The Wager (Entangled Scandalous) (3 page)

Most likely, he hadn’t meant a thing by it. Most likely, he hadn’t even noticed he’d called her “my dearest.”

She’d
noticed. She had paused as her eyes skimmed the first familiar ink swells of his handwriting. For a moment, an infinitesimal foolish moment, her breath had quickened along with her pulse. And then pragmatism won out.

If Michael Grey, Earl of Thornhill, was in love with Elizabeth, he could never care deeply for someone like Anne. She loved her sister, but they were as different as night and day. No, Anne was merely a novelty to him, and nothing more. A passing amusement. Someone who was so entirely wrong in all the ways he deemed important that his dislike had turned into a reluctant fascination.

And why would she want to be his second choice, anyway? She didn’t compare to Lizzie in some ways, but she had her own good qualities. It wasn’t her fault that her good qualities, while accepted—even admired—in a man, were undesirable in a woman.

Anne had too much self-respect to be anyone’s second choice. She would rather be a spinster for the rest of her life.

She scanned the crowded ballroom. The Middletons had been in Brighton for a few days now. They were planning to spend the majority of their summer at the seaside instead of in the stifling heat of London. She didn’t know if or when Lord Thornhill would make an appearance, and she didn’t know what she would say to him if she saw him. Writing letters had been easy; the idea of speaking to him face-to-face formed a pit of tension in her stomach.

But she didn’t see him among the glittering, winding throng and her tension eased. She took a casual sip of watered-down lemonade and looked at Elizabeth. “Have you read
Confessions of a Courtesan
?”

Her sister eyed her over the top of her fan. “Don’t tell me you’ve acquired a copy. You’d best not let Mama catch you with it.”

“I won’t,” she said, “but have you?”

“I’ve read it. I’m acquainted with the author.”

Olivia and Anne gasped at the same time. They leaned in closer to their older sister, forming a tight circle. “Will you introduce us?” Anne asked.

Elizabeth laughed. “Certainly, but it will have to wait until we’re all back in London.”

“You weren’t bothered that Mr. Cameron worked with her?”

“My first reaction was jealousy, but I realized I was being foolish. Cale would never do anything to harm our relationship.” Her voice was steady, no hint of doubt.

And Anne felt a flash of envy: what must it be like to have such faith, such confidence, in a man? Most of the ones she had met had seemed like rather fickle creatures.

Except Michael; he didn’t seem fickle.

But maybe he was, and it was unwise to regard him so highly—he
had
turned his attention to another sister after being rejected by the first, after all.

A cool ocean breeze came from the window next to them, bringing a tang of salt and rustling the hem of her dress.

“How long will it be before Mr. Cameron arrives in Brighton?” Anne asked. Elizabeth had come ahead of her husband to visit with her and Olivia before the couple left for the cottage in the country where they liked to spend time in the summer.

“Just a few days. He wanted to finish editing a manuscript so they can start printing before he leaves.”

“A new book?” Olivia asked, her eyes lighting with interest. “What is it?”

Elizabeth laughed. “It discusses the flora and fauna of India. Not fiction, I’m afraid.”

The mention of India reminded her of Michael’s last letter. She looked down at her empty glass. “I need to fetch more lemonade.”

“None for me, thanks,” Elizabeth said. “I had forgotten how dreadful the offerings are at these public assemblies.”

Anne weaved her way through the crowd in search of the refreshment table. She was nearly there when a rather boisterous dancer swung his partner around and released her with a little too much force. The young woman came at her with arms flailing. Everything happened too swiftly. All Anne had time to do was lift her arm in an attempt to protect her head. But then she felt someone’s hand on her waist, confident and quick, pulling her out of the path of danger.

The errant dancer managed a stumbling stop. The look she sent her partner when he rushed forward to help was as cold as a winter wind.

But Anne didn’t see if he managed to work himself back into her good graces. She was distracted by the solid heat of a male body along her back. A rather new, and not entirely unpleasant, sensation.

She turned. And nearly blanched when her eyes met a familiar, amused gaze. “Lord Thornhill!”

“Miss Middleton. I arrived at an opportune time, it seems.”

Anne stepped back, a careful, precise movement. It was difficult to think when she was close enough to smell the crisp scent of whatever soap he used. She hadn’t spoken to him since the night in the library—since his letters had become the high point of every single day. “Indeed you did.”

“Do you have the next dance open?”

“No,” she blurted out. When he frowned, she looked at her empty dance card. The next dance wasn’t a waltz. She could handle a country dance with him. They would only have to touch hands, and she would be far enough away from him to maintain coherent thought. “I mean, yes, I do.”

Anne soon found there was no “only” about touching hands with Lord Thornhill. The contact was glove to glove, not skin to skin, thank goodness. She couldn’t imagine what touching his bare skin would feel like when this alone was enough to make her pulse beat faster. Thornhill’s hand engulfed hers, strong, unyielding, exerting a firm pressure. She felt captured every time he took her hand in his, and dizzy with relief when he released her again.

Because she wasn’t sure she could have let go of him on her own.

It was maddening, this incongruous reaction to an innocent country dance.

“Have you gone sea bathing yet?” Thornhill asked, his pleasant, mild tone contrasting with her own tumultuous thoughts.

“No,” she said, a bit harshly. Then she moderated her voice—she could make it through one dance without embarrassing herself. “No. My mother swears by it, but I think it’s a bit ridiculous.”

“I hope you haven’t told Prinny as much.”

“I wouldn’t be afraid to tell him. What will he do, cut off my head?”

“He could make social life more difficult for you,” Thornhill warned.

“Do you think that would matter to me?”

“By that, I presume not,” he said with a slight smile. “Though it probably should. Why don’t you like sea bathing?”

“All they do is put you in a bathing machine and then dip you in the water. It’s not real swimming,” she told him scornfully.

“No?”

She had to wait a moment as they separated to allow another couple to glide between them. “When we were children, my sisters and I used to swim in the lake at our country estate,” she said as they joined together again. “We would have races to see who was the fastest. My mother hated it. She told us we were acting like barbarians, not young ladies.”

“Who won the races?”

“I did,” she said. Her mouth lifted in a grin at the same time his did.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” The words, which might have been an insult a mere fortnight ago, were spoken with gentle amusement.

The dance came to an end, and she curtseyed to him, but instead of leaving to find a partner for the next dance, he guided her to an isolated corner of the spacious assembly room.

Anne tensed at the solid feel of his arm beneath her hand. She turned to break the contact.

“I’d like to make a wager with you,” he commented, taking
her
by surprise.

But this was better. Easier. She liked talking to Thornhill. Talking was simple. The heightening of her senses every time he touched her was a little more difficult to contemplate.

“What did you have in mind?” she asked, curious.

“I wager I could best you in a swimming race.”

Had she said simple? Her fingers, which had been playing with the edge of her glove, froze. “But we can’t race,” she said quickly. “Men and women don’t bathe together.”

He lifted his eyebrow, and in that moment, he looked exactly like the imperious earl he was. She’d forgotten, actually, that he was part of the elite upper aristocracy. She addressed him as Michael in their letters—and in her mind, when they’d danced, he’d simply been Michael.

“And a little thing like that would stop you? We shall have to do it late at night, when no one will be on the shore.”

“I couldn’t,” she protested, though her mind was already working. Grasping on outrageous thoughts.

He shook his head slightly. “You disappoint me, Miss Middleton. What happened to the young woman who disregarded propriety when it didn’t suit her?”

“And what happened to the man who berated me for it?” she asked hotly, not knowing if she was angry with him or with herself. Her hands were trembling. Why were her hands trembling? She clasped them tightly in front of her.

“Easy, Anne,” he murmured, staring down at her with the oddest smile. It only made her more furious. “Our letters made me realize something—when I returned to claim the earldom, I thought I needed to be perfect because everyone’s eyes were watching me, and they were all comparing me to Charles. I dreaded making some misstep in front of them. So I tried to be perfect. But it hasn’t made me happy. And then I meet you, the only woman I’ve ever met who doesn’t give a fig about perfection or imperfection, who actually
dares
people to judge her. I think I was jealous of you. It was why I disliked you at first.”

“I didn’t like you much, either,” she muttered. “And
I
never liked Charles. He wasn’t kind to Elizabeth. The people who looked up to him weren’t close enough to see who he really was.”

Thornhill looked thoughtful. “You’re right, most likely. He wasn’t very adept at running an estate, but no one was aware of any of that. What failures he did have, he hid them well. But regardless, I’m done trying to live up to whatever impossible ideal I created for myself.”

“So you’ve decided to flirt with scandal instead?” she asked as imperiously as any earl.

“I’ve decided to do what I want. And what I want is to race you. No,” he amended with a sparkle of mischief in his gaze. “I want to win.”

Her eyes narrowed, but he appeared as relaxed as ever. He actually had the nerve to grin. It was such a boyish expression, so at odds with how she usually pictured him, that her chest felt tight, or full, or something foreign and uneasy. “You won’t win,” she said, managing to sound much calmer than she truly was.

“Until you’ve proven me wrong, I’ll have to assume that I will.”

Her hands tightened convulsively. “What are we wagering? A shilling?”

His head tilted. “I’d like to play for higher stakes.”

“Such as?” she asked. “A pound note?”

“A kiss.”

Anne didn’t move, but her stillness hid a tumult of panic. “I don’t want to kiss you,” she said, hushed but emphatic.

“Then you’ll have to swim
very
fast.”

She didn’t know quite what to make of this new side of the formerly stodgy earl. To her chagrin, this new earl intrigued her. Which wouldn’t do at all.

She drew in a deep breath through her nose, and said brightly, “Elizabeth is here tonight, too. You should speak with her.”

Finally his smile faded. “Why?”

To remind you of the type of woman you truly desire.
“You are cousins, are you not?”

“Of course I’ll go and greet her,” he said politely. “And Miss Olivia, as well. Where are they?”

Anne waved her arm in the general direction of where she’d left them. She remained rooted to the floor. She didn’t want to see his expression when he laid his eyes on Elizabeth—beautiful, perfect Elizabeth—again.

“I’ll be waiting for you later tonight,” he said softly. “I trust you won’t back out of our wager?”

A scowl flitted over her features. “I won’t back out, but I don’t know how we’ll be able to compete fairly when I have a bathing costume weighing me down.”

His lips tilted in a rakish grin. Rakish! A word she’d never associated with him before this very moment. “It’s very simple, Miss Middleton—you’ll have to take it off.”

And he turned his back and left her standing in the corner with a flush of heat rising in her cheeks and her lips parted on a silent gasp.

Chapter Three

The moon was nearly full. It hung large and pale near the horizon, casting a silvery light on the black sea water.

Michael waited on the shore, listening to the gentle lap of waves. The movement of the sea was the only sound that broke the otherworldly stillness of the night. Farther away in the more populated streets, members of the
ton
would be awake until dawn, pursuing their endless amusements, dancing and gossiping until the sky turned pink.

But here, they didn’t exist. Here it was just Michael and the quiet and the sea and the hope that Anne Middleton wouldn’t suddenly forget her courage and run.

He folded his arms over his chest, wondering how long he had been motionless at the edge of the beach.

“Let’s have this done, then,” an impatient voice said from just over his shoulder.

He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with air that tasted of salt and fish. “I thought you might have changed your mind.”

She stepped beside him and he cast a sidelong glance at her. The simple white gown she wore glowed in the moonlight. Her skin was cast in pale hues, and her hair, a light brown in the day, had turned to shadow. Her gray eyes shimmered silver. She looked like some ethereal creature.

His fingers twitched. He wanted to touch her.

But she was skittish around him. Skittish…not a word he would associate with the blunt, wagering, inappropriate-book-reading woman he was coming to know. But he’d sensed her hesitancy when they danced. He would have to tread carefully tonight.

He lowered to the sand and tugged off his shoes and stockings. His coat went next, and his cravat and waistcoat. He could feel Anne’s eyes on him.

He hesitated before removing any more clothing. With his bare feet and wearing only a shirt and trousers, he was already shockingly informal. But clothing would hinder his swimming. And as much as he was worried about scaring her away, he also wanted to win. Desperately.

“Will you be wearing the dress?” he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. Careful to keep it from trembling with the sudden want of her that had blindsided him earlier and not left him alone since. “You won’t swim as fast.”

“I know.” Her lips pursed. She stared down at him. Then she reached behind her back with abrupt, stilted movements, and he realized she was unbuttoning her gown. His mouth went dry as she pulled it over her head and it landed in the sand, and even more so when she fiddled with her petticoat, and that followed. She worked at the laces of her stays and leaned down to peel off her shoes and stockings, and his mouth felt drier than the Great Indian Desert. He eyed the frilly material of her garters where they lay, feminine and disheveled, atop the rest of her clothes.

Then she stood before him wearing nothing but a short-sleeved cotton chemise that barely reached her knees.

Now it wasn’t just his fingers that jerked toward her, but his whole hand. He reined it in and clenched it into a fist to keep from reaching out.

“I’ll leave the chemise on,” she said, her voice wavering.

Thank God.

Damnation.

“Then, to be equal…” he began. He turned slightly away and unbuttoned the flap of his trousers before pulling them down. The gesture left him standing in his shirt and drawers, showing off his pale lower legs. Truthfully, he felt a little ridiculous, but he hid his discomfort. If being an earl had taught him one thing, it was how to fake confidence with people’s eyes upon him, even when he was anything but confident.

“Well, Miss Middleton?” He held out his hand.

He realized she was staring at his calves; he doubted she’d ever seen that part of a man’s anatomy before. The thought made him smile. Her gaze traveled to his outstretched hand. She winced, then hesitated, so he let his hand fall back to his side. He waded into the sea as if he hadn’t noticed, even though he was actually flooded with disappointment at not being able to touch her. He swallowed a curse at the cold bite of the water on his skin.

When he looked back, she followed.

She gasped as the water rose past her knees. “Ballocks!”

A laugh was startled from him. “Good Lord. Where did you learn that?” he asked.

“
Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
,” she said with a pronounced shiver. “A very useful book.”

“Another volume I shall have to add to my collection,” he teased. He stopped when the water was above his waist. “I thought we would make the finish line that bathing machine.” He pointed out where one of the sea carriages had been left on shore. “You never told me the forfeit if you win.”

“I’m shocked you’re even asking, my lord. You obviously don’t think I will.”

“I don’t,” he said with a grin, “but we must observe the formalities.”

She hesitated, then said, “The question from my letter—if I win, you have to answer. In detail.”

“Agreed,” he said, a little shock of lust traveling straight to his groin. Or not so little. If he weren’t so chilled, he would have hardened. A rather strong reaction to a simple statement. “We’ll start when you’re ready.”

He lowered himself, kneeling so he was in a position to push off from the bottom. Icy, dagger-like water engulfed his chest. “Ballocks,” he muttered, grimacing.

He heard Anne’s laughter next to him. It was a good sound, beautiful even, like the familiar, lulling call of church bells. And then there was stillness, and all was quiet, until she called out to start, and there was an explosion of droplets and movement.

Neither of them was a particularly elegant swimmer. Their arms and legs thrashed up frothy white water. They breathed heavily and grunted from exertion, a cacophony of human noise amid the splashing. He tasted salt in his mouth.

She hadn’t been exaggerating about winning the races with her sisters. She kept up with him, stroke for stroke, her coarse breaths not very distant from his ear. For a moment, he wasn’t certain who would emerge the victor. But he was just as determined to win as she was. And he was stronger. He surged ahead, arms throbbing from his forceful movements, and glided past the bathing machine a few short seconds before she did.

The displaced water was still churning around them when he turned to her, but she was already wading back to the shore. The chemise barely concealed anything when wet—it clung to her backside as she emerged. A backside that was full and round…and that he could have stared at for a good while longer, but he managed to drag his eyes away.

“I brought towels,” he said, stopping beside her.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, but simply lifted a linen towel from the sand and moved away from him. If she were any other young woman, he would think she was frightened of him, but the thought of Anne being afraid of anything, especially him, was laughable. She certainly hadn’t had any difficulty speaking her mind to him before.

No, he expected she was acting this way for a different reason entirely. A reason he fully intended to take advantage of.

Shivers racked her slender frame. The air was much crueler on their damp skin, and he felt the bite of it, too.

He walked to his pile of discarded clothing. With swift movements, he removed his wet shirt and drawers, dried himself with the linen, and pulled his dry trousers back on. There was no point in becoming ill for the sake of modesty.

He glanced at Anne, stilling when he saw that she was watching him, her towel hanging limply from her hand. Through her garment he could detect the swell of breasts, the slope of her thighs, even the hint of a dark patch at the apex. The elegant line of her throat moved as she swallowed. He felt like doing the same at the delectable sight before him.

Then she shook her head, as though mentally pulling herself together. “Turn around,” she commanded sharply.

Hiding his smile, Michael obeyed.

…

Anne threw on her petticoat and dress. She didn’t bother with her stays—they would take too long, and she simply wanted to leave.

Anne Middleton had glimpsed a naked man for the first time in her life. A rather beautifully formed naked man, if judged against the idealized Greek statues she’d seen—he’d come a long way from the gangly youth he’d described in his letter—and he’d acted as though it was nothing to be ashamed of. An everyday occurrence, in fact.

Did Lord Thornhill undress in front of young women often? The thought soured.

She marched over to him, kicking up sand with her bare feet in the process. He was sitting on a spread towel, pulling his stockings over muscled calves. She looked somewhere past his head.

“Will you kiss me so I can go home?” she asked stonily.

He tipped his head to look up at her. “So eager?”

“Eager to have this foolish wager forgotten.”

His teeth flashed white. He patted the space on the towel next to him. “Sit.”

“I’d prefer to stand,” she said, her voice cool as the night air.

“
I
won the wager, didn’t I?”

Her jaw clenched. Swallowing an insult she’d learned from the
Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue,
she lowered herself next to him with her legs tucked underneath her.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked.

“Why?”

“You won’t enjoy the kiss if you’re distracted by the cold,” he explained far too reasonably.

“I won’t enjoy it, anyway,” she snapped. She had no idea if that was the truth or not—she only knew she didn’t
want
to enjoy it.

At least not too much.

“Anne,” he said lightly, “Are you cold or warm?”

He’d turned his face toward her. Each word fanned breath across her cheek.

She nodded. She did feel warm, suddenly—overly warm, considering she’d just come out of the frigid water. His nose was a few inches from hers and the moonlight turned his green eyes to an unfathomable gray.

It was a moment made for romance—if there had been anything romantic about it. “Just finish it,” she hissed, clenching her eyes shut.

He laughed. She opened her mouth to say something unpleasant, but when she felt his bare fingertips brush her jaw, all that came out was a gust of air. He tilted her chin up.

And his lips found hers, molding them as though they were made to fit together, teasing as though they were sharing a private joke, demanding as though she had something to offer him. She couldn’t think what.

She couldn’t really think at all.

But she liked the soft slide of his mouth on hers. She liked the heat of his breath against her lips. She liked his masculine insistence.

“Definitely warm,” he murmured.

So much for not enjoying it. But as long as she did…

She put her hands on his bare chest, testing the way he felt. His skin was mostly smooth, with a light trail of hair that went down his stomach and disappeared under his trousers. She was surprised by how hot his skin felt against her cool palms. One of her fingers brushed his nipple as she explored the expanse of hard muscle, and with a throaty noise he deepened the kiss.

He must have liked that—she hadn’t realized it was a sensitive part of one’s anatomy.

She leaned in closer, wanting to feel him pressed against her. He apparently wanted the same, for he pulled her onto his lap and crushed her to his chest. As the kiss went on and on, his hands traced her jaw, her throat, brushed over her breasts.

She shifted, a slow ache beginning in her abdomen in response to his caresses. Her hands curled around his arms for leverage, and then she did something truly wanton—something that would have shocked her if she hadn’t been so caught up in this wave of sensation. She moved her legs to straddle his waist so the hard ridge of his cock rubbed against her exquisitely sensitive cleft.

His hand tightened around the back of her neck. The other found the tip of her breast and stroked it through her dress. “My God,” he breathed.

Yes, she had to agree with him.

He sucked on her lower lip, nipping it gently.

But then, just as quickly, he stopped kissing her. He drew back and regarded her, his gaze intense and unfathomable. “Page one hundred and seventy-six.”

Several stunned seconds passed before she realized what he was talking about. And then all the breath whooshed from her lungs. “You…want…to… With me?”

“Yes, most emphatically.” He palmed her breast and twisted the aching nipple between his thumb and forefinger, sending a delicious jolt straight down her body.

She wanted it, too. She was curious.
Beyond
curious. She was restless and wanting, and he was here, ready to show her things she could only read about in disreputable books.

But at the same time, he frightened her more than anyone ever had before.

“I should make something clear,” she began shakily. “I don’t want you to have an attack of conscience because of this and ask for my hand. I’m not interested in marriage. I’m simply…wanting to explore a bit.”

There was a beat of silence. “Anne Middleton,” he said, “you are a strange woman.”

“I mean what I say.”

“I’m aware of that.” He sighed. “Very well. I won’t ask you to marry me. Only an exploration.”

She nodded, and he eased her back onto the towel, following her down, covering her body with his bare chest. When he kissed her this time, there was something more urgent about the contact. His tongue breached her parted lips. He pushed his knee between her legs so she was forced to open them, to cradle him. He kissed a trail down her face and jaw and throat—every part he touched seemed to come alive and swell with heat.

And then he was stroking her leg with his hand—and her dress was suddenly above her knees. She didn’t know when it had gotten pushed up, or if he had done it while distracting her with other things. His thumb skimmed her inner thigh and she sucked in a quick breath; it hissed between her teeth.

His weight moved down her body until he was positioned between her thighs. She peered at him, and lust flooded her at the sight of his muscles rippling as he propped himself on his elbows. His dark hair fell forward.

She closed her eyes and clenched her hands in the towel.

She felt the soft press of his lips on her knee, then higher. She felt the wet, sensual sweep of his tongue on her skin. His hands curled around her hips, firm but caressing.