An Indecent Wager (A Steamy Regency Romance Book Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Excerpt from THAT WICKED HARLOT

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Free Sneak Peak Offer

  Copyright

  AN INDECENT WAGER

  By Georgette Brown

  NOTE

  For a more wicked version of this story, try Submitting to Lord Rockwell by Em Brown.

  Chapter One

  DEANA COULD MUSTER NO OATH strong enough to reflect the dismay she felt when Lord Halsten Rockwell revealed his ace and queen. She glanced at her own cards, a king and a ten, to ascertain she had indeed lost. How was it possible? Rockwell had been losing all night.

  “You owe me fifty pounds, Miss Herwood,” Lord Rockwell stated placidly as he collected the winnings in the middle of the table. It included a chit signed in her own hand.

  She suppressed a glower, for she would not be dubbed bitter in defeat. It was evident from his immaculate dress—a perfectly tied cravat, a waistcoat sewn from the finest silk and a coat cut to fit his broad shoulders in tight embrace—that Rockwell had not her situation and was not in dire need of funds. She watched him replace a beautiful onyx ring upon his hand and found herself regarding his rugged fingers. She had never before paid much heed to a man’s hand—or a woman’s for that matter—but his conveyed strength, agility and even gentleness.

  Dismissing the odd warmth that flared in her of a sudden, she glanced about the gaming hell for someone she might harry to lend her fifty quid. But the hour was late, the patrons at her table had left half an hour ago, and many of those remaining had debts themselves to pay. If only she had quit while ahead, but she had derived too much satisfaction from besting a man who possessed all that she did not—wealth, refined features and a quiet assurance that bordered on arrogance.

  “I will repay you from my next winnings,” she informed Rockwell.

  “I have a better repayment option for you, Miss Herwood.”

  She raised her brows and waited patiently as he returned his purse to his coat. He looked across the card table at her. His dark-brown eyes reflected either the light of the candelabras or some inner merriment. His stare unsettled her, but not as much as what he said next.

  “I would have you in my bed, Miss Herwood. For one night, I will take my pleasure of you, after which, your debt to me will be acquitted in its entirety.”

  “You would make of me a whore?” she asked when she had collected her wits and realized that he did not speak in jest. No one would mistake her family for members of the ton, but neither did her status merit such an affront.

  “Let us have no pretentions, Miss Herwood. You relinquished your maidenhead years ago.”

  Her cheeks—nay, her entire countenance—flushed to know that he was privy to such confidence. Younger and more impulsive, she had surrendered her maidenhead to a man she thought would care for her. A colonel in His Majesty’s Army, he was called to service before their affair could blossom into anything of consequence. Having lost her honor, she saw no reason subsequently not to indulge in the occasional affair, but she had always proceeded with great discretion. Her family had already suffered a fall from grace when she became a regular at the gaming hell, and she would not worsen the situation with more scandal.

  Holding his gaze, she replied, “You overestimate the appeal of your company, Lord Rockwell. I would sooner double my obligation.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said with dispassion and rose to his feet.

  She considered how many hands of vingt-et-un she would have to win to secure fifty pounds and the litany of woes she would hear from her mother and aunt should she fail to bring home any income. They were a household of women since her father passed away, and the want of a man was never more palpable than now. If she could erase a debt of fifty pounds through one act—one night—might she be a fool to pass upon such an opportunity? As Lord Rockwell’s barefaced assertion indicated, she no longer had any claim to a maiden’s honor.

  But what did she know of the man? Very little. He was not a frequent patron of her gaming hell. They had perhaps shared a card table once before; he had not taken much notice of her then. She, however, had not overlooked his presence, nor the women who threw themselves his way.

  He possessed a countenance she would have enjoyed studying at length, much in the way one would admire a painting or sculpture. If he favored a lass here or there, it was difficult to ascertain, though surely no mortal could resist such attentions for long. Years ago, she had heard that banns would be read betwixt him and a Spanish princess or the daughter of a Duke or some such. Admittedly, the lack of a wedding ring was one of the first things she had noted when he sat down at her table this evening.

  That he was always impeccably dressed also did not escape her, but many a man spent money he did not possess in order to maintain the appearance of wealth. She would not have allowed the wager to reach the sum of fifty pounds had she not felt assured of Lord Rockwell’s finances. Unlike others, he did not flaunt his affluence. And though down by an even grander sum at one point, he showed no apprehension at the loss. How quickly thereafter the game had betrayed her!

  Regardless of what she knew or thought of the man, her situation remained. If she did not accept his proposition, she was indebted to him for a significant amount of money. His demeanor suggested if she rebuffed him tonight, he would not necessarily renew his proposal.

  “Pray, wait.”

  Lord Rockwell paused and looked down at her.

  “I accept your offer,” she informed him with eyes downcast. Honor or no, she could not look at him.

  He inclined his head. “You honor me, Miss Herwood.”

  What a ridiculous statement, she thought, as if she had accepted an invitation for a ride in the park with him.

  “There are rooms here reserved for more, er, amorous pursuits. Shall we retire to one of them?” she inquired, meeting his gaze this time, then wishing she hadn’t. The contrast of dark intensity with the glimmer of light in his eyes disconcerted her.

  “That won’t do. The accommodations here are hardly adequate,” he replied. “My carriage shall meet you here two nights hence. The wait will deepen the anticipation.”

  Anticipation? His or hers? Perhaps his self-assurance was arrogance after all.

  “My only request,” he continued with a stern tone, “is that you do not arrive inebriated.”

  Again, she reddened. She was known to have had a glass too many on occasion, but how did this man whom she barely knew acquire such knowledge of her? And why should it matter to him what state she was in? Lest he was expecting her to perform certain acts upon him? The thought made her blush deeper.

  His features softened as he lifted her hand to his lips. “Au revoir.”

  As she watched him depart, she began to regret her decision, for she could not attribute to indignation alone the warmth she felt spreading throughout her.

  * * * * *

  “Are you headed to that gaming hell again?” her aunt queried as Deana finished her supper and prepared to leave the table. “You’ll never find a husband if you waste your hours there in the company of cads and rogues.”

  “Leave her be,” her mother responded. “We can ill afford her not to go. It were not as if she had any marital prospects to entertain.”

  On that merry note, Deana ascended the stairs to her bedroom. Had she known her father would pass from an untimely failure of the heart, she would have sought matrimony earlier. While he had earned a decent income as a b
arrister, they had over time eaten into what savings they had, including funds intended as her dowry. If it were not for a flair and more luck than not at the card tables, she knew not how they would have fared. She had to acquit herself of her debt to Lord Rockwell or her hours at the gambling hall would be long indeed.

  Struggling with her attire, she settled first on her plainest muslin, but vanity, and perhaps a subtle desire to please Lord Rockwell, led her to a simple but elegant gown of batiste. She could not deny a part of her was flattered that he wished to bed her. He had a physiognomy pleasing to the eye, a physique that knew few rivals, and a grace to his movements and carriage. She had relived the kiss to her hand over and over despite herself. The firmness, the gentleness with which he had held her hand and the deliberateness in how he had released her made her quiver. Though not uncomely herself, she would be as naïve as a schoolroom chit to think she was a skirt of singular interest to him. There were rumors enough of the women he had taken to bed, and undoubtedly others that had not risen to the level of tittle-tattle.

  At the gaming hell, she drummed her fingers against the card table before bolstering her courage with a third glass of burgundy. She played a few rounds of faro, hoping that in the final minutes Lady Luck would spare her the humiliation of prostituting herself for a mislaid wager. She had assumed Lord Rockwell to be discreet, for she had not known him to confirm any of his liaisons, but she had no guarantee of his confidence. Granted, her patronage of a gaming hell had already diminished her repute, but word of her lifting her skirts to Lord Rockwell would discharge any prospects for matrimony—the only stable salvation for her family.

  “Your carriage awaits, Miss Herwood,” a footman informed her.

  She retrieved her gloves and hat, pulling its veil low over her face before she stepped into the carriage. By the time it pulled up in front of Lord Rockwell’s Town home, the burgundy had calmed her anxiety and put her in a more cheerful disposition. She had consumed three glasses of wine in the past with no significant impacts. Despite his command that she arrive sober, he would be no wiser. No doubt he differed little from others of his sex and, after twenty minutes, she would find him spent, her obligation complete, and herself returned home before midnight.

  Once inside, the butler offered to take her pelisse but she declined. He showed her into the drawing room. Compared to her address, the room was richly furnished and its décor stately but not garish. The gleam of the wood and the shine of the upholstery indicated the furnishings to be new or well cared for, unlike the few pieces her family owned or borrowed. A healthy fire kept the room warm and the candelabras on the silken walls gave it light. A small elephant carved from ivory caught her eye. She picked it up from the end table and admired the detailing and its two ruby eyes.

  “Do sit, Miss Herwood.”

  She bobbled the figurine before clutching it tightly to her chest to keep it from falling. She turned in the direction of the rich tenor.

  Lord Rockwell stood at the threshold, appearing as dapper in his banyan as he did in full dress. Quickly she returned the elephant to its home. The thought that she had nearly dropped what was no doubt an expensive item made her tremble. God knew what she would owe him then.

  “Two and twenty thousand rupees,” he answered. “It belonged to a Hindu rajah.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

  “Sit, Miss Herwood.”

  His imperial tone contrasted with the more courteous manners he exhibited at the gaming hell. Perhaps he fancied himself a rajah in his own abode. Though tempted to defy him, she sat down upon a settee, noting that tea had been set upon the table before it. He sat opposite her and poured her a cup, which she accepted gratefully, for she would not know what to do with her hands otherwise. She took a sip of the fragrant Darjeeling, ignoring his penetrating gaze.

  “You’re inebriated,” he stated with a frown.

  Damn. How the bloody hell did he discern that? Caught, she opted to mask her embarrassment with childish insolence.

  “I had myself a glass,” she admitted with a dismissive shrug, avoiding his stare by focusing on her tea. “I am no child, Lord Rockwell, and you are not my guardian.”

  “Indeed. If I were, you would certainly not be spending your time in a gaming hell.”

  “And if I were yours, you would not be making indecent propositions to ladies you hardly know.”

  His brows rose but his eyes glimmered with amusement.

  “Such insolence can be tamed,” he said almost to himself, then offered her the plate of biscuits. “You will require sustenance to soak up the effects of the wine.”

  She hesitated. The wine was giving her courage, but perhaps it was best she had all her wits about her with this man.

  “The servants have all retired for the evening. You’ve no need to conceal yourself.”

  “You will forgive me if I fail to trust to assurances alone that our transaction, if you will, shall remain private.”

  After a moment of thought, he went to the writing table and retrieved paper and pen. After a quick scrawl, he affixed his seal and handed her the note.

  “You may redeem this if the confidence of this night is broken,” he told her.

  She choked on her tea upon seeing the amount he had penned. Five hundred pounds!

  “Do you make such offers to all the women you take to bed?” she could not help asking.

  His expression darkened and she regretted her impudence.

  “Consider yourself unique, Miss Herwood.”

  There was a peculiar strain to his voice. She took another sip of the tea to avoid his gaze. Of course the other women willingly lifted their skirts to him. She wondered if she would have done the same had she not lost to him.

  “When do we, er, begin…?”

  “Our ‘transaction’?”

  “Would you prefer a more romantic term?” she replied archly.

  “Not at all. I have always observed you to be practical and devoid of the silly sensibilities and nonsense that permeate others of your sex.”

  He had observed her before? Should she be flattered by this? She began to wonder if he had deliberately chosen to sit at her card table the other night.

  “We will conduct our matter when you are in full possession of your faculties,” he continued, pouring her more tea, “that you may fully appreciate its aspects.”

  She could not help an unladylike snort. “You fancy yourself an accomplished lover, do you?”

  He said nothing, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. They were a sensuous pair. For a moment, she wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by them. She shook herself back to attention, glad the veil shielded her, to a degree, from his discerning stare. The wine was having the damnable effect of making the man more attractive.

  “I think you will find the experience agreeable, Miss Herwood.”

  “And how do you come to merit such arrogance?”

  “You will discover for yourself soon enough.”

  She pursed her lips in frustration. She had hoped for a short visit and instead of concluding their business, they were having a tête-à-tête over bloody tea. Setting aside her cup, she untied her pelisse and allowed it to fall from her shoulders.

  “Did you not wish to take your pleasure of me?”

  A muscle along his jaw rippled as he settled further into the settee. “In due time.”

  Tiresome man.

  Those with wealth and countenance assumed the world revolved about them. A rush of envy stoked a darker side of her. In the end he was but a man, with base desires no different than a commoner, and she would prove it so. She unpinned her hat and fixed her most smoldering stare upon him. She had witnessed the coquetry of the women who patronized the gaming hell and been entertained by how simply a man could be lured into their grasps.

  “Have you ever considered becoming a courtesan to relieve your fiscal conditions?”

  His uncanny ability to know her thoughts unnerved her, and the truth of t
he matter struck a vulnerable chord. She had considered the option but simply had no prospects at the moment.

  “If you are offering, Lord Rockwell, I am flattered but must decline,” she retorted as she removed her gloves, slowly peeling one past her elbow and exposing the smooth, pale skin of her forearm.

  The corner of his mouth quirked upward. They both knew he had no intention of inviting her to be his mistress, but her response amused him. His gaze fell to her bare arms. The heat in his eyes made her feel as if she had taken off all her garments, not just her gloves. Emboldened by his appreciation, she angled herself on the settee and put a hand to the nape of her neck.

  “I seem to have missed a pin,” she said. “Would my lord oblige in removing it?”

  He made no movement, making her wonder whether her inexperience in playing the coquette appeared that obvious, but then he crossed the distance between them and sat down beside her, his thigh dangerously close to her rump. She felt his fingers upon her hair and suppressed a shiver.

  “You are mistaken, Miss Herwood. I see none.”

  She could sense the warmth of his body, and when he trailed a knuckle down the length of her neck, she suddenly wanted him to grab her and kiss her. But he had resumed his seat opposite her, leaving her wanting. She frowned. He had propositioned her. Did he expect that she would throw herself at him? Looking into his eyes, she suspected that he knew the effect he had on her. But she must have impressed him to some degree or he would not have offered to forfeit fifty pounds for one night of attention. Granted, fifty pounds was no significant sum for him, but he could have had women of far more consequence at his beck and call for far less.

  Inspired by this reasoning, she stood up and sauntered toward him.

  “Shall we retire to your bedchamber, my lord?”

  “I prefer different quarters.”

  His response struck her as odd, but the sofa upon which he sat appeared comfortable enough. She dropped to her knees, the wine humming in her veins. Surprise lighted his eyes but he did not move. His gaze caressed the swell of her cheek, the skin above her décolletage and, seeming to penetrate the material of her dress, the curves beneath. Her body tingled from head to toe beneath his regard. She dared to put a hand upon his knee. When he did not flinch, she glanced into his countenance and thought she saw flames in his eyes.