The Wager. Sally Cheney
the door behind them.
“This is not my room,” she told him, still believing he, like she, had made an understandable mistake.
“No, it is my room.”
At last, at long last, far past the time when such a reaction would have been understandable and advisable, Marianne felt the cold stab of panic in her heart.
“I think it will be better this way, do you not agree?” Desmond said, turning to engage the lock on the door. “By this arrangement, you may keep your rooms to yourself, where you can be alone and enjoy your privacy.”
Coolly he began to loosen the buttons of his pants. Horrified, Marianne watched him pull his trousers off completely, exposing long, dark, exceptionally hairy legs.
“Then when we are together,” he continued, speaking as casually as if they were exchanging opinions on the weather in a public salon, “we will be in here. Our rooms are even close enough that you may retire to your bed afterward, if you wish. Though I certainly hope you would choose to spend some nights with me.”
Marianne’s eyes were very large, though in the uncertain light of the single candle, Desmond may not have recognized the fear that filled them. Or perhaps he simply chose to ignore it, or to interpret it as something else. Desire, perhaps.
But it was fear in her eyes, in her mind, in her heart. She took a step away from him, but the distance she put between them was negligible, and without moving, he reached out and grasped her arm, encircling the slender limb with his long fingers. He pulled her against him and was excited to feel her heart pounding in her chest as rapidly as a sparrow’s.
“What—what are you doing?” she gasped, pulling her head back, but unable to free her arms.
He wrapped his own arms around her, holding her head with one hand as he bent toward her.
“I am taking you to paradise, my little fawn,” he murmured as he nuzzled the creamy indentation of her neck and kissed the pink lobe of her ear. “And I absolutely guarantee you will enjoy it more than anything old Carstairs has given you before.”
Suddenly his lips were on hers. For a moment, for a split second, Marianne was lost in the sensual pleasure of their warmth, their moistness, electrified by the feel of his tongue against her lips. His hand at her back, caressing 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.