A Regency Courtesan's Pride: More Than a Mistress / The Rake's Inherited Courtesan. Ann Lethbridge
points would be bad enough. Seven would have her completely disrobed.
‘Do you want to stop here?’ he asked.
Why did he have to be so gentlemanly? And yet there was a knowing look in his eyes as if he guessed she would never forfeit a game. ‘That would be cowardly,’ she managed.
Her gaze darted from his face to his chest. ‘What happened to you?’
‘A sabre.’
‘Duelling?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I think duelling is a foolish pastime,’ she said, frowning at the scar. ‘Real men resolve their problems without hacking each other to pieces.’
The hobnail-booted grasshoppers had returned. This time they were running around in a frenzy. Out of self-defence she turned her attention to the table. It didn’t help, because he walked around retrieving the balls from her last shot, his upper arms bulging and stretching as he replaced them on the table.
She took a deep breath and realised with horror her hands were shaking and damp.
He leaned a hip against the edge of the table. ‘My shot.’
His shot. This was going to be a disaster.
He leaned over the table and his elbow slid smoothly forwards, but he dropped his shoulder. His ball missed the red by such a small fraction, for a moment she was sure he was about to get another seven.
Relief flooded through her body in a hot wave.
He stood staring at the table as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. ‘By Jove,’ he said, frowning.
‘You lowered your shoulder at the last minute,’ she said.
He grimaced and removed his signet ring. It tinkled against the other jewellery as he set it down with a snap.
He took a deep breath and the underlying bones in his chest expanded, drawing attention to the narrowness of his waist and lean hips, though she tried her best not to let him see she had noticed.
She was going to win. He had almost nothing left to remove. She wiped her hands on her gown. She ought to stop now. She really ought to.
But he needed taking down a peg or two.
And she wasn’t going to look when he removed the last of his clothes.
Not one peek. He would remove them and leave.
‘Your turn, Merry.’
For some reason, she loved the way he said her name. It was as if he savoured each syllable and consonant. As if he tasted them on his tongue.
‘Yes,’ she said. Her hands trembled. She didn’t need to do anything fancy. Put his ball in the corner pocket.
‘Whenever you are ready,’ he said quietly.
She jumped. Desperate to have this over and done she took her shot quickly, neatly caroming off the red, the ball ricocheting into the pocket at the end of the table.
He made a sound like a laugh quickly stifled.
A second later she realised why. She’d downed her own ball.
‘Hell,’ she said.
‘Oh, dear. I believe that is three points to me.’
‘I know that,’ she said, staring at the table where his ball happily rested to the right of the red. Blast. She hadn’t made a mistake like that since she’d been a young girl.
She looked up at his face and saw his broad grin. Damn it. The sight of him half-naked had scattered her wits.
A smile pinned on her face, she let her eyes sparkle and fluttered her lashes. ‘Might I ask if you have a preference?’
His look of astonishment, quickly followed by a flare of heat in those dark eyes, was all the reward she needed for her daring.
Her satisfaction didn’t last long, because he was eyeing her like dinner had finally arrived. What on earth had made her give him the choice?
‘The other garter, I think, and both stockings. And then it is my turn to shoot.’
And she would be the one who was naked. Her stomach dipped down to her feet.
‘I will forgo the rest of the game,’ he said, his eyes gleaming wickedly, ‘if you will permit me to remove those items.’
Her stomach sank even further, dropping away in a rush. As if she’d fallen from a high place, or dropped into a well.
He raised his brows.
Dash it all. It was the only way to retain a shred of propriety and honour. Letting him take off her stockings and feeling those wonderfully strong warm hands on her naked flesh all the way to her knee sounded dreadful. Dreadfully delicious.
And not nearly as awful as being required to undress, should he down his next shot. He had missed once. He might miss again. Her mind went back to that odd drop of his shoulder, when usually he moved with such elegant grace and surety. He’d done it on purpose. Missed his shot. To give her a chance to win. And she’d muffed it.
No wonder he’d laughed.
She closed her eyes briefly. Then he deserved his reward. Her insides quivered. Excitement. Anticipation. Wicked. She was nothing but wicked.
She nodded.
She sat on the nearest chair. ‘Your hands must go no further than the top of my knee, nor your gaze.’
The corners of his mouth curled in a sensual smile. ‘Do you play the part of Portia, now?’
She lifted her chin. ‘And will you play the part of fair Antonio or be the lesser man?’
‘A hit,’ he said and bowed. ‘I will abide by your rule most cheerfully.’
She carefully arranged her skirt so that no more than the top of her left stocking showed below the hem. It had slid below her knee.
He dropped to his knees in front of her and sat back on his heels. ‘A delectable sight.’
‘I trust you to keep your word.’
She could not see his face, but his shoulders shook a little as if he was trying not to laugh. She saw no humour in the situation, for he had cheated. She was sure of it.
Her skin tingled with the anticipation of his touch. She bit her lip as he hooked one finger into the fine silk and rolled it down over her ankle. He eased it over her heel and off. ‘That is one.’
There. Not so bad. No caresses or touches driving her mad.
His fingers went to the hem of her gown, gathering up the fine material until he reached her knee. She tried not to look, or to guess at his reaction. A rake like him would have seen lots of ladies’ limbs. Her legs were long and well muscled from striding about her property like a man, when she wasn’t conducting business, also like a man. He would find no feminine softness beneath her skirts. He’d probably find her unappealing.
She stared at the wall opposite and gritted her teeth.
The tug on the bow of her garter was like a tug at her centre. Wicked sensations pulsed in her core. She felt naked, exposed, yet when she glanced down to watch, her hem had risen only on one side and not a fraction above the edge of her stocking. But he knelt so close, concentrated on his task with such focus, she could feel his warm breath brush her thigh through the layers of gown and chemise. It tickled unbearably.
He pulled the garter free and dangled it before her face. ‘Two,’ he said.
She swallowed. Resisted the urge to pull down her skirts. Ignored the fire she could feel burning on her face. She did not fear him doing anything she did not permit. She feared she might permit him to take liberties. But she would not be so cowardly as to go back on her word, not after his generosity. ‘Well, go