My Lady's Dare

She didn’t move, her eyes again tracking from his face to the gambler’s. Dare rose, walking across the room toward her. When he was near enough, he could see that he had been right in his suspicions. The imprint on her cheek, made by the Frenchman’s palm, was quite clear.

The blow had reddened the delicate skin, leaving the distinct impression of each separate finger. There was a small spot of blood at the corner of her mouth, where it had cut against her teeth.

When Dare met her eyes again, he could see within them doubt and perhaps even a trace of fear. She was uncertain of his motives. He couldn’t blame her for being wary. After all, he had not protested when Bonnet dragged her from this room. None of the English gentlemen had. And so, Elizabeth Carstairs had no reason to believe that he intended to befriend her.

Dare himself could not explain why he had embarked on this crusade. It was out of keeping with the persona he had adopted years ago, and that made it dangerous, of course. As well as ridiculously quixotic, he acknowledged.

Without further comment, Dare held out his arm, wrist upward. He did not offer to take her hand. His gesture was far more formal, the same one he might have used to offer his escort to any lady of his acquaintance onto the dance floor perhaps or to be introduced to his friend, the Prince Regent.

As he watched Elizabeth Carstairs’ slightly widened eyes come up to his, he knew that he had not been mistaken in his assessment of her. After a second or two, she placed her hand in the proper position on top of his wrist.

Despite her outward composure, he could feel her fingers tremble. They were cool against the heat of his own skin, and his body reacted to the feel of them there, the sudden rush of blood to his groin strong and hot.

And potentially embarrassing. Like a bloody schoolboy, Dare thought in amazement, exerting a control he had not been called upon to use in years. He allowed the images of his friend’s face to reform in his mind, images he had fought all evening. Even Elizabeth Carstairs’ undeniable attractions were not proof against that horror.

When they reached the table, the illogical aversion he had taken to Bonnet was stronger than it had been before. He almost regretted not having required the house be a part of this wager. But of course, this whole thing was now about something more than his dislike for the gambler. It was now about this woman, and that, Dare admitted, was even more illogical than the other.

Chapter Two

When they reached the table, Elizabeth removed her hand from the Earl of Dare’s arm and took her place behind his chair. The apprehension that had begun when Bonnet sent for her again was unabated. She wasn’t sure why she was here. Although she had questioned the servant, he could tell her little beyond the fact that Monsieur Bonnet required that she come back downstairs.

Since she had been made very much aware of the gambler’s displeasure when she left the salon, she had been surprised by his summons to return. She had already removed her dress, but it had been a matter of a few seconds to pull it back on again. She had then gathered her hair atop her head, hurriedly securing the curls with a few hairpins from the top of her dressing table.

Despite the fact that she knew she had done nothing to deserve his anger, she was mortified to be seen with the mark of Bonnet’s hand still livid on her cheek. It wasn’t the first time the gambler had struck her. Once he had even used his fists, but the resulting bruises had been too difficult to hide. She had missed several nights in attendance at the tables, and so, thankfully, he had never done that again.

The blow tonight had been painful, but not disfiguring. Based on experience, she knew the mark would hardly be noticeable tomorrow. At least it wouldn’t have been, she amended, had she been allowed to remain in her bedroom with a cold compress pressed to her cheek. Now, however…

The man seated in the chair beside her reached across the table and cut the deck of cards that lay face down upon it. Unlike her own, his fingers were perfectly steady—long and dark and somehow elegant. Her eyes had followed their movements all evening.

The Earl of Dare. Elizabeth tried to think what she had heard about the man who bore that title, but she could remember almost nothing beyond the family name, which was Sinclair. She wasn’t sure why that had stuck in her memory.

She looked down at the man seated beside her, desperately trying to determine his age. Only the midnight-black hair and a narrow portion of his profile were visible from where she stood. She wished she had studied his face more closely when she had had the chance. Instead, she had determinedly fought the impulse to look at him all evening.

That was something that never happened to her before. Usually she avoided eye contact with the men who came to play at Bonnet’s tables. It was safer that way. Her greatest fear had been that she might encounter a familiar face.

Dare’s had not been, but still, there had been something about it that had drawn her. She tried to re-create his features in her mind’s eye, even while her attention, like everyone else’s, was seemingly locked on the cards.

His nose was almost aquiline, she remembered, the bridge high and finely shaped. As were his lips. And there was a small cleft in the center of his chin. His skin was dark, more in keeping with the raven-blackness of his hair than with the remarkable blue eyes. Of course, she admitted, those were made even more noticeable by the sweep of long, thick lashes that surrounded them.

His high forehead was softened by the fashionable curls that were arranged to fall over it. All in all, it was a memorable face, the austere planes and angles suggesting a purpose and discipline that his manner throughout the evening had not.

There was a touch of gray at his temples, she noticed now, examining his profile. And a minute fan of lines radiated from the corner of the eye she could see. Which meant he was older than Jeremy, she decided in relief. Older by perhaps as much as five years, a difference great enough that Dare had probably not known him. She drew a deep, infinitely grateful breath.

That was not, then, why he had had Bonnet send for her. Not because he recognized her. Maybe it really had been only what he said. Maybe he really did believe she had brought him luck. Something obviously had, considering the size of the wager that lay in the center of the table.

And with that her mind came back to the cards. She found that despite her inattention, she could remember every trick that had been played, every card that had fallen. She had done this so often now that it required almost no conscious thought, allowing her mind to range freely, unencumbered by her present circumstances.

Her father had taught her sums when she was only a child. He had been a mathematician and an amateur astronomer. For him, as for her, mathematics had been an avocation. A joy. And now, even that had been perverted. Again, out of necessity this time, she compelled her mind to concentrate on the cards. Thinking of her father was forbidden. Almost as forbidden as the other.

“More wine, my lord?” Bonnet asked softly.

She glanced at the gambler, and realized he was smiling, his eyes almost gloating. There was a satisfaction in his voice which she had heard there before. He believed he would win. Perhaps he had been right about her presence behind his chair bringing him bad luck. God knew that if she could possibly have arranged ill fortune for the Frenchman, she would have.

“Thank you, no,” the earl said. His eyes had lifted to his opponent’s face, and the corner of his mouth that was visible to her had also lifted. “The clearer one’s head, you know.”

There was nothing in the deep voice that she could read. Certainly not anxiety, despite the fortune that rested on the table, riding on the turn of the cards. Whatever Bonnet believed about his own hand, the man beside her, the man who claimed she had brought him luck, had not yet conceded defeat. And for some reason, she was comforted by his unspoken confidence.

In the end, the margin was very narrow, only a few points separating the totals, but Bonnet had won the first hand.

“I believe your luck may indeed have changed,” Dare said. He was smiling. Of course, the Frenchman’s victory in this hand had not been so great that it could not be overcome on the next.

“I think you’re right, my lord,” Bonnet said.

His eyes found Elizabeth’s face. She schooled her features to indifference, but in truth, she knew she should be glad the Frenchman was winning. Life would be far easier for her if he were in a better mood.

Judging by his attire and by the deference with which Bonnet had treated him, the Earl of Dare could afford to lose. He could bear this loss, and if he did, then she might not have to bear the brunt of the Frenchman’s anger.

As the game unfolded, however, the lead went back and forth, the narrow margin that separated the two opponents making it impossible to predict a final victory for one or the other. It was full day now, and several of the gentlemen had indicated by the impatience of their postures, if by nothing else, that it was past time to leave. Everyone was reluctant, however, to cause any loss of concentration by the players at this critical juncture. And then suddenly, as so often happened with the fickle cards, it was over.

“My hand,” the Earl of Dare said again. “The game as well, I believe. An unfortunate discard brought you down, I’m afraid, Monsieur Bonnet. But then, knowing what to discard and when to do so is often tricky.”

Bonnet’s eyes rose to Elizabeth, and believing he wanted verification of the nobleman’s calculation, she gave it.

“The earl’s hand by thirty points. And the game,” she said.

“It seems the lady has indeed brought you good fortune, my lord,” Bonnet said.

Elizabeth was surprised by the equanimity with which the gambler was dealing with his loss. She had expected rage. She knew that what he had told the earl was the truth. Everything Bonnet had was tied up in this house. And now…

“I wish you well of her,” the Frenchman added.

The phrase reverberated strangely in Elizabeth’s consciousness. It made no sense in the context of his congratulations. Why would he wish Dare “well of her”?

“And good riddance,” the gambler added softly in French, his eyes meeting hers. And then his tone changed, as did his language. “Gentlemen,” he said, speaking to his guests in English, “it has, as always, been a pleasure to entertain you. I hope you will all return tomorrow night. Since the earl has been so kind as to leave me my house, play will resume then. And I especially look forward to the opportunity of another encounter with you, my Lord Dare.”

The earl had risen. He gathered the notes that lay scattered across the table and stacked them together before he shoved the thick wad into the pocket of his coat.

“The pleasure was mine,” Dare said. “And as for a return engagement…” His eyes found Elizabeth’s face. “Anything is possible, of course, but I believe I’ve won already the best your house has to offer.”

“I wish you joy of her, my lord. Be warned. She’s headstrong and occasionally needs a firm hand.”

“Indeed?” Dare said, his eyes still on her face. “Such as the one you applied?” he asked softly.

Slowly realization began to dawn for Elizabeth. They were talking about her as if…

The Earl of Dare presented his arm. She stared at him, her mind racing. “Madam?” he said.

“What does this mean?” she asked, breathless with anxiety.

“I have won you. I trust you have no objections.”

“Won me?” she repeated. “I’m not a thing that might be won, my lord.”

“It was my understanding from Monsieur Bonnet that you are. And as a result of that understanding, I have just…won you.”

“No,” she said softly, appealing to the Frenchman. “Tell him, Henri, that he is—”

“A long-standing rule of the house, my dear,” the Frenchman interrupted. “Whatever a gentleman wishes to wager is allowed—if the value is deemed appropriate. Apparently the earl believed your value to be…appropriate.”

“You wagered me?” she asked, her voice incredulous.

“You were the stake Lord Dare required.”

“But surely you can’t mean…” she began, and then her voice faltered, the words dying away. She didn’t understand what Bonnet was up to, but she knew him well enough by now to know there was more to this than appeared on the surface. And the less she said that might endanger his plans the better it would be for her.

“Come, Mrs. Carstairs. I’m not usually considered to be such an ogre as all this,” Dare said lazily.

His eyes again examined the place where Bonnet had struck her. By now, she supposed her cheek would have begun to discolor. Her mouth was very sore where the flesh had cut against her teeth.

Then the earl’s eyes fastened once more on hers. In them was a question. He believed he was offering her escape. A way to leave Bonnet’s cruelty behind. And he was naturally curious as to why she wasn’t more eager to accept it.

“The unknown is always more frightening than the known, my lord,” she said very softly, “no matter how…unpleasant the known may be.”

“Frightening?” he repeated, his beautifully shaped lips tilting at the corners. “I’m quite sure that I have never before been considered frightening. And I promise I shall endeavor to make your stay with me at least as pleasant as your ‘service’ has been here.”

It was the same word Bonnet had used at the beginning of the evening. Her service. Never before had the gambler made that offer, and when he had done so tonight, her fury had almost escaped her control. In her situation, she could never afford to let that happen.

“I’m sure the earl will treat you with every consideration, my dear,” Bonnet said. “I wish you well.”

And with those words, it seemed she would have to be content, her own questions unanswered. At least for tonight.

Dare was still looking at her. She turned her head, and he smiled at her again, his blue eyes full of curiosity. Perhaps even kindness.

Elizabeth Carstairs, however, no longer believed in kindness. Or in men who acted from altruistic motives. She knew very well what had prompted the Earl of Dare to demand that Bonnet make her his stake tonight. Therefore, she knew exactly what to expect from him. And she also knew there was nothing she could do except acquiesce. Not if this was what Bonnet wanted.

“Come, Mrs. Carstairs,” the earl said again.

The smile was gone, and although the words were soft, they were obviously a command. And so she placed her hand on the Earl of Dare’s arm, and this time, despite her dread, she was pleased to find that, through an enormous act of will, it did not tremble.

Dare had expected Elizabeth Carstairs to be grateful for his rescue, and instead she was clearly dismayed by the prospect of coming home with him. He might be suffering from wounded vanity, he supposed, smiling at the notion in the concealing dimness of the carriage’s interior. He had not really been anticipating any particularly favorable reaction to him. Nothing except a little gratitude, perhaps.

It seemed, however, that she didn’t plan to offer him even that. She hadn’t spoken since he’d handed her into the carriage. Through the window on her side of the closed coach, she had examined the London streets, which were just coming to life, as if she had never seen them before.

Maybe she hadn’t. At least not at this hour. Dare had, usually when coming home from an all-night gaming session such as they had just left. Or when returning from his mistress’s.

“I shall send for your things,” he said, more to solicit a response than because he was concerned about whatever possessions she had left behind. Those could be easily replaced.

“Thank you,” she said.

She turned to face him finally. In the sunlight, the cosmetics, even artfully applied, were jarring. There was something about them that was blatantly out of place. They simply didn’t fit. Not with her speech or with her manner. Of course, that shouldn’t be too surprising. Almost nothing he now knew about her fit with those.

“How long have you worked for Bonnet?” he asked.

There was a moment’s hesitation, and then she said, “Almost two years, my lord.”

“And before that?”

“Surely my past can be of no concern to you, Lord Dare,” she said softly, her eyes almost defiant.

“I’m simply curious,” he said. “Indulge me.”

He was curious, of course, but that wasn’t why he was pressing the issue. He wanted her to talk. She was obviously hiding something, and the sooner he discovered what it was, the sooner he could put this entire quixotic episode behind him. After all, there were other things he should be doing today, far more important than trying to unravel the mystery of the Frenchman’s whore.

The word jolted, annoyingly, almost painfully, just as the rouge was jarring against the clear purity of her skin. But she probably is a whore, he reminded himself. Before his admittedly romantic nature managed to transform her into something else, Dare knew he needed to engrave that fact on his consciousness.

“The story of my life isn’t particularly interesting,” she said. “Or unusual. I’m sure you would quickly become bored if I attempted to tell it to you.”

“Why don’t you let me make that determination.”

“Because it doesn’t matter. What I did before I came to Bonnet’s has nothing to do with the present. And certainly nothing to do with now.”

And nothing to do with you, her tone suggested.

“Be warned, Mrs. Carstairs. Mystery piques my interest. Forbidden fruit, I suppose.”

“There is no mystery. If you must hear it, mine’s an ordinary enough story. My husband died, leaving a number of debts. Many of those were owed to Monsieur Bonnet. He made an offer of employment, and I accepted it.”

“You had no family to turn to, of course,” Dare suggested, his lips quirking. “Nor did your husband. Neatly done, my dear. My compliments, but…no starving children? Or perhaps we are to pick them up on the way.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Are you lying to me?” he countered.

There was a long pause, and then she said, “If I am, what can it possibly matter to you?”

“I told you. I’m curious.”

She held his eyes a moment more, and then she turned her head again, looking out the window. The carriage had entered Mayfair and, in the morning sun, the facades of the town houses swept by in a panorama of architectural elegance. Servants busily polished brass plates and the bells on their front doors or washed marks of the previous day’s traffic from broad, shallow steps. Phaetons stood patiently before their entrances, waiting for the inhabitants to embark on rounds of morning calls or on business in the city.

“And what was the late Mr. Carstairs’ occupation?” the earl asked politely, almost as if the sharpness that had ended the last exchange had not occurred.

Again she turned to face him. “Are we to continue to play games, my lord? If so, perhaps I should tell you that my imagination is not great. I have no gift for storytelling.”

“Only a gift for numbers,” he said, the subtle movement of his mouth not quite a smile. “Where did you learn to do that? What you do for Bonnet?”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t turn away.

“Forbidden as well? Then what would you like to talk about, Mrs. Carstairs?”

“I should like to know what you want from me,” she said bluntly, her eyes cold.

“The pleasure of your company?” he suggested, his tone lightly mocking. “Your wit. The scintillating sparkle of your conversation.”

“My…conversation, my lord?” she repeated, her tone equally caustic.

“Of course,” he said softly. “What did you think I wanted from you, Mrs. Carstairs?”

The carriage drew to a halt, preventing her from having to formulate an answer. The footmen rushed forward to open the door and to lower the steps. The earl descended, and then, playing the perfect gentleman, a role he had been trained for from birth, he held out his hand, palm upward. Elizabeth Carstairs gathered her skirts and put her fingers into his.

They were trembling again, Dare realized. If she was accustomed to being offered to Bonnet’s guests for their pleasure, like his wine or his excellent cigars, then why would the thought of entering his town house cause this reaction?

After all, what he had told her before was the truth. Dare was unaccustomed to being considered an ogre. Not by women. And certainly not an object of fear and trembling. If anything, he had the opposite effect on the fairer sex.

Of course, he had decided a long time ago that their favorable reception might more properly be attributed to his wealth and position than to his person. However, those considerations aside, he had never had a complaint from a woman about his attentions. The thought was almost comforting in the face of her unspoken distress.

“I’m not going to eat you, you know,” he said sotto voce, as he escorted her toward the front door.

His servants were too well-trained to gawk, but he could imagine what they were thinking, despite their perfectly correct expressions. Dare had never even brought his mistress, who did not paint her face, to his home. He had certainly never before introduced a whore into its environs.

Even as he thought the word, using it deliberately and for all the good reasons he had determined in the carriage, he could feel the childlike softness of her hand in his, trembling as strongly as if she were in the grip of an ague.

“I can assure you, my lord, that I never once envisioned that as being my fate,” Elizabeth said.

Despite her shaking hand, her chin was tilted upward, her posture as correct as if she were walking into court. When the footman opened the door, Dare released her hand and watched her sweep through the entrance to his home like a duchess.

Whatever else Elizabeth Carstairs might be, the earl acknowledged in amusement, she was a consummate actress. And despite her earlier disclaimer, he definitely wasn’t bored.

“Mrs. Hendricks is my housekeeper,” the earl said. “She will look after you. Mrs. Carstairs will be my guest for…an as yet unspecified visit,” he continued, speaking to the woman he had summoned as soon as they entered the town house.

Again he had managed to surprise her, Elizabeth acknowledged. She had been steeling herself for something quite different, something far more unpleasant than facing the clear disdain in the housekeeper’s eyes. Quite different, she thought, glancing at the earl’s face.

He looked tired. Exhausted, actually. Of course, they had both been up all night. That was not unusual for her, but perhaps Lord Dare didn’t normally keep the same irregular hours she was so accustomed to.

“Very good, my lord,” Mrs. Hendricks said stiffly.

Her eyes said that she saw nothing good about this at all, but she wasn’t about to admit that to her employer. She might indicate her true feelings when she and Elizabeth were alone, but she obviously didn’t want to anger the earl. And having spent the past two years in Bonnet’s employ, Elizabeth could sympathize with her reluctance to incur her employer’s wrath.

“If you’ll follow me, miss,” the housekeeper said. Her face was as starchy with disapproval as her housemaids’ aprons would be. She had barely avoided adding an accompanying sniff when she issued the invitation.

“Mrs.,” the earl corrected softly. “Mrs. Carstairs.” The housekeeper’s eyes focused on his face, evidently hearing the unspoken admonition in his voice. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Carstairs.”

“Please don’t,” Elizabeth said. “I understand perfectly.”

The housekeeper looked at her then, almost for the first time, her eyes widening a little at the sympathetic tone.

“I shall see you at dinner tonight, Mrs. Carstairs,” the earl said.