A Hellion in Her Bed (23 page)

The leap in her pulse made her scowl. He shouldn’t still
have this effect on her, not after his sharp words and angry looks. But beneath his anger, desire had simmered, that ever-present desire that tugged an answering need to the surface of her very skin.

She groaned.
Admit it. You want him in your bed.

All right, she did. Which made absolutely no sense. One of these days, she simply must learn not to crave things that were bad for her. Like certain hellions who knew exactly how to turn a woman to pudding with a dark glance.

It hadn’t helped that he’d been wearing evening attire tonight for the first time since she’d met him. Seeing him so finely dressed had made something flip over inside her chest. Next to the tradesmen, with their ostentatious figured waistcoats and pompaded hair, his exquisitely tailored black tailcoat, simple white satin waistcoat, and snowy linen had fairly screamed his station as a polished man of rank, bred for greater things than socializing with the brash brewers of Burton.

Yet he’d never once showed, by word or deed, that he was aware of the difference. If not for his sophisticated bearing and his elegant clothing, no one would have guessed he wasn’t just another brewer. She’d heard snippets of his conversation, and he’d held his own with the clannish brewers in a way that Hugh had never been able to. Or her.

“Lord Jarret seems a good enough sort,” Hugh said, across from her. “Knew a bit more about the brewing business than I expected. He stared at me rather oddly when I said I was looking forward to our meeting in the morning, though. That
is
when we’re going to meet, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”
But only if I beat him at piquet
.

She forced a smile for her brother’s benefit. True to his word, Hugh had only had punch to drink, which technically
wasn’t spirits, though she suspected it had contained a dram or two of brandy.

“He seemed awfully interested in
you
, Annie,” Hugh said. “Asked me about Rupert. Wanted to know what sort of man he was.”

That startled her, until she realized that Jarret had probably just been trying to determine if she was telling the truth about her chastity.

Humiliation rose in her again. How could he think she would
lure
him into her bed just to trap him into getting
leg-shackled
? Beastly fellow. Though he was probably used to women doing such awful things in the city.

What had he said?
I’ll have you know that there are hundreds of women who would kill to have that life
. She couldn’t blame them. The idea of being his wife …

Ridiculous! She wouldn’t want to raise a family with him, even if he did want to marry her. And he didn’t. He certainly wouldn’t now, after how she’d lied to him.

Remembering the fury in his eyes as they danced, she shivered. He’d been so contemptuous, so cutting. He’d arranged tonight’s encounter with such ruthless determination that she feared how he would treat her if he won. She didn’t know if she could bear having him bed her in anger.

“Quite frankly,” Hugh went on, “I wasn’t sure what to tell him about Rupert, given what happened. I finally just said he was a war hero. That much is true, anyway.”

A war hero. She used to hate that phrase, knowing at what cost Rupert’s heroism had come. Now it merely made her sad to think of how little being a hero meant when one lost one’s chance at a life.

“I think his lordship is interested in Annabel,” Sissy said, with a sly glance at her.

A bitter laugh stuck in her throat. Oh yes, he was interested. He might have lost any soft feelings for her, but he still lusted after her, thank heaven.

“Well, she could do worse, I suppose,” Hugh said in a gruff voice. He tugged nervously at his shirt cuffs, then set his shoulders as if coming to a decision. “Annie, I want you to be at the meeting tomorrow.”

She glanced at him in surprise. Hugh had never allowed her to attend any sort of brewery meeting. It was fine for her to keep the place running, but heaven forbid she should be in on the planning for anything. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You’re the one who got him here. He might be … more comfortable if you’re there.”

Little did he know. If she won tonight, Jarret would hate her in the morning, and if she lost he would not
be
there in the morning.

“That’s fine.” She’d deal with that tomorrow.

For now, she had to concentrate on slipping out of the house unseen. It had been midnight when they’d left the town hall; she had little time.

Fortunately, Hugh and Sissy didn’t seem inclined to linger, especially when she announced that she was exhausted and meant to retire after she fetched a book from the study. A deeply felt longing pierced her when Hugh murmured something, and Sissy giggled before they strolled up the stairs arm in arm.

She sighed and dismissed the servants, telling them she’d lock up. She waited until she was sure no one was around, then let herself out the garden door with her key.

The brewery was a short walk from the house. Fortunately, no homes lay near it, just a stables and a cooperage that was closed for the night. It was unlikely anyone would notice
either her or him entering, but she did wish that Papa hadn’t been so adamant about lighting the street with gas lamps. She felt very exposed.

When a large form stepped out of the shadows near the back entrance to the brewery, her heart jumped into her throat. Until she realized it was Jarret.

Then she saw his eyes, and her pulse pounded even more furiously. Because this wasn’t the Jarret who’d teased her at the market, or the Jarret who’d brought her pleasure with drugging kisses, or even the Jarret who’d been furious at her tonight.

This Jarret bore an expression carved in cold stone. Between the time she’d last seen him and now, he had hardened his heart against her. He was clearly determined to revenge himself on her.

God help her if she didn’t win their game. Because this Jarret was not a man she would want in her bed. Not tonight. Not ever.

J
arret had spent the past hour preparing for his meeting with Annabel. While changing into attire more suitable for a clandestine meeting with a lying harpy, he’d worked hard to wall off the part of himself that she’d softened over the past few days. He’d fought to obliterate from his memory all the things that had made him admire her—her patience toward Mrs. Lake and Geordie, her obvious loyalty to her family … her seeming vulnerability that day in the barn.

That was the point—she’d
seemed
vulnerable, but she wasn’t. Ever since dinner, he’d been going over the events of their trip, and he’d realized just how far she’d taken her subterfuge. Not only had she lied to him, but she’d convinced the rest of the family to lie, as well. She’d coaxed him into believing her scheme would work, all the while knowing that it rested on the uncertain state of her drunken brother. She’d even manufactured that little scene with the doctor at their home.

She’d made him believe in her. Worse yet, she’d made him
out to be some untrustworthy rogue, when all the while she was the one who was untrustworthy. The more he’d thought about it the more his heart had frozen, until he was sure he was now immune to her smiles and half-truths.

Yet here she was, looking fragile and tired, her petite frame practically dwarfed by a wool cloak and her eyes haunted—and it threatened to destroy every wall he’d so carefully built.

Damn her to hell. Why did she affect him like this? Why had he not yet learned that everything she said and did was for the benefit of her family’s cursed brewery?

“You’re early,” she said in a low voice as she walked past him to the door.

“I am eager for the night’s festivities to begin,” he clipped out. “I want to have plenty of time to enjoy my … winnings.” He swept her with a deliberate glance to remind her of how he would take his revenge.

Instead of rousing a blush in her pale cheeks, it made anger flare in her eyes. “Assuming that you win, which is by no means certain.”

She was always a fighter, and damned if that didn’t arouse him.

He came up close behind her, taking petty satisfaction in the way her fingers fumbled with the keys. “It’s certain enough.”

Removing the key from her gloved hand, he bent past her to unlock the door. He could feel her tremble, which tugged at his conscience. With a muttered curse, he handed her the key and moved back.

“I beat you before,” she said. “I can beat you again.”

He snorted. “Do you know what they call me in the gaming hells of London?”

“Cocky?”

He suppressed a laugh. “The Prince of Piquet. I almost never lose.”

She pushed the door open. “Then it sounds to me as if you have an unfair advantage. That’s hardly gentlemanly of you.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed without an ounce of guilt as he entered behind her.

Shutting the door, she picked up a nearby flint and got the candle lit, then wedged it into a sconce. When she took off her wool cloak, he dragged in a harsh breath. She still wore her dinner gown, the one he’d wanted to rip off her with his teeth.

She faced him with a brittle expression, and it was all he could do not to shove her against the wall and kiss the coldness from her. But that would give her too much power over him.

“Perhaps we should choose a more level playing field.” Defiance lit her features. “If you don’t like two-handed whist, we can play Irish whist, as your friend Mr. Masters suggested. It can’t be much different from regular whist, and if you explain the rules, I’m sure I could follow it.”

A caustic laugh burst out of him. “Oh, I’m sure you could follow it very well.” Giving her no warning, he caught her by the hips and hauled her close to press against his rapidly hardening cock. “
This
is Irish whist, my dear.” He thrust himself suggestively against her. “Where the jack takes the ace.”

If he’d hoped to embarrass her, he’d failed. She merely looked perplexed. “I don’t understand. I can figure out what ‘jack’ refers to, but—”

“‘Ace of spades’ is cant for ‘whore,’” he said bluntly, “because a spade resembles the triangle of dark hair between a woman’s legs. Ergo, jack takes the ace.”

Appalled, she shoved away from him. “Why is it called
Irish
whist?”

He shrugged. “Hell if I know. Probably because we English blame everything dirty on the Irish. ‘Irish root’ means a man’s privates, for example, and ‘Irish toothache’ means a man’s arousal.”

A gentleman never said such things to a gently bred female, but tonight he wasn’t feeling much like a gentleman. He half expected her to slap him for his crudeness, and hoped she would. He was spoiling for a fight.

“Lord, men are children,” she said crisply. “Is that how you spend your time when women aren’t around? Thinking up naughty terms for women’s privates?”

Only Annabel would look at it that way. Forcing himself not to be charmed by that, he raked his gaze down to linger on that part of her. “When we’re not thinking up ways to get
into
women’s privates.”

A hot rush of blood rose in her cheeks, and she whirled and headed for the coal grate. “We need some heat in here. I didn’t have time to change out of my dinner gown.”

“Good,” he murmured as she bent to start the fire. “After I spent the entire evening imagining tearing that gown off of you, I’m looking forward to the reality.”

Her back went rigid. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I always am.”

When she turned her head, probably to rebuke him for his arrogance, she caught him staring at her nicely displayed arse, and she straightened to glare at him. “You think I’m a whore now, don’t you?”

That brought him up short. “Why would I think that?”

“Because of what I did with Rupert.”

“One night of passion with your ‘true love’ hardly qualifies you for status as a whore.”

“Then why are you treating me differently?” she countered. “Why are you being so crude and saying such shocking things to me?”

Because he wanted her to feel the same shock he’d felt when he’d realized how she’d lied to him. Because it still gnawed at him that the fetching country lass who’d enticed him had been toying with him only to get what she wanted. “
You’re
the one who brought up Irish whist.”

“It’s not that. You’re so cold, so angry.”

Hurt bled through her words, driving a stake in his righteous anger. Yet he couldn’t let it go. “Can you blame me? You lied to me.”

“If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have come here. I did what I had to.”

“Just as you’re doing now,” he said icily.

She folded her arms over her stomach. “Yes.”

“
That’s
why I’m angry. I thought you were—”

“An innocent, chaste country girl?” she said bitterly.

“Honorable.”

She glared at him. “I
am
honorable, curse you.”

“Is that what you call wagering your body to save your brother’s brewery?”

Her eyes spit fire. “
You
suggested that wager, not I.”

“But you accepted it. And you were the one to suggest this wager tonight.” He stepped closer. “Which makes me wonder if all those kisses and caresses between us were ever anything but a way to reel me in.”

She jerked back with a horrified expression. “You think that I … You actually believe I would … You’re daft! Surely
you could tell I honestly desired you. It’s not something a woman can pretend.”

Satisfaction rose in him, despite his efforts to quell it. “Actually, it
is
something a woman can pretend.”

Confusion spread over her face. “How?”

She was either the most accomplished actress he’d ever met, or she was inexperienced in matters of the bedchamber, despite her encounter with the heroic Rupert. He began to wonder if it might be the latter. And if it were … “You really don’t know?”

“What I know is that
you
initiated every one of our kisses. For someone who was attempting to ‘reel you in,’ I was rather clumsy at it.”

Her unflappable logic drove a wedge in his defenses that none of her protests had been able to do. Because in truth, she
hadn’t
pursued him; he’d pursued her. And if she’d been using her body to manipulate him, she’d have been better off tempting him to bed her so she could trap him into marriage. A little pig’s blood, some feigned discomfort, and he wouldn’t have known she was unchaste.