The Wager. Sally Cheney

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СКАЧАТЬ the exposed skin of her shoulder blades, pressed her to him. She was aware of the tense strength of his thigh muscles as he worked his knee between her legs.

      But as her legs were forced apart, as he drew his other hand up to the bodice of her dress, her head cleared with the realization of what he was doing, what he was going to do to her. She pulled away, trying to get her arms between them, turning her face away from his kisses.

      “No, no!” she gasped.

      He stopped his efforts for a moment and looked into her eyes with a puzzled expression.

      “Your resistance is not very flattering, my dear. I would not have imagined this was the best way to get ahead in your profession.”

      “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered, unable to catch a full breath of air because of his tight embrace.

      “I mean, you owe me this. I intend to collect on Carstairs’s wager.”

      “Mr. Carstairs’s wager? What wager?”

      “The wager he lost and I won. You, Miss Trenton.”

      “Me? But I am Mr. Carstairs’s ward,” she gasped.

      He smiled. Of course. Rather than being unskilled in her field, the girl was, quite to the contrary, very good. She was acting out her role of “ward.” Delightful.

      With no further ado, Desmond picked her up in his arms and carried her to the big, dark, four-poster bed in the middle of the room.

      “No…no, you mustn’t!” she cried. “Oh, please, no.”

      But Desmond, believing it was all part of her “ward-andguardian” game, ignored her pleas as he pinned her arms with his left hand and with his right loosened the bodice of her dress. The buttons were frustratingly small and he was tempted to rip the material, but he focused his concentration on the little bits of obsidian and at last unhooked them all, without puiling any of them loose.

      The dress fell open and he quickly pushed her confining undergarments out of the way.

      As he freed her firm, young breasts, he released her arms, meaning to cup the tender morsels to his mouth. But the girl beneath him swung her freed hand, delivering a resounding slap to the side of his face.

      Intoxicated by passion, Desmond only flinched in surprise and then chuckled. It was a dark sound, a sound without mercy, and Marianne’s heart clenched tightly.

      “You are a little spitfire, are you not?” he said with a laugh.

      He captured her hands again and started to pull at the material of her skirts and petticoats. He had expected cooperation, but the girl was very good, determined to make it exciting for him.

      Her gown was like a maze. He would work his hand under one length of material only to find another blocking his path. But at last his fingers touched the smooth skin of her thigh, warm and yielding. He rubbed the inside of her leg delicately, trailing his palm over the silky skin, pushing aside confining undergarments here, as well. He nuzzled her exposed bosom, taking the tender mounds into his mouth.

      By now he had raised all her skirts and petticoats out of the way. He was excited to feel the smooth, cool length of her bare legs against his own. He pushed his thigh between hers and began to rock gently.

      At any moment she would begin to relax and respond. She would move beneath him, shifting to accommodate him. They would push against each other, the heat building between them, until they melted into one another.

      With his lips against her ivory skin, he moaned softly, lost in the smell and feel of her. He expected to hear a soft murmur from her in response.

      But she did not give voice to her passion. The form beneath him did not relax, did not move to accommodate him. She remained cold and stiff. She might have been petrified. And then he noticed a hitch in the rise and fall of her chest against his mouth.

      He freed his hand from the intricacies of her undergarments and raised himself to look into her face.

      Tears were streaming from under her clenched eyelids, wetting the hair at her temples and the pillow under her head. Her lips moved, and in the sudden stillness in the room he heard her murmur, “Please, no. Oh, dear Lord, please do not let him do this to me. Please, no.”

      He released her hands and rolled off of her, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He glanced behind him and pushed his fingers through the wild tangle of his hair.

      What did she mean by this? What was happening? This was not what Carstairs had promised him.

      Desmond took a breath and told himself to think. His breathing became deeper and slower, as the fire in his loins cooled. What exactly had Carstairs promised him? The man had offered him his “ward.” His ward? Was it possible…?

      “Marianne?” he said at last, very softly.

      The girl did not open her eyes, but her lips stopped moving.

      “How old are you, Marianne?” he asked.

      There was a long pause, during which the girl hiccupped and Desmond gently smoothed away the tears on one of her cheeks with his thumb.

      “Sixteen,” she whispered.

      Sixteen? Was she as young as that? He studied her unlined face.

      There was no question. He had been a blind fool.

      “And you…you have nevei done this before, have you?”

      She shook her head.

      Desmond withdrew his hand from her face, almost expecting to see her cheek stained by his touch. He was suddenly filled with a great revulsion. A revulsion for Carstairs, who had delivered the young woman to him, fully aware of her probable fate. The wager had been offered and accepted with a mutual understanding as to what they were playing for.

      But he also felt revulsion for himself. Carstairs was a pig, but what was he?

      It was very silent for two or three minutes. The girl’s tears had ceased, though her sobs occasionally shook the mattress.

      Desmond appeared to be completely lost in thought, totally unaware of the girl, but in fact he was consumed by thoughts of her, considering what her life must have been like, wondering what had brought her to this place tonight and where the path on which Carstairs had planted her would eventually lead her. If this was her first time, Carstairs must not have tried this ploy before. But since his wager had been accepted once, it would be again. Probably often. Until she was no longer worth the bet. Even though Desmond would not touch the girl again, if he sent her back he would be delivering her straight into a life of prostitution, into the the jaws of hell. He would be no better than Carstairs.

      He grimaced. He was no better than Carstairs now, for he had brought her here expecting to collect his “winnings.”

      “Mr. Desmond?” the girl whispered.

      Desmond started in surprise and turned to look at her.

      Her eyes were open, red rimmed and swollen, focused on him with an expression Desmond would have thought only executioners СКАЧАТЬ