A Most Sinful Proposal (13 page)

G
eorge finished his ale with a sigh of contentment, looking around the smoky little room of the tavern. It was crowded with bare-knuckle boxing enthusiasts like himself, and they were all enjoying discussing the fights they’d seen on Magna Midcombe green today.

Unfortunately the Dorking Destroyer had been knocked out after fifteen minutes and refused to rejoin the fray, but it didn’t matter in the end. They had a new hero, and George had been the first to raise his tankard to the Midcombe Mauler.

Now he looked into the bottom of his tankard and hesitated. Did he have time for another before he set off for home, or should he go before it began to grow dark? Surely he’d still reach Abbey Thorne Manor before the long summer evening turned to night even if he lingered another ten minutes?

George was just getting to his feet when he saw someone he recognized moving toward the doorway.

At first he doubted his own eyes, because what would Baron Von Hautt be doing here in the Magna Midcombe tavern? He must be mistaken. But as the
man reached the doorway he turned and looked straight at George, and he knew with a chill in his blood that he wasn’t mistaken. The gray hair and youthful face, those icy blue eyes. It was Von Hautt all right.

He stumbled to his feet, almost knocking over his chair, apologizing as he shoved through the crowd in pursuit of the Prussian. It didn’t occur to him to wonder why Von Hautt would be showing himself like this. He felt no sense of anxiety or danger, only an urgent need not to allow the man to escape him.

George reached the door and burst out into the warm, calm evening. He stood, taking gulps of air, trying to clear his head. The village street was empty…or was it? Something caught his eye and he turned just in time to see Von Hautt vanishing around a corner. With a grin of triumph, George hurried after him.

Had Von Hautt come to Magna Midcombe to find what remained of the Fortescues? Well, he was going to have to explain himself to George. Maybe, George thought, he could capture the Prussian and take him back to Abbey Thorne Manor and hand him over to Valentine and Jasper. Wouldn’t that make their eyes pop!

He turned the corner, full of confidence, and his heart leaped into his throat. Von Hautt was standing right in front of him, a big grin on his face.

“Ah, it is the little brother,” he said cheerfully. “How are you, little brother George?”

George stopped himself from taking a step back—just. “What do you want?” he said, in his best
imitation of Valentine’s growl. “What are you doing following us about?”

Von Hautt didn’t bother to answer. His strange pale eyes were searching George’s face, and then he shook his head in mock despair. “You have been drinking,” he said. “The only way to find the Crusader’s Rose is to reject all such crass temptations. Your brother knows that. You should ask him what he has given up in his quest for the prize.”

“You know nothing about my brother!” George shouted, but the chill in his blood was back again. This man was dangerous and all of a sudden he was wondering why he’d followed him out here. Alone.

“I know a great deal about your brother,” Von Hautt said in a voice as cold as snow.

“Then you’ll know he doesn’t want you following him around and shooting his friends,” George retorted.

“His friend deserved to be shot.” He dismissed the incident.

George opened his mouth, closed it again. His sense that this man was unpredictable and dangerous was growing, and any dreams he’d had of capturing him were gone. All he wanted to do now was to get away from him in one piece.

“Valentine will not find the rose in Magna Midcombe,” Von Hautt said with a sneer. “Unless he believes it is hidden under Miss Rotherhild’s skirts.” He smirked. “She is a very beautiful woman.”

“What has Miss Rotherhild to do with you?” George shouted. “Have you been spying? You damned filthy coward…” Rage overcame self-
preservation and he tried to grasp the other man’s shirtfront, meaning to shake him like a dog. But Von Hautt was too quick for him, or perhaps George was more affected than he thought by the amount of ale he’d imbibed.

The man loomed over him, those icy blue eyes staring into his. “It will be
I
who finds the rose,” he said softly, “and you will all be very sorry that you turned your backs on me and my mother.”

He was gone.

George swallowed, leaning back against the brick wall and trying not to sag to the ground. The fellow was completely bonkers. He made no sense at all. But that didn’t mean he was any less dangerous.

George straightened up. He needed to get home to Abbey Thorne Manor and talk to Valentine. Turning, he made his way back to the tavern. One more drink, he thought. He deserved another ale after what he’d just been through. Yes, a drink to bolster his spirits. And then he’d fetch his horse from the stable and go home.

D
inner at Abbey Thorne Manor was a leisurely affair. Lord Jasper and Lady Bethany looked as if they’d been drinking the elixir of life, their faces content and glowing in the candlelight. Marissa wondered what they’d been up to while she was in Magna Midcombe, but she didn’t ask. Even when a besotted Jasper lifted her grandmother’s hand and placed a kiss on it, she thought it best to pretend not to notice Things between them must have reached a new level of intimacy to be so open in their affections. Valentine also politely ignored the obvious, although she saw him giving his friend a quizzical look.

He was also ignoring Marissa and she was beginning to wonder if she’d imagined the intimacies they’d shared. Had Valentine really offered to teach her about pleasure? And had she really agreed?

“Did you know that Lady B was an artist, Kent?” Jasper demanded.

“Indeed I did not,” Valentine said evenly. “What sort of artist?”

“I paint,” Lady Bethany replied with a little smile.
“My daughter and son-in-law wanted someone to make a record of their discoveries, so I have been painting pictures of plants ever since.”

“You must ask her to immortalize the Crusader’s Rose when you find it!” Jasper seemed unable to keep the grin off his face.

“Of course.
When
I find it.”

The meal finished, Jasper and Lady Bethany went to take a turn about the garden. Marissa wasn’t sure if she wanted time alone with Valentine—she needed time to compose herself—but he excused himself, telling her he had some estate business to deal with and that his land manager awaited him. So Marissa enjoyed a rare moment alone, pretending to read one of the novels she found in the bookcase.

In reality she was pondering her situation.

She’d set her sights on George but she’d be a fool not to realize by now that it wasn’t thoughts of George keeping her awake at night. Every inch of her being called to Valentine and when he made his offer to her she’d known it was right to accept. She may well be following a path that would lead her astray but nevertheless she had to do it. She had to discover for once and for all whether Valentine was the man for her.

“Are you tired?”

His voice startled her; she hadn’t heard him enter. He was standing in the doorway and she didn’t know how long he’d been watching her.

“A little. Why?”

“I had planned a little game, but if you prefer we can leave it until tomorrow.”

Something wicked in his eyes caught her attention. A warmth spread through her limbs, and she felt languid in a way that had nothing to do with feeling tired. Marissa laid her book aside. “What little game do you have in mind?”

With a smile, Valentine closed the door behind him and came to join her. “I have been remembering an incident that happened when I was a green youth of eighteen, first exploring London. I’ve never forgotten it.”

“How intriguing.” Marissa gave him an encouraging smile.

He sat down and, reaching into his pocket, took out a pair of dice. “I went to a gaming club—not my first, but this one was rather different. I wasn’t greatly interested in gaming even then, but some friend or other persuaded me that this club really must be visited at least once if you were to begin to shrug off your country dust and think of yourself as a urbane gentleman of the world.”

“And what was so different about this gaming club?”

“There was an area at the back, a room in which guests could play the game of their choice, while others were allowed to watch through a series of discreet and very narrow windows.”

“But who were they and why would they want to watch?” Marissa said, and only realized she’d been naïve when he laughed softly.

“Shall we call them interested spectators?” His blue eyes warmed as he watched her attempting to understand. “Perhaps you will better comprehend
if I tell you that the night I visited the club there was a game going on between a gentleman and a lady. They were both masked and she was wearing a dress cut so low I found myself holding my breath in the fear—or should I say the hope?—that her bosom would tumble out of it.”

Marissa raised an eyebrow. “So the gentleman and lady were in the room and the rest of you were watching them. What exactly were they doing?”

“They were throwing dice.”

“That sounds innocent enough.”

“Ah, but whoever lost had to remove an item of clothing.” He grinned at the memory. “The spectators were agog, the tension was palpable, and yet the two of them acted as if they were entirely alone even though they must have known they weren’t.”

“Whoever lost the throw of the dice had to remove an item?” she said slowly. “Did they end up, eh, naked?”

His reminiscent smile grew wicked. “Oh yes.”

Marissa waited for him to elaborate and when he didn’t she asked with an impatient note, “And then what happened?”

Valentine made her wait a moment more. “Not what we hoped. He lifted her up in his arms and carried her into a farther room, unfortunately one without windows, and shut the door.”

Marissa imagined the scene; she’d discovered she had a rather vivid imagination when it came to risqué detail. The idea of undressing, slowly, in front of dozens of watching eyes should have horrified her, and indeed if it was actually happening she
was sure she would hate it, but to pretend was different. She pictured the room, Valentine and herself opposite each other, the atmosphere tense with expectation and the knowledge that soon they would consummate their growing desire. Consummate it fully and completely, as they were yet to do….

His fingers brushed her cheek, breaking the spell. “What are you thinking, minx?”

“I am wondering why you are telling me this story. And why,” she looked down at the dice he was rolling in his hand, “you have those dice.”

“Come, come, Marissa, you know why.”

“And this is the game you wish to play?”

“This is the game I wish to play with you.”

She glanced toward the door.

“I locked it,” he said promptly, “and left instructions we are not to be disturbed.”

“My grandmother and Lord Jasper?”

“Gone to bed, I am told, also with instructions not to be disturbed.”

“And George?”

“Not back yet. No doubt he is enjoying rubbing shoulders with the Magna Midcombe folk and partaking of the local ale. Don’t worry about George.”

Marissa gave a little shiver, a frisson of excitement, and rose to her feet. She approached the small card table where Valentine was waiting and allowed him to draw out a chair for her, calmly arranging her skirts about her as she sat.

“Is this part of your promise to show me about pleasure?” she said, clasping her hands before her and watching his face.

But instead of answering her he said, “Here are the rules. There must be no touching, not until the game is over.”

“No touching?” she cried, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice. For Marissa, the act of touching his skin was a pleasure in itself.

He smiled and threw the dice. They landed on four and two. “Now your turn,” he said softly, gathering them up again and handing them to her.

Marissa held the dice tight in her hand, feeling the excitement growing inside her. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to win or lose, but when she threw and the numbers were revealed—a three and a two—her disappointment made her realize what her true wishes were.

“I lost,” she said, raising her eyes questioningly to his.

His triumphant smile made her shiver again. “And I won.”

“Does that mean I—”

“Wait, I haven’t finished explaining the rules of the game. The winner of each throw must choose the item of clothing the loser must remove. Otherwise, minx, I suspect you will take off a single shoe or a ribbon, and then the game will go on for far too long.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Marissa said. “Nevertheless I am a little anxious to know what you are going to choose for me to remove.”

He took his time deciding. His gaze traveled leisurely over her, increasing her tension, until she felt quite light-headed.

“Your jewelry,” he spoke at last.

She reached up to touch her necklace, feeling the pearls warm beneath her fingers. “Which piece of my jewelry?”

“All of it. Jewelry counts as one item.”

“Oh?” She considered arguing but decided to save it until the game had progressed further. Slowly, Marissa began to remove her necklace. She placed the pearls on the table and then added her earrings and her two rings, finally unclipping her bracelet and setting it down on top of the pile.

She’d expected him to ask her to take off an item of her clothing, and been relieved, though slightly confused, by his choice. But now, without her jewelry, she felt uncomfortable and strangely naked, as if she was improperly dressed. It made her understand just how important a woman’s jewel box was as part of her imaginary armor, adding to her self-confidence when she appeared before others.

Valentine met her eyes, then let his gaze take in the nakedness of her neck and earlobes and hands. “Thank you,” was all he said, as he picked up the dice and threw again.

The numbers were six and a one. Marissa threw a five and a four, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Me this time,” she said, a lilt of anticipation in her voice.

She tapped a fingertip to her chin, pretending to deliberate, but she’d already decided what she was going to ask him to remove. From the first moment she’d seen Valentine without his shirt she’d been struck by the sheer beauty of his body. She wanted him naked as soon as possible.

“Your jacket.”

He made no comment, merely removing the item
and dropping it on the floor beside him. His shirt was silk and her fingers itched to caress it, but that was against the rules of the game, and she turned back to the dice with a renewed determination to win.

But it was Valentine who won the next two throws.

First, he asked her to take off her shoes and, second, to remove her pins and the ebony comb that was holding up her hair. She set her evening slippers on the floor beside her chair and then reached up to begin dismantling her hair. Without the comb the long tresses fell heavily about her shoulders, curling against her back and the low décolletage of her violet silk evening dress, and with each pin she removed her hair became wilder.

Instinctively he stretched out his hand, as if to capture a tress of dark hair, but stopped himself, clenching his fingers into a fist before drawing it back. “No touching,” he said, reminding them both. “Not yet.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Not yet? What if I want you to touch me?”

“Touching means you forfeit the game. Are you prepared to do that at this early stage? Do you want to lose, Marissa?”

“No, I want to win.” She spoke with conviction. Yes, she wanted to win. She wanted Valentine in her power, naked before her.

His eyes delved into hers. “I want to win, too,” he said.

Marissa won the next four throws. First she had him take off his silk shirt, so that his skin gleamed
in the candlelight, while the muscular curves and hollows of his body bunched and rippled every time he moved. Then she had him remove his neck cloth, because it ruined the effect dangling about his neck all on its own. Thirdly she asked for him to take off his shoes and then, lastly, his belt. She planned to get rid of the trousers on the next throw, but her run of luck ran out and this time Valentine won.

“Your dress,” he said with satisfaction, and sat back and folded his arms, as if preparing for the ensuing show.

Marissa laughed at him, disguising her anxiety as best she could. She’d never undressed before a man and although this was Valentine, the man she’d already shared a great deal with, it was far more nerve-wracking than she’d imagined.

To begin with there were the hooks at the back. After struggling with them inelegantly for several moments she gave up. “You will have to help me,” she said. “Surely it won’t count as touching if you only touch the hooks and the cloth and not my skin?”

He bowed his head in acquiescence.

Marissa went around the table and stood with her back to him, and waited as she felt the tug of the hooks being released. The dress began to loosen about her, and she put up her hand to prevent it slipping down over her bosom to her waist. When he’d done she turned to face him.

It was difficult to read his expression. He was keeping himself very much under control. Suddenly she knew she wanted to see his will crumble. She wanted to see him vulnerable. That was what win
ning meant to her. Having Valentine in the palm of her hand.

She allowed the cloth to slide through her hands, slowly, uncovering the lacy top of her chemise where it cupped her breasts. The evening dress caught at her waist, and she bent to release the ties, aware that doing so meant he could see the full swell of her bosom. The dress slithered to her feet, and calmly she stepped out of it, returning to her chair in her petticoats and undergarments and her stockinged feet.

Marissa won the next throw and was finally able to watch him stand and unbutton his trousers. He pushed them down over his trim hips and muscular thighs. Much to her disappointment, he was wearing a tight-fitting undergarment, but as it really was very tight she soon reconciled herself.

Valentine won after that, and Marissa removed her petticoats after a great deal of argument as to whether they constituted one item of clothing or three. In the end he won, and she removed all three. As she sat down opposite him, she was flushed from the argument and very conscious of her half-naked state. Although in fact she wasn’t really naked; her bloomers covered her down to the knee and from there her stockings covered her to her toes. Her chemise and stays were another barrier to his gaze, despite her shoulders and arms being naked, and her breasts pushed up to make the décolletage of her evening dress more daring.

He took his time admiring her. “You are beautiful,” he said, his voice low and husky.

“So are you,” she teased, her gaze admiring his torso. “Can’t I touch you, just a little, Valentine?”

But he shook his head and handed her the dice.

Marissa won next and ordered him to remove his stockings. She was tempted to go straight for the undergarment but decided it would be too peculiar to see him naked with his stockings still on.