The Wager

When they had nearly reached the doors, the path finally widened and the grass was cut back. Mr. Desmond had evidently made a minor concession to visitors and guests who might prefer civilization. There was a paved walkway around the house, and the flowers blooming near the windows were confined in planter boxes. But one had to be very near the structure before the illusion of a fairy castle in an enchanted glen was disturbed.

Rickers stopped before the large double doors.

“Mrs. River will get you situated,” the man said.

“Mrs. River?”

“Housekeeper here at Kingsbrook.”

“And where is Mr. Desmond?” Marianne asked. She was anxious to meet the gentleman, to thank him for his generosity.

“Oh, ‘e’s ‘ere about someplace, I would wager. Let Mrs. River show you around a bit and you’ll ‘ear about it when ‘imself gets in.” Rickers put her belongings down and touched his cap.

“Miss Trenton?” Startled, Marianne turned to face the speaker, a tall, angular woman, who had opened the door. With her hair turning gray at the temples and pulled back into a knot, she was not beautiful, but her face was interesting. Her eyes saw a great deal, Marianne suspected. Her ears heard more than what was said and her mouth spoke the truth. The girl instinctively liked Mrs. River the moment she saw her.

“Miss Trenton, I believe. We have been awaiting your arrival. Will you come in?” Judging from her icy tone, the housekeeper did not reciprocate with her own favorable impression.

“Yes. Thank you,” Marianne mumbled, reaching down for one of her bags.

“Leave them. James will take them up for you.”

Mrs. River turned sideways to allow Marianne to pass, and the girl stepped across the threshold into the dark receiving hall. “Mr. Desmond is…?”

“Mr. Desmond was attending to business this morning. He left instructions to serve tea when you arrived, and said that he would try to be back in time to join you. Tea is ready, Miss Trenton, but perhaps you would like a chance to freshen up first?”

Mrs. River had modified her unfriendly tones so that her voice was now perfectly expressionless. But if her eyes saw a great deal, they revealed certain things, too. Marianne felt a sinking sensation in her stomach at the housekeeper’s unmistakable disapproval of her.

She smiled sweetly, though, at the woman’s offer to freshen herself, and hoped it would mean a cool, damp washcloth—her head still ached a bit from her luncheon wine—and a brush. “I would like very much to wash my face and hands, if I could.”

“Certainly, Miss Trenton. Alice, show Miss Trenton to her rooms and then bring her down to the front sitting room when she is ready,” Mrs. River said, and Marianne was startled to see a maid in a dark skirt with a white cap and white apron suddenly materialize at her elbow.

“Yes, Mrs. River. Will you follow me, miss?” the maid inquired.

Alice led her through the receiving hall, up the stairs and along the balcony. “This is Mr. Desmond’s suite,” she said, clearing her throat. “And these—” she indicated the next door along, facing, like Mr. Desmond’s rooms, the front doors on the ground floor “—are your rooms.”

Rooms?

Indeed, the apartment Alice showed her was almost as large as the little cottage where she had grown up, in which she and her parents had lived comfortably.

“Is this all to be mine?” she gasped. “Am I to be in here—alone, I mean?”

“Well, yes, miss. That is, unless you bring…I mean, until such time as you should care to invite—anyone else in. I did not mean to suggest…” The little maid, barely older than Marianne, stammered uncomfortably, colored brilliantly and finally stopped talking altogether.

Marianne was too overcome by the proportions of her chambers to pay much attention the girl’s confusion. “I was not expecting anything so…grand,” she said softly, looking around her and finally turning wonder-filled eyes on the maid again.

Alice bobbed a curtsy and left her alone, unable to keep from shaking her head slightly as she closed the door. This young woman was not the sort of person she had been expecting, judging from the low-toned conversations between Mrs. River and Mrs. Rawlins she had overheard downstairs in the kitchen.

In her grand apartment, Marianne washed her face in a porcelain bowl, dried her hands on one of the fluffy towels set out in the private washroom, then rearranged her hair with the tortoiseshell brush, part of an elegant set placed in front of the large looking glass. She smiled into the mirror, then drew her face into more serious lines, trying to assume the proper expression of a deserving waif. Before she had the chance to practice her presentation any further, there was a nervous tapping at her door.

“Come in,” she called.

Alice slipped into the room. “He’s come, miss. Mrs. River sent me straight up to bring you. Mr. Desmond doesn’t like to be kept waiting, and in any case, Mrs. River said you would want to see him.”

“Mr. Desmond? By all means,” Marianne said, putting the brush down, smoothing her dress, checking her reflection one last time. At last she was going to meet the kindly old gentleman and have the chance to offer her heartfelt appreciation for his selfless benevolence.

Chapter Two

He was standing in front of one of the tall windows, looking out at the beautiful wild grounds, holding a teacup and saucer in his hand. The juxtaposition of savagery and civilization was curiously duplicated by the gentleman himself.

Mr. Peter Desmond was dressed in an elegant suit of clothing, of meticulous fit and the finest materials. The pants and jacket were so dark a blue as to be almost black, and the crisp white cravat and shirt were as representative of polite society as the delicate bone-china teacup he held.

But when he turned and looked at Marianne, his face and expression were as untamed and breathtaking as the scene outside the window.

He studied her for a moment without speaking. She was standing in a wash of variegated light, where the sun shone through a loosely woven lace curtain. Her traveling suit was of a light tan shade, to camouflage any dust clinging to the skirt or jacket, and with her dark golden hair and wide green eyes, she reminded him of a jungle cat. A young lioness, carefully stepping from the underbrush to suspiciously survey the landscape before her. The scene through the window behind her completed the image, with its suggestion of a tropical forest.

Her bosom rose and fell quickly and she watched him closely, a nervous creature ready to either attack or flee, depending on his next actions. The idea made him smile ever so slightly.

Marianne did not need the position of light and shadow to enhance the impression she got from the man, of a wild beast about to pounce. This was not the kindly older gentleman she had pictured to herself, with snowy white hair and palsied hand waiting to greet her. He was tanned and dark, as muscularly broad as Uncle Horace was narrow. His dark hair was too long, and his eyes, roving deliberately over her person, were a great deal too bold. His nose was straight and would have been prominent on his face if his brows had not been so black or his jawline not so pronounced.

When he turned to her, his black brows were drawn together in a thoughtful frown, almost a glower. In a moment, his fierce expression relaxed ever so slightly, but she did not feel any easier. She felt defenseless and somehow exposed as she stood before him, and the word that came to mind to best describe him was predator.

“Miss Trenton, how good of you to join me.” His voice was soft and low.

“Mr. D-Desmond,” she stammered. After a slight pause she remembered to execute an awkward little curtsy.

His smile deepened. The girl was perfect, just as Carstairs had described her. It was not Desmond’s habit, certainly, to gamble for young women, but doubtless among his varied business ventures Carstairs occasionally made certain “arrangements” between gentlemen visiting in the city and women of…free spirit. Desmond was amused that Carstairs had referred to her as his “ward.”

The proposition had intrigued him.

He had kept himself aloof from his neighbors since taking possession of Kingsbrook and so did not have any friends among the families living near him. When he was here on his estate he found himself virtually isolated from the surrounding community.

He did not regret the fact. He valued his privacy and saw enough of society in London and abroad to sate him. But the house did, on occasion, seem awfully silent, and it had occurred to him that having a woman in his home, in his bed, now and then, would compensate for any lack of ties to the local gentry.

Of course, bringing a mistress to stay with him in Kingsbrook would effectively bar him from any future ties with the local gentry, so just in case he ever wanted to court local favor, he could, as Mr. Carstairs had, present her as his ward. And she looked the part. From the outfit she wore, the style of her hair, even the youthful timbre of her voice, she almost seemed to be a schoolgirl.

“Come in, Miss Trenton. Sit down. Jenny has prepared an excellent tea for us. Let us not allow it to grow cold.” He motioned toward the short divan, and Marianne quickly sat, thankful for the offer to relieve the weight from the uncertain support of her knees.

Unexpectedly, Mr. Desmond joined her, in effect sitting down by her side.

“Tea?”

She nodded.

“Sugar? Milk? I do not see any lemon here. Shall I ring for Mrs. River?”

“Oh, no,” Marianne gasped. “Sugar and milk are fine. I like sugar and milk. I never put lemon in my tea. Well, sometimes I do, but I do not like it as well as sugar. And milk.”

“Sugar and milk it is then,” Desmond said, taking up a lump of sugar with silver tongs and pouring a measure of milk into the cup before passing it to her.

The cup rattled treacherously and Marianne set it down.

“And tell me, Miss Trenton…won’t you have a sandwich? Cress, I believe…how do you like Kingsbrook? Somewhat different from Londontown, is it not?”

Marianne, having taken one of the proffered sandwiches and bitten into it, could only nod.

“But then, that has been my goal. To make this place as unlike any town as possible.”

He smiled at her over his cup, and Marianne swallowed the bite of sandwich, which then became a heavy, solid lump in her throat. She swallowed again. “It appears you have succeeded,” she offered breathlessly at last.

“I hope you will not miss the bustle and noise of London,” Mr. Desmond said, his tone of perfect politeness not calming her nerves at all. “I find Kingsbrook very peaceful, though I suppose some could find the quiet oppressive.”

“Oh, not me, sir. I love the quiet, but then, Mr. Carstairs’s house was not frequented so often that it ‘bustled,’ anyway.”

Marianne gave a wavery smile, but Desmond had looked away. He did not want to hear about Carstairs nor the business that went on in his “house.”

“I see,” he said, choosing one of the tittle cakes from the tray Mrs. River had provided. He held the tray out to Marianne, but she shook her head. The idea of the colored icing mixing with the chewed watercress in her throat nearly made her gag.

“I hope by that you mean you will not find your change of abode too jarring,” Desmond continued, putting the tray down again.

“Not at all,” Marianne said, then, taking a breath, added, “in fact, I have been waiting the opportunity to thank you, Mr. Desmond, for your kindness in bringing me here. Kingsbrook is a lovely place and I shall endeavor to meet your expectations.”

“I am sure you will,” the gentleman said, smiling into her eyes and then allowing his gaze to slip down even farther.

“And you must tell me if there is anything I can do for you,” she offered.

“Oh, you may rely upon that,” he said, with a smile that did not brighten his dark eyes.

Another moment of silence ensued, during which he studied her and she studied her teacup.

“It was a long ride,” she mumbled at last, the only thing she could think of to say. “And warm. Very warm. Rickers warned me it would be warm today when he came this morning. And it was. And still is. Very warm. One does not notice it as much in the shade outside there, and, of course, inside here it is perfectly cool. But the ride itself was warm. And long.”

The dampness at her hairline would have seemed to refute her claim that the house was cool, but it, like her babbling, was a sign of her nervousness.

“Yes, I suppose the ride was exhausting,” the gentleman murmured, directly into her ear, so that his breath tickled the fine hairs at the base of her hairline. “You would probably like to rest and unpack before we get any better acquainted.”

“Yes. I…that would be lovely,” Marianne whispered. But she could still feel his breath on her neck and was not completely clear on what it was that would be lovely.

The gentleman smiled slowly. “Very well,” he said. He stood and offered his hand to assist her to her feet, a gesture that was not entirely superfluous, given her nervous state. “Rest yourself, Miss Trenton, and I will meet you at the supper table tonight.”

He reached behind her, and for one giddy moment Marianne thought he was going to embrace her. Instead, he pulled a cord hanging against the wall, hidden behind the draperies.

Mrs. River answered the summons promptly. “Mr. Desmond? You wished something?” she asked. She had stopped short the moment she entered the room and discovered the gentleman and the young woman in such close proximity, and her voice was decidedly chill.

“Miss Trenton is feeling exhausted after her trip from London. Take her upstairs and have Tilly or Alice draw a bath.”

“Certainly, sir. This way, Miss Trenton.”

Marianne left with Mrs. River, not sure if she would rather be in the company of the unfriendly housekeeper or stay with the unnerving Mr. Desmond. Either way, she suspected that by leaving Uncle Horace’s she had jumped from the frying pan directly into a roaring bonfire.

Following Mrs. River’s brisk orders, Tilly drew a bath, while Alice helped Miss Trenton unpack.

Tilly, the older maid, was a taciturn woman with lined face and dumpy figure. She did not even acknowledge Marianne’s presence. Alice offered her a shy smile when Mrs. River summoned her, but after a look at the housekeeper and her dour expression, the little maid withheld any other friendly overtures. With eyes downcast, she silently took the articles Marianne extracted from her bags.

Marianne regretted the coolness she sensed from the staff. But her rooms were very grand and the bath positively decadent in its luxuriance, and she tried to let her troubled thoughts float away with the fragrant steam. She followed the bath with a much-needed nap.

When Alice knocked on her door to announce dinner at half past eight, Marianne was already carefully dressed and prepared, if she ever would be, to dine with the master of the house.

Alice went ahead of her into the dining room, but passed through the door beyond, which led to the kitchen. Marianne found herself alone.

The long table was covered with white linen and set for two with china, crystal and silver, all shined so flawlessly that she could see the reflected image of her forest green gown as she paced, waiting for the disconcerting gentleman. The dining room was at the back of the house, and lined with long windows just as in the front. Darkness had fallen, and she could also glimpse her reflection in gaps between the imperfectly drawn drapes.

She was wearing one of the few dresses that she had brought from her home when she came to stay with Uncle Horace. As she touched the folds of the skirt, she remembered her mother saying it was too old for her, but that she would grow into it someday. And probably she would, though she had not yet. The sleeves were off her shoulders, the bodice was tight and the neckline dipped provocatively. It was a gown made for a mature figure, though with the aid of pins and tucks, and in the dim light, Marianne’s scant form appeared to fill it adequately.

Finally, after desperate thoughts began to present themselves about being left in here alone all night, or worse, being required to eat by herself at the forbidding table, the double doors to the dining room were thrown open and there stood Mr. Desmond.

“I thought you had forgotten me,” she exclaimed nervously. She had not meant to voice her thoughts, but somehow the words escaped her.

“Miss Trenton. Not at all. The afternoon got away from me, though. I did not even take time to dress for dinner.” He stopped to consider the picture the girl presented in her dark dress in the midst of the room filled with light and sparkle. The green gown called to mind his initial impression of the cat and the jungle. “I see now I should have.”

“Oh, no. You look wonderful.” A dull flush mounted the girl’s cheeks.

“Well, let us continue our admiration of each other over a bowl of soup. I assume you are hungry? I am starved, and I had more to eat at tea than half a cress sandwich.” Mr. Desmond stepped to the table and rang the little silver bell near one of the plates. Evidently his plate.

Mrs. River answered the summons. Marianne had the distinct impression Mr. Desmond’s house and life flowed along so elegantly and effortlessly because of the housekeeper’s careful attention.

“We are hungry, Mrs. River. Convey my apologies to Mrs. Rawlins for being late and see that supper is served immediately, if you will.”

Mrs. River murmured her acknowledgment and left.

Desmond held out a chair, and Marianne sat. A bowl of clear broth with a hint of onions appeared in front of her. She supposed she ate it, because after a while the dish was cleared away, replaced by a plate holding a lean slice of beef and a selection of hot vegetables. She saw Mr. Desmond eating, and she made a conscious effort to choose the same fork he picked up for whatever course was in front of them. But she honestly did not remember eating.

She did not recall anything about that meal except Mr. Desmond’s deepset eyes, which one discovered were dark gray if one was fortunate enough to be very close to him, and his soft, low voice, which was mesmerizing. He spoke of exotic parts of the world, places of which she had never even heard. He recited passages of literature, words full of fire and passion that brought the blood to her face.

The clock struck ten.

He told her she looked bewitching in her gown, with her hair arranged so.

The clock struck eleven.

Five minutes later it struck twelve.

“Listen to the quiet,” Desmond murmured, tilting his head as if he were hearing faint strains of stillness wafting to them on the night air. “The house is so solid it does not even creak in the night. And all the servants have gone to bed. Even Mrs. River. There have been times when I thought Mrs. River did not go to bed at all.” Desmond smiled and rose. “Let us follow their example,” he said, pulling Marianne gently to her feet.

He did not release her hand, but led her through the dim halls and up the darkened staircase. They turned on the landing and started along the balcony overlooking the front hall. Desmond stopped at one of the doors and opened it, drawing her inside. In the darkness, Marianne, being unfamiliar with the house, believed it was her room and stepped across the threshold.

Mr. Desmond followed with the candle, and by the time her senses registered the fact that it was the wrong room, he had closed the door behind them.

“This is not my room,” she told him, still believing he, like she, had made an understandable mistake.

“No, it is my room.”

At last, at long last, far past the time when such a reaction would have been understandable and advisable, Marianne felt the cold stab of panic in her heart.

“I think it will be better this way, do you not agree?” Desmond said, turning to engage the lock on the door. “By this arrangement, you may keep your rooms to yourself, where you can be alone and enjoy your privacy.”

Coolly he began to loosen the buttons of his pants. Horrified, Marianne watched him pull his trousers off completely, exposing long, dark, exceptionally hairy legs.

“Then when we are together,” he continued, speaking as casually as if they were exchanging opinions on the weather in a public salon, “we will be in here. Our rooms are even close enough that you may retire to your bed afterward, if you wish. Though I certainly hope you would choose to spend some nights with me.”

Marianne’s eyes were very large, though in the uncertain light of the single candle, Desmond may not have recognized the fear that filled them. Or perhaps he simply chose to ignore it, or to interpret it as something else. Desire, perhaps.

But it was fear in her eyes, in her mind, in her heart. She took a step away from him, but the distance she put between them was negligible, and without moving, he reached out and grasped her arm, encircling the slender limb with his long fingers. He pulled her against him and was excited to feel her heart pounding in her chest as rapidly as a sparrow’s.

“What—what are you doing?” she gasped, pulling her head back, but unable to free her arms.

He wrapped his own arms around her, holding her head with one hand as he bent toward her.

“I am taking you to paradise, my little fawn,” he murmured as he nuzzled the creamy indentation of her neck and kissed the pink lobe of her ear. “And I absolutely guarantee you will enjoy it more than anything old Carstairs has given you before.”

Suddenly his lips were on hers. For a moment, for a split second, Marianne was lost in the sensual pleasure of their warmth, their moistness, electrified by the feel of his tongue against her lips. His hand at her back, caressing the exposed skin of her shoulder blades, pressed her to him. She was aware of the tense strength of his thigh muscles as he worked his knee between her legs.

But as her legs were forced apart, as he drew his other hand up to the bodice of her dress, her head cleared with the realization of what he was doing, what he was going to do to her. She pulled away, trying to get her arms between them, turning her face away from his kisses.

“No, no!” she gasped.

He stopped his efforts for a moment and looked into her eyes with a puzzled expression.

“Your resistance is not very flattering, my dear. I would not have imagined this was the best way to get ahead in your profession.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered, unable to catch a full breath of air because of his tight embrace.

“I mean, you owe me this. I intend to collect on Carstairs’s wager.”

“Mr. Carstairs’s wager? What wager?”

“The wager he lost and I won. You, Miss Trenton.”

“Me? But I am Mr. Carstairs’s ward,” she gasped.

He smiled. Of course. Rather than being unskilled in her field, the girl was, quite to the contrary, very good. She was acting out her role of “ward.” Delightful.

With no further ado, Desmond picked her up in his arms and carried her to the big, dark, four-poster bed in the middle of the room.

“No…no, you mustn’t!” she cried. “Oh, please, no.”

But Desmond, believing it was all part of her “ward-andguardian” game, ignored her pleas as he pinned her arms with his left hand and with his right loosened the bodice of her dress. The buttons were frustratingly small and he was tempted to rip the material, but he focused his concentration on the little bits of obsidian and at last unhooked them all, without puiling any of them loose.

The dress fell open and he quickly pushed her confining undergarments out of the way.

As he freed her firm, young breasts, he released her arms, meaning to cup the tender morsels to his mouth. But the girl beneath him swung her freed hand, delivering a resounding slap to the side of his face.

Intoxicated by passion, Desmond only flinched in surprise and then chuckled. It was a dark sound, a sound without mercy, and Marianne’s heart clenched tightly.