The Marriage Wager (4 page)

“It didn’t go badly at the tables last night, I hope?” said the older woman, spreading butter with a liberal hand. Her hot tea arrived, and she poured a cup.

“Very badly,” replied Emma, thinking of Robin.

“You lost?” Arabella clutched at her thin bosom.

“No, no. I won. It’s all right.” They had made an agreement that Emma would contribute part of her winnings to Arabella’s household expenses, and she saw now how important that promise was to her hostess. Another person she would be disappointing, Emma thought with a sinking heart, now that she had spoiled her chances of appearing at card parties. “Aunt,” she asked, “do you know a man named Colin Wareham?”

Arabella’s eyes grew round. “St. Mawr?” she replied.

Emma shrugged to show her ignorance.

“Colin Wareham is the Baron St. Mawr,” explained the older woman. “A very old family. Vastly wealthy and well connected. Caroline Wareham, his sister, is married to the Earl of Wrotham. I believe St. Mawr is just back from the French war. There was a great to-do when he joined the army. You would not remember. You were still in the schoolroom, I imagine.”

Emma sipped her tea. Arabella enjoyed recalling times when she had been privy to the gossip of the
ton
.

The older woman clasped her hands before her. “Emma, you haven’t met St. Mawr? He’s one of the most eligible bachelors in London. What a splendid thing it would be if—”

“There’s no question of anything like that,” interrupted Emma.

“But, my dear, you are still quite lovely. And you have an air about you—I don’t know how to describe it exactly—but I swear that a man might find it extremely—”

“I am not on the lookout for a husband,” stated Emma.

“But why not? It is most comfortable for a woman to be married. And I am certain St. Mawr would never be so vulgar and
disgusting
as to take up with a servant and leave the country with her. When I think what I put up with from that man, the sacrifices I made to his whims, the—”

“I am hardly a desirable partner,” put in Emma, hoping to stem the flow before Arabella hit her stride. “Penniless, a widow, disowned by my family.”

“What? Oh. No, I suppose not.” She looked like a child deprived of a promised treat, but whether it was the dream of a splendid match or the opportunity to rehearse her grievances yet again, Emma couldn’t tell.

“Even if it were possible, I do not care to marry again,” Emma admonished. “I have not formed a high opinion of the married state.”

Arabella sighed dramatically. “I cannot say I blame you there,” she answered. “When I think of the
years
I devoted to—”

“What do you know of Colin Wareham?” Emma interrupted. “He is a gamester, is he not?”

Arabella looked thwarted briefly, then made a vague gesture with one hand. “He has been abroad for years with the army. I don’t think anyone knows much about him.”

Which meant only that Arabella knew nothing, Emma thought.

A look of concern crossed the older woman’s pale face. “Did you win a great deal of money from him?”

“And if I did?” wondered Emma.

“Well… it is just… some gentlemen don’t care to be beaten by a woman, and that is a very powerful family. You wouldn’t want them to be angry with you. They could destroy all your chances.”

This was even worse than she had thought, Emma saw. Robin would be helpless before such a man. If he could not pay—and from his expression last night she was sure he couldn’t—he would be ruined in society’s eyes, which would only push him to even greater excesses at the tables.

Emma’s jaw tightened. She had to free her brother from this threat. It didn’t matter that after the long years of fighting for respectability, she would have to put it all at risk—to go against everything she had been taught, every code of proper behavior. She had no choice. She would have to do as Wareham asked, to go back to him and accept his scandalous wager.

The prospect was not completely repugnant to her, Emma found. There was something about Colin Wareham, something rather compelling. But all she wanted was to beat him soundly at cards, Emma thought quickly, and to wipe that look of smug assurance from his handsome features.

She had a good chance of winning, she told herself. She had the skill. But so did Wareham, a skeptical inner voice argued. He had a great deal of skill. In the end, it would all come down to luck. Emma grimaced. There were ways, of course, to be more certain of the outcome. She knew how to cheat at cards. She had a notion, however, that Colin Wareham was very well able to recognize such underhanded methods, and the idea of being caught at them by him made her cheeks grow hot. She would have to rely on her wits, Emma concluded. But she had been doing that for quite some time now.

“My dear, what is it?” exclaimed Arabella.

“What?”

“Why, for a moment, you had the oddest expression.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” replied Emma. “Just something I must do.”

“Something involving St. Mawr?”

“Don’t be concerned,” repeated Emma.

Arabella watched her doubtfully. Emma’s arrival had been like an answer to her prayers, for she was badly in need of the extra money she promised. If Emma got embroiled in some dispute with a man like St. Mawr, that promise would be empty. Arabella determined to do whatever she could to make certain that did not happen.

***

Colin sat in his library, the brandy decanter once more at his elbow, and brooded over the flames leaping in the fireplace. At the insistence of his mother, he had spent another dull, empty evening at Almack’s. He had thought that by now she had introduced him to all the insipid young ladies of high birth on the marriage mart, but tonight she had produced a few more. And he had been required to talk to them and dance with them and take one of them in to supper. Though he was never other than polite, his patience had been stretched to the limit. He was sick to death of wide innocent eyes, white muslin frills, and meaningless conversation. He had tried to explain to his mother that the girls she presented as potential wives were utterly uninteresting, their minds filled with trivialities, their hearts vacant with youth. But she brushed his objections aside as stubbornness, or an incomprehensible desire to thwart her and evade his responsibilities to his name. “Damn,” he muttered, and emptied his glass.

As he refilled it, he allowed the image of Emma Tarrant to float once more into his mind. Here was a woman very different from the witless debs. He had seen character in her face, an understanding of tragedy in her eyes. She had daring and courage. And a husband, an inner voice interjected savagely, causing his fingers to tighten on his glass. Letting his fist fall on the chair arm, he tore his mind from the memories of her hair, her scent. She was not worth his regrets.

The library door opened. “A lady to see you, my lord,” said the footman.

Emma was right behind him, once again wearing her mask. She stepped into the room quickly, before she could change her mind, and faced Colin, still sprawled in his armchair. “I’ve come to do as you asked,” she blurted out.

Colin stood. He had drunk a good deal, he realized, when his legs revealed a tendency to wobble. “Thank you, John,” he said. “That will be all.” He waited while the footman, agog with curiosity, slowly pulled the door closed again.

“Did you hear me?” said Emma, pulling the mask from her face. “I’ve come to play you for Robin’s notes.”

“Have you indeed?” replied Colin sardonically.

“Yes.” Emma stood very straight, defiant. This was worse than she had expected. The kindness she had thought she glimpsed in him at times last night seemed to have disappeared. The man who stood before her now, raking her with his eyes, was rather frightening. He was exactly what she’d thought him, she saw with a sinking heart—a cold, hardened gamester who cared for nothing and no one. She drew a shaky breath. That was all the more reason to save Robin from him, she told herself, and took a step forward.

What a poor creature her wretched husband must be, Colin thought. Should he ever possess such a vibrant, desirable woman, she would have no opportunity to visit other men’s houses late at night and offer herself in exchange for a few paltry notes of hand. She was not his, however. And never would be. Colin felt a wave of savage regret. Why should he hesitate? She was no innocent maiden; she knew quite well what she was doing. “Very well,” he said, turning away from her and walking over to the card table.

They took their places facing each other. If luck went her way, she could beat him, Colin thought. Their skill was nearly equal. But somehow, he felt that the cards would fall for him tonight. “You may deal,” he offered, and found himself savoring the defiant look she gave him in return.

Emma picked up the cards and began to shuffle them with a decided snap.

He watched her as she finished, stacked them in one pile, and started to deal. She’d been goaded into this, he saw, and now she was going through with it with fierce determination. Anticipation coursed through him as he picked up his hand and began the contest between them.

It was a rout. Luck was indeed on Colin Wareham’s side tonight. Every card seemed to go his way, every strategy Emma tried only aided him. He could hardly believe it himself, and he did not blame her when she paused after the second hand and examined the deck as if it might be marked. But even with a fresh packet of cards, he won the final hand as well, and by a large margin.

When the last trick was played and the points tallied, Emma pulled the brandy bottle across the table, poured a large glass, and swallowed it in two throat-searing gulps.

He ought to let her go, Colin thought. He ought to tell her that he had returned her brother’s notes of hand, and that they were quits. But he couldn’t resist rising to stand beside her chair and brush a hand lightly along her bare shoulder. The feel of her skin was like warm silk. Everything about her roused him.

Emma shivered at his touch. “You will not hold me to this ridiculous wager,” she said, her voice higher than usual.

One kiss, Colin thought. He deserved that. He pulled her to her feet and around to face him. This whole venture was insane, and he had gone a little mad himself. She was lovely. Her eyes were a fathomless dark blue.

Emma gazed up at him. He was so very large. Despite her height, he loomed over her, his astonishing violet eyes burning into her own, his handsome face stark with some strong emotion that she could not identify. She was at once fascinated and a little afraid. She opened her mouth to protest, only to have it captured by his, her arms imprisoned in an iron grasp. She started to struggle, then stopped, astonished by what was happening to her.

Colin Wareham did not grind her lips against her teeth, as Edward had done. He did not grapple with her as if she were a large parcel he was trying to shift. He did not push her impatiently, as if angry that she did not know exactly what he wanted every moment and eager to get things over with.

Colin Wareham’s kiss was gentle and pliable. It was warm and soft and went on and on, coaxing her to respond, growing more urgent as she yielded to him, step by step. It was incredible. She had never felt anything like it before, and she could not tear herself away from the thrill of it.

When his arms slipped around and drew her close, leaving her own free, Emma swayed. She felt the hard muscles of his chest against her breasts and the pressure of his powerful thigh along her own. And still he did not maul her. His lips drifted down her neck as his hands gently caressed her back. He dropped quick kisses along her shoulder and the swell of her breasts above the low neckline of her gown. They felt hot on her skin. When he took her lips again, she let him. He gently teased her to greater arousal with the tip of his tongue.

Her tentative, unpracticed, but clearly passionate response roused Colin to a fever pitch. Though he meant to draw back, he couldn’t. It was as if life was returning to him, pouring back in, intensified, after long months of arid emptiness. He let his hand slide up to cup her breast, teasing the nipple through the thin silk of her gown.

“Oh,” breathed Emma, clinging to him, overwhelmed by the things he was making her feel.

Colin eased his thigh between her legs, holding her close.

“Oh,” said Emma again. A thread of alarm penetrated her daze of sensation. “No. Wait.”

“I can’t,” he breathed, letting his lips slide down her neck again. His hands a little rough, he pushed the small puffed sleeves of her gown off her shoulders and pulled down her narrow bodice, exposing her breasts, their tips rosy and inviting in the candlelight.

Emma gasped. An old fear flooded her. As her husband had so terrifyingly shown, men had another, darker side hidden behind their dash and gallantry.

“What is the matter?” Colin asked.

“Nothing, my lord,” replied Emma mechanically. She had to endure this for Robin, she told herself.

Watching the shifts of her expression, Colin grew puzzled. Her behavior didn’t match the things he knew about her. Commanding men under extreme conditions for long years, he had become a keen judge of character, and he could see no guile in Emma, no slyness. She seemed a warm and beautiful creature scarcely awakened to the intimacies between a man and a woman. She also looked genuinely afraid.

That, he couldn’t bear. Bending his head, he kissed her again, very gently, slowly tantalizing her lips until, after a long while, they relaxed under his and yielded up the honey of her mouth. His desire sharpened with her response, but he kept it in check. Leading her to the long sofa before the fireplace, he eased her onto the cushions and knelt at her side. She started to sit up, but he kissed her again, drugging her with the exquisite gentleness of his touch. Colin bent to one bare breast and took the tip in his mouth, fluttering his tongue.

Emma gasped again. She hadn’t realized a man could, or ever would, make her feel this way. Her mind reeled in confusion. What was this man? Cold and contemptuous one moment and now making her feel as if she was drowning in sweet sensations.

Colin’s hand crept under the hem of her gown and slid up the soft skin of her leg, his fingers like whispers.