More Than a Mistress. Ann Lethbridge

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СКАЧАТЬ certainly wouldn’t worry about hurting her when romping around in a bed. His body stirred in approval. He tamped down his desire. The last thing he needed was a distraction like Merry Draycott.

      For an unprotected woman, she was far too bold for her own good. Many men would have no qualms about taking advantage. He had to admit he found the prospect tempting.

      Her behaviour had him thoroughly off kilter, too. On occasion, her manner of speech left much to be desired. At other times she seemed almost genteel. She confused him. And, unfortunately, intrigued him.

      For an instant at dinner, he’d suspected the two women of being more than platonic friends, that they might worship at the altar of Sappho, but as the meal progressed he had not sensed anything warmer than friendship.

      Not that he was averse to the special friendships some women preferred. It just put those particular women out of reach, and, in her case, he’d felt disappointed.

      The truth was, he wanted her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so urgent about having a woman. He fought to control the impulse to seduce her. As her guest, good manners required he accommodate his hostess’s wishes. A part of him wished those desires included more than a high-stakes game of billiards. The undercurrents swirling around them suggested they might. And no matter what he thought, his baser male nature wanted to oblige.

      A man about to become betrothed did not enter into an entanglement with another woman. Hell, he’d just got rid of his long-term mistress for that very reason.

      Meeting this particular woman on the road was, without a doubt, a confounded nuisance.

      She played a damned fine game of billiards, too. She’d won the first game, mostly because he had been focusing too much on her sweet little bottom when she’d leaned over the table. A quite deliberate ploy on her part, no doubt. Not unlike a Captain Sharp plying his mark with gin.

      He watched her saunter around the table with a jaunty swing of her hips and clenched his jaw. She was deliberately tormenting him with a gown that skimmed her breasts and revealed every curve when she walked. While her gown wasn’t any more provocative than many respectable married ladies of the ton wore to a drum or a rout, on her, it seemed positively decadent.

      The woman was a menace. Teasing a man came with consequences she might not like. Perhaps she needed a lesson in acceptable behaviour. A warning.

      He covered his mouth and yawned widely. ‘Excuse me. It’s been a long day. I think I am ready to retire.’

      She frowned. ‘Afraid you will lose again?’

      ‘Not at all,’ he drawled. ‘My interest is waning. I’m afraid I need more of a challenge.’

      She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Fifty guineas a point and a hundred for a win is reasonably challenging.’

      ‘I’m not trying to fleece you, Merry, but I think both of us can lose a few hundred guineas in a night and not turn a hair.’

      Her eyes widened a fraction. ‘Do you want to make it thousands?’

      He grinned and leaned on his cue. ‘That is more of the same, isn’t it?’ Oh God, he was going to hell for this. ‘In this next game, how about for each point we lose, we remove an article of clothing?’

      It was the kind of thing he would have proposed during his misspent youth, before his stint in the army. Before he became duller than ditchwater, more sedate than a spinster walking a pug. The sharp voice of his handsomely paid-off mistress rang in his head.

      Merry was staring at him wide-eyed, shocked to her toes.

      A rueful smile tugged at his lips as he waited for her to retreat in disarray and leave him to take his brandy to his empty bed.

      ‘An article of clothing per point?’ she said, a little breathlessly, her cheeks flushing pink, but her shoulders straightening.

      A breath caught in his throat. By thunder, she wasn’t going to back down. The naughty minx. Someone ought t o put her over their knee. He drew on every ounce of control, the kind a man needed going into battle.

      Clearly there was only one way to teach this young woman not to play with fire. Singe her eyebrows.

      ‘Anything on your person,’ he said as if the whole topic bored him.

      ‘Including jewellery? Because it seems to me I have far less clothing than you do.’

      ‘Certainly.’

      She boldly ran her gaze down his body as if considering whether seeing him disrobed would be worth the risk. He pretended not to notice the heat of desire flaring in the depths of her summer-blue eyes and let her look her fill.

      She parted her lips and his body hardened to granite. He forced himself not to shift to find ease for his confined flesh.

      Some women found him too large, too overpowering physically, when the fashion was for lisping mincing dandies. In her case the thought of doing a bit of overpowering made the prospect all the sweeter.

      If she dared take his challenge.

      She drew in a deep breath. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Fifty guineas and an article of clothing per point to twelve points. The hundred guineas for the win remains unchanged.’

      She expected to win. It was writ large on her face. He took a slow inward breath, controlling the surge of heat at the thought of seeing her naked. ‘That sounds fair,’ he said coolly.

      And then she laughed. A low chuckle in the back of her throat. ‘Perhaps I should ask Gribble to have the fire stoked before we start. So no one catches a chill.’

      ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Our blushes will keep us warm.’

      Her shoulders tensed. ‘Your blushes, you mean.’

      What a surprise, this woman—the first who had dared challenge him for years. They usually simpered and flattered. If he was any kind of gentleman he would stop this right now, but he wouldn’t. Not if his life depended on it. He was having too much fun. He smiled at her, a sweet, but slightly devilish grin. ‘It seems you are first, my dear Merry.’

      She missed her first shot. Nerves. Not as blasé as she pretended.

      ‘Bad luck,’ he said. ‘A one-point penalty.’

      She removed the pearls at her throat and placed them on a side table with a little toss of her head. ‘You will not be so lucky in future.’

      He eyed the board, and played his shot carefully. His ball missed hers and came to rest temptingly close to the pocket.

      ‘You missed. One point for me,’ she said.

      He bowed and removed his coat and draped it over a chair back, while she walked around the table, looking at the balls from all angles.

      He waited, leaning nonchalantly on his cue.

      With a small smile of triumph she lay across the table and eyed the balls. An easy shot. Just as he’d planned. He and Robert had actually orchestrated one of these games with a СКАЧАТЬ