There were…legal reasons but I am not about to discuss them with you.’ Tired, sad and sick to her stomach she began to walk off. Bellamy appeared in front of her. Damn his long legs.

  ‘Henry was my brother. For some unfathomable reason he gambled the family’s money on a speculation. A speculation that didn’t exist. I have every right to know why he’d be fool enough to do such a thing.’

  ‘Gambled is the word, Bellamy. My husband was a very persuasive man, ask any of the other investors. If your brother fell for his sugared words it is not my fault. You have no right to question me. However, if you can produce the paperwork that states how much money he put into the speculation I will gladly refund the debt.’

  She watched as hope flared in his eyes. It made this whole night even more depressing because she knew no such paperwork existed. He would no doubt turn his house upside down looking for it—all for nothing.

  Lisbeth signalled a footman, handed Bellamy a glass of wine, and picked up her own. ‘Here is to finding the unfindable.’ She clinked her glass to his.

  Bellamy watched her for a moment, a small crease between his brows. She knew exactly when understanding dawned on him because his shoulders slumped a little and his lovely eyes seemed to dim. She wanted to say she was sorry, sorry for everything, but what difference would it make? It would not bring back his brother, nor put his family finances back in place. It would not help anyone, least of all herself. Yes, she too was looking for the seemingly unfindable—the truth.

  Chapter 8

  Oliver always thought of himself as a man who could handle any situation with tact and decorum. Now he knew better and it was so much worse than he could ever have anticipated.

  Women, he decided, were the most infuriating creatures. The Countess of Blackhurst the most infuriating of all.

  Rollands, Lady Blackhurst’s butler, had kept every card that had ever entered her house if the collection which had been scattered across the dining room table earlier this evening was anything to go by. Quite a useful hoarder was Rollands. However, seeing his brother’s card amongst the pile made Oliver realise Henry was only one of many who’d been deceived by the Earl of Blackhurst. Sir John Selbourne was one such gentleman. His card had aroused suspicion due to its cryptic note on the back—a hefty amount followed by the words, I’m interested.

  ‘Tell me again why you have dragged me from the ball below and lured me into Sir John’s bedchamber?’ Oliver said from under an ornate writing desk in said bedchamber.

  ‘To find evidence, of course.’

  ‘You do not seriously think I will find something under his desk, do you?

  ‘If we do not look we will not know if there is anything to find, will we?’

  Oliver frowned. How contradictory of you, Countess. Her jibe about the unfindable last night, still fresh in his mind. There was no way he would ever admit to her he had searched high and low for those damned non-existent speculation papers. What a desperate fool he was and yet, he’d had to try. Like she just said, if one does not look how will one find, or not find, what one is looking for. Pity his frantic search had produced nothing. He knew Henry had taken out the massive bank loan for something, the speculation presumably, but there was no proof he used it for that specific purpose, and that purpose only.

  The Countess put her hand on his shoulder. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What’s what?’ He was still searching for a hidden panel or a key or some small scrap of parchment which said, ‘Yes, it was I who killed Nathaniel Carslake, with a pistol, in the study, because he was a dirty rotten scoundrel—Sir John,’ knowing all the time he would never find it. Another unfindable to add to the list.

  ‘I think I hear voices,’ she whispered in his ear.

  Oliver closed his eyes. He liked her husky, sultry voice vibrating into his ear. ‘Why does this not surprise me?’ he drawled as he straightened up.

  She gave him a slightly confused expression then looked around her before saying, ‘Quick, in here.’

  Before he could protest he found himself stuffed into a large armoire.

  They stood chest to chest in the darkness surrounded by men’s jackets, breathing louder than a pair of postal horses who had just done the London to Dover run.

  ‘Ah, now this is cosy, wouldn’t you say?’ he said through the arm of a jacket, wanting more than anything for their heavy breathing to be the product of some rather more inspired recreation. Like kissing. He wanted to kiss her very much indeed.

  He found himself obsessed by her lips. Her shapely top lip. Her full bottom lip. The dents at the corners of her mouth that hinted at the marvel of a smile. Yes, her lips were consuming a lot of his grey matter these days. It was not a habit which was good for one’s wellbeing, he was sure.

  He knew what Ashton would tell him. ‘Stop looking at her damn lips and get the information.’ He would be right and that fact only made things worse. He had done his duty to Ashton by sending him a missive about the nonexistent legal papers and the Countess’s willingness to pay the investors if they could produce evidence of their investment. He knew it would not appease Ashton, nor his client, for it had not satisfied him
either.

  Her unique fragrance filled the small space around them and he groaned. Was it not bad enough he had to be in her presence every night and not be able to do more than have her hand on his sleeve or help her down from a carriage?

  ‘Shh!’ The Countess turned away from him, elbowing some more room at the same time, and peered through the keyhole.

  ‘I think it’s safe but I can’t be sure,’ she said.

  Safe? Not for him and certainly not for her if she didn’t get out soon.

  ‘We had better stay here then, until you are sure, of course. There is nothing quite like an unsure woman to ruin a perfectly good hiding spot.’

  ‘Bellamy, kindly shut up.’ She peered through the keyhole again ‘I can only see the edge of the writing desk,’ she whispered.

  Oliver smiled in the dimness of the armoire where he could just make out her outline. For all her squirming, her lovely little derriere was now conveniently placed in front of him and he had to resist the urge to reach out and touch her waist and pull her hips closer to him. He’d been aching to hold her, kiss her, and convince her he was not as repugnant as she seemed to think him. He wanted her to look at him like she had last night when she’d been upset, like she had when she had granted him the boon of a dance. He wanted her to smile at him. He didn’t really know why, he just…did.

  He decided he needed to test whether or not she was truly immune to him. If it failed he would be in the same position as he was now, only hopefully not in an armoire.

  ‘You smell nice,’ he said through the darkness.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like a spring meadow, just before it rains,’ he announced.

  ‘Do not be ridiculous. I smell of no such thing,’ she retorted, moving so he was pushed further to the side of the wardrobe.

  ‘Ah, but you do.’ Torture me.

  ‘Bellamy —’ Her tone held more than a little annoyance.

  ‘I know, but you see your hair is tickling my nose and the heat of your skin is making my skin heat, therefore, my body is reacting in the most…amusing manner.’

  Lisbeth rolled her eyes and attempted to count to ten. His body was reacting? Oh, Lord! Thankfully, it was dark in the armoire for she did not want him to see how his words were affecting her.

  ‘When a man’s body reacts,’ he was saying now, ‘there is often a need to —’

  ‘Bellamy!’

  ‘Yes, Countess?’

  If there were enough room she would have tried to slap his hand away from her hip. ‘If you do not desist with your ranting, the only thing your body will need is a doctor,’ she hissed.

  He gave a soft little chuckle. ‘Promises, promises.’

  Fuming and face burning, she turned towards him, well as much as she could with all these infernal jackets in the way. She tried to push him further away from her but he stood fast. He laughed again.

  ‘Shhh!’

  He seemed intent on ignoring her as he continued, ‘I’d wager, had I a lamp, you would be blushing most becomingly.’

  ‘Had I a lamp I would find a cravat and gag you with it.’

  ‘My, my, there is no need to be nasty.’ He reached out, touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. ‘You are blushing!’

  ‘I am not! And kindly keep your hands to yourself, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, definitely have you all hot and bothered, don’t I? Perhaps we should have jumped into an armoire earlier. I have a particularly large one, you know.’ When she snorted he qualified, ‘and an armoire, too. It would accommodate two people a lot better than this old thing. I’d even toss out all my clothes to make more room. My valet would make a fuss but I’d do it for you. What do you say, Countess?’

  She pushed against his chest, knowing it would do no good but wanting to wipe the, no doubt, smug grin off his face.

  ‘I’d say, regardless of how big you think your armoire is it will never be large enough to tempt me.’ She put her ear to the door, trying desperately to ignore his disturbing presence beside her. ‘Do you hear anything?’

  ‘I believe that sound is my heart breaking.’

  Scoffing, she turned towards him and replied, ‘Men don’t have hearts to break, though they do spend a great deal of their time trying to break ours.’

  ‘Not true,’ he whispered seductively in her ear. He grasped her hand and placed it over his heart, keeping it there despite her efforts to remove it. She could feel the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her palm.

  ‘You see? Just like yours,’ he said.

  Lisbeth’s whole arm tingled, just like last night during their dance. Her fingers flexed, glided over the woollen fabric of his jacket. She wanted to explore under the fine lawn of his shirt to the hard planes of his chest, but this was Bellamy. Despite the strange things he made her feel, the extremes in emotions she felt when he was around, the fact was he was a man who was only to be in her life for a short time. A man who would pocket as much as the foolish gentlemen of the ton would hand him, and disappear from her life. What would be the use of letting herself like him, desire him—fall under his spell?

  He placed his other hand on her left breast. ‘Your heart has considerably more padding, which is just as it should be.’

  ‘Bellamy!’ She swatted his hand away.

  ‘I know, I know, but, Countess, would it be such a terrible thing? You and I in an armoire, giving each other pleasure?’

  His fingers were tracing their way up her rib cage towards her breast again and she realised her hand was still on his chest. The heated tingling sensation was spiralling through her body and doing strange things to the thumping of her heart. If she hadn’t been blushing before, she was now. Her breasts were already swelling. Her nipples were painfully erect and straining against the tight corset. Her body may be reacting but not in an amusing way.

  Why was her body being so disloyal to her? Or was it her body knew what she wanted and was straining for his touch even as her brain articulated all the reasons why she should end this right now. It had been an age since she had been touched with any kind of tenderness. Not a hug, nor kiss in years. Part of her rejected the need but her heart yearned for comfort and affection.

  His hand brushed over her breast and she gasped. She hardly knew what her body was doing for she found herself pushing forward against his hand, as if wanting him to do more, press harder, release her from the confines of her bodice.

  She could feel him come closer to her and realised with dread it hadn’t been him who had taken the step but she who had pulled him closer. His fingers were now toying with the edge of her bodice. Part of her wanted him to hurry up and free her, kiss her, here, in the dark where there was no way he could see her.

  The real her.

  The desperate her.

  The lonely her.

  His fingers hovered over her skin, mapping their way in the dark, up her arms to her shoulder, collarbone, the column of her neck.

  ‘I’m going to kiss you now, Lisbeth,’ he announced and it was a dark and dangerous sound. It thrilled and scared her.

  So like Bellamy to tell her of his intentions, not like a request but a warning. A warning, which had her whole body quivering in anticipation of his touch. He kissed the hollow behind her ear and gooseflesh covered her body, like her skin had been woken after years of being asleep. She gasped at the feel of his lips on her neck, warm and soft. When his tongue flicked out to wet a small patch of skin before putting his hot, open mouth there she trembled. Her fingers dug into his jacket.

  Her eyes closed as he kissed her chin, the corner of her mouth. My lips. Kiss my lips, she silently pleaded. It seemed an age but finally his mouth came down on hers. She tasted the wine he had consumed earlier and wondered if he could taste the champagne she’d had. Soon all such ridiculous thought of who drank what was far, far away. His soft and unhurried way of kissing gave her time to relax. Tentatively she kissed him back, letting him deepen the kiss as he pleased because it pleased her
too. She heard him groan low in his throat and would have smiled but that her mouth was otherwise delightfully occupied.

  She was enjoying the dizzying feeling he created with his lips. She had always thought he had a clever mouth on him, how right she was but for much better reasons than she had originally thought. The smell of his shaving cologne and the starch from his cravat filled her nostrils, only to be outdone by the heated scent of the man himself. Lisbeth breathed it in, revelled in it, and wanted to inhale it like an opium smoker breathed in the bittersweet poison of the poppy.

  Bellamy’s lips left hers to make their way down her neck again and lower to the tops of her breasts. He kissed from one side to the other while one hand smoothed down the side of her ribcage to rest on her bottom, pulling her hard up against him. The other hand pulled down her bodice and was palming her breast with a tender but sure hand. She couldn’t breathe or was it she was breathing too much? Whichever way, she felt delirious.

  ‘Lisbeth,’ he rasped in her ear.

  Oh God! His voice was low, dark, and heavy. Keep talking, she thought to herself. No, stop talking and kiss me.

  ‘I want you, Lisbeth. I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you. You are so soft, so lovely. You’re perfect.’

  Perfect? Her? She’d been called many things, unsavory things, but never perfect, never lovely. He kissed her then with a determination which gave her no chance to resist him, even if she’d wanted to.

  Oh, Lord, his whole body was pressed against her and it felt so unexpectedly good, but he was still not close enough. She wanted more. She was a greedy child in a sweet shop. One hand gripped his jacket while the other tangled in his hair and he whispered her name again before taking advantage of her open mouth. His tongue plundered as his body rocked against her. She gloried in the press of his erection against her. Consciousness was giving way to a sweetest oblivion. She didn’t want to think, just for a moment or two.

  ‘I knew it,’ he growled in her ear and she turned towards him.

  ‘Don’t talk, please don’t talk,’ she said and put her lips to his. He took her invitation without hesitation. Deepened the kiss further.