The Bride Price (15 page)

Benedict’s eyes turned dark, and there was something in his expression…The tumbler
clicked. He
fancied
Harriet. He obviously had Caroline’s proclivity for bad seeds and forbidden fruit. Harriet was the female coin flip of Sebastien Deville.

Caroline royally disliked her.

And had she just said in her own head that she desired Sebastien Deville? She was going to scrub that thought when she cleaned her cottage tomorrow. A few good floor scrubs to remove the bad elements.

“’Benedict’ wins most of his wagers,” the man defended.

Harriet smirked. “Not against Sebastien you don’t. Hard to live up to his prowess.”

Caroline viewed her cards while Harriet and Benedict spat. Her cards were excellent. Wager worthy; more than half the win would be in her hands if she were to make an outrageous bet. She chewed her lip, then looked up to see Sebastien observing her. He raised a brow, smirked, then turned from her.

“So what should we wager?” Harriet’s cards dipped into the valley of her breasts again, then scraped along the skin. Her heated look encompassed them all. “Should we all have a bit of fun together?”

Benedict’s eyes shot to Deville, and he couldn’t keep the distaste from his expression. Deville managed somewhat better, still watching Harriet. The tiny grimace in the lines of his lips gave him away, even as his expression smoothed back into boredom. “Really Harriet, must you tease Benedict so? He’ll get his hopes up.”

“Why you—”

Harriet’s flowing laughter stopped Benedict, and he looked back to her, that covetous expression in his eyes. Lovely. “Oh, Lord Benedict, what would you suggest?”

“How about the winners choose? Anything they want at their disposal.”

Caroline blinked. She didn’t think that a good idea at all. Yet on second thought, Deville might choose Harriet. Harriet would assuredly choose him. Come to think of it, if Caroline lost, she wouldn’t really lose, would she? She could simply rid herself of Deville for the night and slip out under the noses of the rest of the guests. And if Deville did win and chose her…well, she was in deep trouble with him anyway. She licked her lips nervously.

Harriet considered the wager, her sultry lips pursed. “Not very scandalous, but I do see the possibilities in getting rid of the chaff.”

Obviously Harriet also thought she could rid herself of Caroline in the same manner Caroline wished to be rid.

“Mrs. Martin? Do you agree?” Benedict asked, something yearning and quite pitiful in his gaze.

Deville cocked an eye at her, challenge in his.

Caroline thought about her cards, winning cards, and the chance that she might be well rid of Deville or in his arms. Benedict’s eyes pleaded…

“Very well,” she said softly, already hating herself for her decision.

Patrick laughed uproariously somewhere in hell.

Harriet looked quite pleased and picked up her cards. Deville barely glanced at his. Benedict’s gaze was a study in determination.

Caroline and Benedict won. Nearly every hand.

The shock on Harriet’s face was priceless. The shock on Benedict’s was almost as good. Deville curiously looked bored, as usual.

“We won,” Benedict said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

Caroline frowned. “It isn’t as if this is a strange occurrence. Cards rely much on luck.”

Benedict and Harriet looked at her with varying expressions of disbelief while Deville appeared fully amused.

Deville was already lighting a cheroot, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling as he reclined in his chair as far back as he could.

Benedict still looked as if he couldn’t believe his fortune.

Harriet crossed her arms, obviously reading Benedict’s signs aright. “There’s nothing that says winners can’t choose each other.” She cast a critical glance toward Caroline. “Some men positively drool over the healthy-country-girl look.”

Benedict gave Caroline a respectful glance, one that earned him more of her regard. “Mrs. Martin is quite beautiful.” He suddenly paused, as if some thought had caught up to him, a queer look crossing his features, as he shot a furtive glance at Deville.

Deville froze, the cheroot at his lips, the undulating smoke obscuring his features for a second, before he took a drag, narrowed eyes on Benedict,
and exhaled the smoke in his direction.

Benedict passed a hand in front of his face, anger lighting his eyes. He opened his mouth, then stopped, some sort of half-used discipline gripping him as he tore his gaze away from Deville, looked to her, piercing eyes that crinkled in agony, then smoothed too obviously as they shifted to Harriet.

“Shall we retire?” Benedict said to Harriet. Caroline had to hand it to him; he came off more smoothly than she’d thought he would.

Harriet’s eyes narrowed on Benedict. “Very well,” she said ungraciously. She gave Deville one last look, then gave Caroline a scathing glance. “Have a good night.”

She stalked from the room, Benedict striding quickly behind her.

“Don’t forget what goes where, Benny. I’m sure Harriet will help you, should you need assistance,” Deville called out.

Benedict shot a look over his shoulder that promised death.

“That wasn’t very kind of you,” she said.

“No?” He shot her a dissolute look full of disregard. “Benedict is a bastard. Unfortunately not in the literal sense.”

He smiled his patent dark smile before she could respond, exhaling upward. “I thought for a second Benedict was going to choose you to spite me. I would have murdered him, of course, had you accepted.”

“You don’t have any right to make such statements.”

He leaned forward, stubbing out his cheroot. “No?”

“No, and furthermore, I don’t see how Lord Benedict deserves such harsh vitriol.”

“Benedict deserves everything he gets.”

“Why? What has he done to you?”

Deville’s smile was wide and not the least bit genuine as he tossed the stub into a copper bucket. “Not much Benny can do anymore. Especially after this tournament ends.”

“And what do you expect to happen then?”

He lifted a brow. “I expect to win.”

Tension coiled in her belly. “Sarah will never be happy with you.”

“And you think she will be happy with Benedict? Everly?”

Her lips pinched.

“No,” he said. “You keep sabotaging the games to protect your lamb from all the big bad wolves, and I’ll keep collecting my due. And we will see who triumphs in the end.”

The room was emptying as people were either pairing off or making their way to other rooms and entertainments.

He rose. “Come.”

They walked down the hall behind a small group heading to the lake. Couples were already stripping off clothes as they stumbled and laughed. She’d be lucky if some of them didn’t stumble the mile to her cottage and force their way inside in some drunken attempt at copulation.

She was examining the way one woman was vainly trying to remove her stays, mucking her rib
bons royally in the process, when Deville turned and smoothly twirled her into a dark room and shut the door swiftly behind.

Enough moonlight shone through the full-length windows of the second parlor that she could make out his features and also see the first group of drunken revelers as they poured from the back door and out onto the lawn.

A key turned in the lock. He came toward her slowly, features shifting from moonlight to shadow and back. “I think it’s time I started collecting.”

She backed into the spine of a chair, heart racing. “But I’m the one who won the card game. Right from the first of the bet. And it was winner’s choice. And I’ve decided to return home.”

One hand curled around her waist. “Do you think I didn’t know I would lose that first hand? I saw your face when you looked at your cards.” She inhaled sharply as his lips grazed her neck.

“But that was only one hand. We won nearly every hand.”

“I
may
have stacked the cards in your favor.”

He sucked the pulse point at the side of her throat. “You cheated,” she said in a strangled tone.

“For you.” His lips brushed her skin everywhere as they moved. “Only in order to lose. I like to win on my own.”

“But you
cheated
.”

“Your shock is delicious.” His lips moved along her jaw, and his other hand circled her waist, pulling her against him. “You should learn the skill—you have to know how to cheat in order to catch
others at it. I’m surprised Harriet didn’t catch on. She’s a notorious cheater. You don’t think her breasts brushed Benedict’s sleeve that many times on accident, do you?”

Hands pulled up her rib cage and over the sides of her breasts, before returning to her waist. “We might have won if I hadn’t helped you. Pity. I could have had you bucking under me tonight without using a forfeit at all.” He lifted her hand, trapped against the chair, and pulled one of her fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling around it in a maddening, weak-kneed-inducing fashion.

“But why then?”

He smirked in the moonlight. The digit popped out of his mouth. “Because I can. Besides”—his fingers moved into her hair, tipping her head back—“Harriet would have made things messy. And I already have you. What is the win in getting you into bed tonight, for one night, when I can seduce and chain you there for good?”

He pulled back an inch and ran a thumb across her lips. “And I will, you can count on that. But tonight…tonight I seek merely a taste.”

Lips finally covered hers, possessive and fierce. Demanding. Drugging. Claiming. Her back hit the wall, and in a flurry of skirts he was between her legs and she was arching into him in a more searing, intimate duplication of their actions at Roseford.

A thief helping a poor flower girl on the street. A rogue not taking advantage of an innocent. Sometimes people surprise you, and sometimes they shock you square into a fog. It makes one wonder if it is all some wonderfully duplicitous plan.

C
aroline tapped her finger against her chin, squinting against the bright sun. “Noah, let’s go the other direction.” The boy nodded and drew a box around another area of the grid, then looked up at her, waiting.

“Perfect. That is exactly the way to stage it, don’t you think?”

His cheeks lit as only a sixteen-year-old boy’s could. “Yes, Mrs. Martin.”

“I think we need to ask Mrs. Francis where she wants the confections placed. Do you think you might inquire this afternoon?”

“Of course, Mrs. Martin.” He jumped to his feet as she rolled the papers and set them aside on the bench. “I will also ask Mr. Reede and Mr. Wallace about the stands.”

“Excellent. The committee members and I need to meet tomorrow. You make my life so much easier, Noah.”

The blush intensified. “I don’t do much, Mrs. Martin.”

“Nonsense. Now give these to your mother and don’t cause too much trouble for the village girls.” She handed him a basket of sticky buns she’d placed near the twining tomato plants.

If his cheeks grew any redder, she wasn’t sure what color palette they would enter. “I will. I won’t. I mean, yes, Mrs. Martin.”

Noah took off down the path, and she didn’t have to stifle her smile. She remembered the easy affections of that age. The innocence. That Noah tripped over himself for her was beyond flattering. And would last, oh, a few more weeks, or months, before he was on to his next affection. Such was the way of sixteen-year-old boys.

Noah was a good lad. He would grow into a strong and true man. Not like Patrick, who had been a weak, unfaithful boy. She smoothed the creases on her forehead that had gathered there and turned.

As if called by the demon of all that was wicked and tempting, Sebastien Deville lounged against her door.

“Making conquests of the village boys, Caroline?”

She stayed where she was. Utter insanity to try and enter her cottage, as he would assuredly follow. After last night…no, not a good idea. “Nonsense. Noah will be back mooning after the village girls in no time.”

“You think it so easy to get you out of the blood?”

“If I did, I would not share such with you.” She crossed her arms.

He laughed lightly. “I see you made it safely home.”

“You know I did, you wretch.”

He put a hand to his heart. “You didn’t allow me to enter—how was I to know whether you were spirited away by an evil villain lying in wait inside?”

“As if you didn’t stare at the windows in a fawning fashion before leaving the grove.”

A smile curved his lips. “So what did young Noah need from you?”

“He is helping with the arrangements for the midsummer celebration.”

“I’ll bet you invite Noah into your cottage.”

“Actually we usually meet out here in the open. There are still proprieties to maintain, even when the boy is two-thirds my age.”

“Older women are much a draw to men of his years.”

“I’m sure you have experienced women of all ages.” She tapped a foot. “Well, Mr. Deville, what brings you here?”

“Tea?”

“I unwisely brought you tea a few days ago, if you’ll remember. You repaid my kindness with blackmail.”

“I find myself disinclined to feel remorse under the circumstances. In fact, it might be that I wish to procure more than tea from you.” His back
arched as he pushed away from the door with his shoulders.

Shivers racked her as she stepped back in self-preservation. The spindly arms of the low maple poked her back, urging her forward.

His lips captured hers in the same confident way they had the night before, but where passion had been demanded last night, this was different. Strong, soft lips lightly stroked hers, opening her mouth, but not invading. Gentle strokes, soft pleadings, a yearning for a revered lover.

She tried not to respond, to stay lax in his grip. His hands rose to her cheeks, lightly framing them, lips tentatively tasting her, like a new lover extremely lucky in the ways of love. But she knew Deville was not a beginner. This was seduction at its finest.

And yet when his fingers stroked her lightly like the finest china and something in the back of his throat sounded like he was savoring the most delicious dessert, everything in her demanded response.

Her body leaned into his, her fingers clutched his shirt, and when a satisfied noise issued against her lips, she fought everything in her not to utter the same. Fingers worked into her hair, still gentle, still lovely and soft as the kiss.

Every debutante’s dream kiss, and she couldn’t even work up enough ire at that to push away. It simply felt too good. As his fingers gently threaded through the hair at her nape, the insidious thought that maybe giving in to his seduction would be a perfect idea threaded through her mind. As long
as she kept her wits about her…as long as she didn’t give him her heart…

“Thank you for your escort, Mr. Miller. I am quite able to find the rest of the way on my own, though,” a strident voice intoned.

Caroline shoved away from Sebastien, her heart lodged in her throat as the voices drew closer.

“Yes, Mrs. Francis, I just—”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Miller,” the older woman said, dismissing Noah.

Caroline looked around frantically, but the cottage was much too far away, and the opposite path looked a thousand paces off. Sebastien’s brows rose, and his full mouth opened to say something likely either amusing or cutting. Footsteps came nearer on the path, and she did the only thing she could think of—she placed her hands on Sebastien’s chest and shoved him over the bench and into the bushes. He toppled over the stone and disappeared into the brush beneath the overhanging tree.

She smoothed her fingers over her dress, patted her hair into place, and stepped forward with a bright smile as the town matron descended on her cottage garden in all her bright pink glory.

“Mrs. Francis, how lovely to see you.” She held out both hands.

“Mrs. Martin. Mr. Miller said that you had plans for me to review? He stopped me on his way back to the village and nearly manhandled me into visiting right away.” She looked down her long nose, shaded beneath a bonnet of apples and birds.

Caroline sent a gentle curse Noah’s way and
pasted on a brighter smile. “My apologies, Mrs. Francis. Mr. Miller is a lovely boy and just trying to be helpful.”

“As long as that is all it is.” She cast a reproving look, then sat down on the stone bench beneath the tree.

Caroline tried to keep her smile firm and her eyes away from the boot half poking beneath the bench that gave credence to the statement that she might be less than wholesome. The boot disappeared, and she prayed that Deville wouldn’t pop up to completely annihilate her reputation once and for all.

She reached for the sketches, relieved that they were still outside. The matron would surely look around were she to return to the cottage. A dissolute rake frolicking in her bushes was not exactly what she wanted the strict woman to discover.

Mrs. Francis nodded as she accepted the sketches for the village celebration. “Excellent. You have done well, Mrs. Martin.”

She couldn’t even preen a little under the infrequent praise, too concerned with the lock of brown hair and peek of aquamarine eyes she could see around the woman’s voluminous pink skirts.

“Your mother would be proud.”

Her throat closed for a second, and she swallowed the lump down. “Thank you, Mrs. Francis.”

The woman patted her hand. “We weren’t sure what would happen when you returned to the village after running off with
that man
. I’m happy to see you’ve realized your poor judgment and turned it around.”

Caroline swallowed around an entirely different lump as the flash of a white shirt caught her attention.

“You are becoming a sterling member of the community and a fine example to the young girls on how to conduct themselves. Just like the good squire says, mistakes sometimes occur, but we learn and never repeat those errors.”

Finally, acceptance by the strict matrons who had gradually been warming to her since the deaths of her parents, and she couldn’t even enjoy it.

“You set a proper example for the young women. And Lady Sarah has been much helped by your good sense. I hear she is positively blooming now.”

“Yes, Lady Sarah is lovely.”

Long lonely nights stretched before her, as they had for so long. Trying to live up to the image she had set for herself. The image she had wanted so desperately. Maybe then—No. She shut down that line of thinking.

“Distasteful business the way they are running things at the house, and some of the goings-on…” She tutted. “The Londoners forget themselves sometimes.”

Mrs. Francis was the strictest of the matrons. Most of the villagers were less prone to judgment—and the village parties could sometimes get a little wild. But Mrs. Francis was the woman whose regard Caroline had been coveting. If she had her regard, surely she would gain forgiveness from—No. She didn’t need forgiveness! She didn’t. She had done nothing wrong.

The constant pull of the insidious thoughts made her weary.

“I know you are forced to participate in order to help Lady Sarah. Do not worry, Mrs. Martin, that we are doubting you.”

Caroline murmured her thanks, unable to say more through her frozen vocal cords.

Mrs. Francis looked at the sketch. “Yes, this is perfect. Everyone is looking very forward to the celebration.” She nodded decisively. “I’ll just turn this over to the council, and we will move ahead with the plans once you determine the location of the bonfire.”

Mrs. Francis excused herself, and a minute later Caroline slumped against the closest tree. She didn’t know why she always felt drained after a conversation with one of the matrons. If their acceptance was what she truly coveted, then shouldn’t she be pleased?

The brush rattled and rustled and a booted foot clicked on stone, then clomped on the ground. “Don’t tell me you buy that pile of manure?”

She couldn’t even work up the energy to turn her head. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the stone. “Go away.”

“‘Do not worry that we are doubting you,’” he mimicked. “I see that I arrived at this estate just in time.”

She pushed away from the stone and started walking back to the cottage.

Sebastien caught up with her on the third stride, a leaf stuck in his hair. “Do you honestly
buy into that claptrap? That you have to be good to be accepted?”

“You do,” she said tightly.

“Hogwash.”

“Well then see how far it’s gotten you.”

She knew it was a direct hit from the way his arms swung at his sides, more stilted and clenched than before. He moved suddenly, and she found her back pressed against the tree, Sebastien pressed to her front.

“I played their game once. It got me nowhere. What is the use?” He dragged a finger down her throat, making her heart speed. “Especially when there are far better things to do.”

She smacked his hand away. “Easy for you to say. Your father is a duke.”

“My father barely acknowledges me.”

“Oh, please.” She scooted under his arm. “Your father’s eyes rarely leave you. I feel more compassion for your brother.”

“I don’t have a brother.”

She snorted and started to walk away. He caught her, clasping her back to him. “Do you really want to be one of those starchy women who molder on the sidelines?” he whispered in her ear. “Denying yourself all the pleasure you could have?”

“Let me go.”

“No.” He spun her, and she glimpsed a wild light in his eyes. His fingers pulled up the back of her dress, over her spine. “Tell me that you don’t want this.”

“I don’t want this.” Her voice was breathless.

“Liar.”

His lips crushed hers, and her hands rose of their own volition, wrapping around his neck, fingers pulling the hair, long on his nape. Sin and forbidden desire stretched through her, curling claws into her skin.

She pushed away, looking around frantically once more. They were out in the open. If Mrs. Francis doubled back, she would see everything.

“Worried what those biddies think?” He stepped closer again, into her space. “I should take you in the midst of one of their gatherings. Give them a proper shock and release you from your inhibitions.”

She backed up; he stepped forward. “No! Just stay there.”

A regal brow rose. “Or what?”

She held out a hand against his chest. “I can’t handle you on top of this.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “There is nothing to handle.”

“You drive me mad.” She was aware enough to note the slightest tremor of anguish in her voice, but could do nothing to stop it.

His eyes held hers, and a hand stroked softly down her hair, loosening it and pulling her to him. “Then we will be mad together.”

Teeth brushed her neck, softly pulling together to nip gently. She shuddered, her hands gripping his shirt to keep from falling—both physically and emotionally. Her hand brushed the crumpled edge of paper. The feel of it just like what she had imagined the ever-present parchment that stuck
out of his pocket would feel like. She gripped it like a lifeline for her sanity, trying to think of anything but the way his lips felt against her skin, the way he made her body want to completely give in and physically be his for however long she could, and pulled.

Her breath hitched as he trailed his mouth back under her chin, and it took three attempts for her to shove the paper into her own hanging pocket. Her breathing was fast, the color in her cheeks high—she could feel the burn. He would discover her theft. He would demand something even further. Her soul perhaps.

But he simply smiled at her. A soft smile. One that she might fall prey to, if she didn’t already know better. One that tugged at everything in her even though she
did
know better.

And she gave in. Just a bit. She curled a hand into his hair and pressed her lips to his, dragging them along his with the same damning slowness that he had mastered.

He pulled his fingers around her ear, along her jaw, to her chin, his lips pulling from hers with that soul-grasping slowness. “Just when I think there is something less than perfect about you, you stun me.”