Once Upon a Wager (4 page)

“You are the talk of the party, Annabelle. Although perhaps that's not a surprise.”

“Other than that incident in the garden, I've been on my best behavior,” she insisted. “I've been remarkably restrained.”

“Yes, you have,” he said with the ghost of a smile. “Maybe that's why people are talking.”

“Well, if you've heard them, what are they saying? Don't keep me in suspense.”

“I suppose it depends on whether you are speaking with the ladies or the gentlemen.”

“Has Mrs. Balleymood been spreading lies again? I did not trip Thomas at last month's races on the town green. He fell when I sped past.”

“I don't doubt it,” he replied, sounding in that moment like the old Alec, his voice warm with affection. “But no. The ladies merely want to know the name of your modiste. That dress has caused quite a stir.”

“It is pretty, isn't it?” she said, twirling in a circle to show off every aspect, only to find that when she faced him again, his gaze had darkened. “Do the men like it, too?” she asked, trying to fill the sudden silence.

“That is rather a leading question, Annabelle. But just this once, I will humor your vanity. Yes, they think that both you and the dress are beautiful.”

She was used to such compliments, of course, but not from him. Of late, he was far better at masking his thoughts than at sharing them. “What about you, Alec?” she asked. “Do you think I'm beautiful?”

“I think we are old friends, so the kind of notice that the others are paying you would be inappropriate.”

She took a deep breath, knowing full well that she'd regret her next words. “What if I wanted to attract your notice?”

“Annabelle, you shouldn't say such things,” he said, all traces of humor gone. “A man will get the wrong impression of your motives.”

“I'm not looking for a lecture on propriety,” she said. “You know I always say more than I should. I was just wondering … what you think of me.”

He looked down at her in the moonlight, his mouth a grim line. In the ballroom, the next set of music was nearing its end, while her question hung in the air. As the moments stretched on, she wished she had the courage to walk away, rather than wait here, desperate for his answer. But then finally, he spoke. “I think you are impossibly beautiful.”

The smile burst forth before she could stop it, or attempt some degree of maidenly modesty. “Horace Briarly said the same thing when he tried to kiss me.”

“That boy from Hinckley? He should be horsewhipped.”

“He is no longer a boy. He's quite handsome, in fact, but of course, I'm saving my kisses.” She tilted her face toward his, certain that he would see the invitation there. Her breath quickened with anticipation.

“That's as it should be, Annabelle,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Save them for someone you can make a future with.”

Could he possibly have misunderstood? Impulsively, she reached up and pressed her lips to his. Alec reared back in surprise, but she clasped her arms around his neck, pulling him toward her, unwilling to let go. His lips were warm. He smelled of sandalwood still, and something spicy—shock, no doubt—but the feel of him was glorious. His heartbeat was pounding against her chest, his hair silky beneath her fingers. Even as he held his arms at his sides, refusing to touch her, she pressed closer, trying to erase the distance between them.

But he was completely still, like a pillar of salt again. His mouth was unyielding, and she suddenly knew that he didn't share her feelings. He felt none of her longing. He was holding his breath, waiting for her to be done.

Embarrassed, she slowly withdrew, easing her hands away, and then her lips.

Only to have his arms clamp like manacles around her, pulling her flush against him, trapping her there. She could feel the tension in his body, everything about him tight and hard. He angled his head down, capturing her mouth, a rush of wine-scented breath mingling with her own, making her feel lightheaded and needy.

With a low moan, he sucked at her lower lip until she opened her mouth, his tongue slipping in, slick and insistent. Annabelle shuddered with the intimacy of it, desperate to feel more of this new sensation as he gathered her closer. He swept his hands along her waist, over the curve of her hips, and down the swell of her backside, cupping her against something heavy and hot. All the while, he explored her with his mouth, as if she was something sweet and he craved the taste of her. Caught up in her desire, she knew only that she'd never felt this way. She would give him all of herself for the taking, if only he would ask.

But then inexplicably, he stopped. With a muffled curse, he dropped his arms and took several steps back. He crossed his hands behind him, as if to keep them occupied, and watched her, his eyes hooded, his breathing uneven.

How could he control himself so quickly? She still felt dizzy, as if she'd been drugged with laudanum.

“God above, I knew better,” he said. “I should have stayed as far away as possible.”

That cured her dizziness. Had she given him such a disgust of her, then?

“That should never have happened, Annabelle. It was wrong. Please, you need to go back inside.”

“I am sorry.” She could barely speak the words. “I suppose I've confirmed all of your worst assumptions.”

“I'm angry at myself, Annabelle, not at you. I took advantage.”

“If anything,” she said, watching him beneath her lashes, “I was the one who took advantage.”

“Do you hear yourself?” His voice was sharp now, even pained. “Can you understand why I have stayed away? You can't tempt a man like that. I warned you I'm not so honorable.”

“Is it such a bad thing to kiss me? I've wanted to kiss you as long as I can remember.”

For several moments, he simply gazed at her, his face inscrutable. “Well, then,” he said quietly. “We have kissed. You have indulged your curiosity with no thought for the consequences. I don't have that luxury.”

He turned, vanishing into the darkness as she touched a hand to her lips, where she could still feel his kiss.

• • •

They didn't speak for the remainder of the party. Indeed, Alec studiously avoided Annabelle, dancing with any number of unknown girls because he didn't trust himself to be near her. He felt certain he would violate all the rules of propriety, making an even bigger ass of himself than he already had.

Not that it stopped him from watching her. Every time someone asked her to dance. Every time she smiled at another man, conquering another heart. When she retired from the party, putting a safe distance between them at last, he was torn between regret and relief. She had kissed him, but he'd committed the unpardonable sin of kissing her back. God knows where he'd found the strength to stop before he completely lost his head. He'd underestimated his own reckless longing.

Recklessness seemed to abound this evening. Gareth was drunk and unsteady on his feet. He'd spilled wine on several guests—including Dr. Chessher, an esteemed surgeon from the neighboring village of Hinckley—and seeing to his drunken friend was a good excuse to leave the party early. It would put both of them out of their misery. But when Alec suggested as much, Gareth's reaction was immediate.

“Can't. Meeting Digby after midnight in the study,” he said haltingly. “Working the wager out.”

Alec had forgotten about the Sherford-Chetwiggin race. “How much did you lose?”

Gareth's face leached of color, and he looked away, his eyes darting about the room. “Won't tell you that … too shameful. Good old Digby, though. Fronted me all the money.” Then he shifted uncomfortably. “'Course, I haven't got it.”

“I'd rather pay your debt than have you beholden to that snake,” Alec said. It of course wouldn't solve anything, but old loyalties were difficult to ignore.

“Don't like sh—nakes,” Gareth mumbled. “Won't mess you up in this, though. Digby'll make it right.” He took a sip from his wine glass, only to find it empty. “He's found a thing or two worth the money.” Gareth leaned in, as if sharing a secret. “Giving me a fair shot, too. We're to race for it in the morning, just like Fitz ... Ford.”

“What do you mean race? You're in no condition to race.”

Gareth, though, had already wandered off in search of the footman with the wine tray. More worrisome was the fact that Gareth was terrible with horses, his hands like rocks with the reins. And Digby damn well knew it.

• • •

As the clock on her mantel chimed, Annabelle punched her pillow in frustration. She couldn't sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes, she was back on the patio with Alec. Back in his arms.

He'd said it was wrong, that she shouldn't have done it, but she couldn't agree. Even as a little girl, she'd loved the feel of him, constantly finding excuses to touch him, if only to reassure herself. Alec had always looked out for her. He'd made her feel safe in a family that thrived on chaos.

And now—well, she better understood the fluttery sensation that came over her whenever he was near. The first time she'd felt it, she was watching Alec and Gareth swim in their favorite lake near Arbury Court. It was the summer her body began to change and curve, growing in very specific places, becoming long and lean in others. She'd wanted to swim alongside them, but not when wet linen underthings revealed those frightening changes, so she'd sat at the water's edge, fully clothed in a sweltering riding habit. When Alec walked out of the lake, pants clinging to his long, muscular legs, his bare chest dripping with water that caught the sunlight, she'd been breathless. Mesmerized by the way his muscles flexed as he leaned down to pick up a cloth, the way his flat stomach tensed as he wiped the water from his body. She was breathless now just thinking of it. She'd never looked at him in the same way again.

The clock on the mantel chimed again, interrupting her thoughts. Somewhere downstairs, people were arguing. In this old, stonewalled house, sound tended to reverberate, amplifying even whispered conversations. A benefit or a curse, depending on your perspective.

She tried to ignore the noise, but it was hard not to wonder who was arguing and why. She was quite thirsty, come to think of it. No wonder she was having such a difficult time falling asleep. Perhaps she could sneak downstairs, and get something from the kitchen. If she heard anything along the way, no one could accuse her of eavesdropping. Absolutely not.

She crept out of bed and went to her corner armoire to retrieve a matching wrap. Belting it tightly over her nightgown, she stepped gingerly into a pair of boiled wool slippers, took the candle from her bedside table, and sneaked out into the hall. She turned down the back stairs. Without windows, it was darker than the night. The muffled voices were louder now, angry in tone, and coming from the study, which shared easy access to the servants' stairs. She continued on, trying to quiet her steps as she neared the room. Not that its occupants would ever know she was nearby, given the volume of their voices. The door was slightly ajar.

“You can't mean to participate in this, Gareth.”

It was Alec. Temptation at its worst.

“He has no choice, Dorset,” someone said derisively. The damnable Digby. “A gentleman of honor pays his debts. I'm giving him a chance to win everything back, after all.”

“There is no honor in this, you whoreson.” It was so unlike Alec to speak in vulgar terms that Annabelle was desperate to hear more. Really, though, she must pass by. It wouldn't do to be found here in the dark in her nightclothes, in the company of three men no less, even if one of them was her drunken brother. She wasn't lost to all propriety. But then a fight broke out. She could hear something—perhaps a small table-—being tossed aside, and the sound of shattering glass. There was a struggle, and then a wheezing noise, the sort one associated with a crushing case of influenza, or a constricted air pipe. Or worse.

She rushed into the room. Gareth was standing by the fireplace in wide-eyed disarray, his cravat undone, a half-empty glass of claret spilling out of his hand. Shards of crystal were scattered at his feet, the remnants of a decanter he must have dropped. It was Digby, though, who drew her attention. He'd been threatening earlier, but he was hardly threatening now. He was gasping for breath, the starched linen of his cravat twisted into a stranglehold by Alec, who stood above him, furious and deadly, like an avenging angel.

It took the span of several heartbeats for anyone to react to her presence. Gareth turned toward her, flushed and clumsy. Alec, after a moment's hesitation, dropped Digby, shuddering with the effort to contain his temper. When he took in the state of her undress, he looked away quickly. “Annabelle, you must get out of here,” he said, his face grim in profile. Digby, sucking in great gusts of air, turned to watch her, his face still mottled.

It took a moment to find her voice. She was shocked by what she'd seen. “Why are you fighting?” She turned to Gareth. “Why didn't you stop them?”

He looked heartsick. “Don't … be angry with me, Belle,” he pleaded. “Didn't mean for thith … this to happen.”

Obviously, the late hour had done little to sober him. “Oh, Gareth,” she said, suddenly wary. “What have you done?”

“Don't worry,” he slurred. “I'll win. Promise.”

At that, Alec bit back another curse. Setting aside her candle, he grabbed a blanket on the armchair by the fire, and draped it over her nightclothes. “Please, Annabelle,” he said. “Don't ask questions now. You must return to your room.” Before she could answer, he took her by the arm, leading her out of the study and back up the stairs. In the glow of the candle he carried, his beautiful features were cast in stark relief, his face implacable.

“Alec?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, as if speaking softly would blunt the violence of what she'd just seen. “What is Gareth trying to win?”