An Indecent Wager Read online

  Her heart throbbed with excitement and fear. Thriving in a gaming hell necessitated the constant assessment of character, and her instincts gave no alarm with Lord Rockwell. She wanted to place herself in his hands, but she barely knew the man. And yet she had never felt more at ease in a man’s company.

  A hundred pounds. It was too grand a sum not to take the risk.

  “Very well, Lord Rockwell, I accept.”

  His smile reached his eyes and she sensed her relief reflected also in him.

  “I promise you will not rue the hand you lost at vingt-et-un.”

  He led her to a mirror and stood once more behind her. It was most disconcerting for she knew not what he would do, nor could she read his countenance.

  “Tell me what arouses you,” he instructed as his hand brushed the skin above the back of her bodice.

  “You are most forward, Lord Rockwell, and I have no intention of giving you any assistance in winning your wager.”

  She saw his smile in the mirror.

  “Touché. I will discern the answer nonetheless.”

  He began to unbutton her gown.

  Dialogue could prove a good distraction, she decided. “How many women have you entertained in this chamber of yours?”

  The answer should dampen her lust.

  “You are most forward, Miss Herwood.”

  She could not help a grin at his response.

  “I have not kept count.”

  “Several?”

  “Define ‘several’.”

  He eased the top of her gown down her arms. It pooled at her feet. She watched in the mirror as he untied her petticoats next.

  “Four or more?”

  “Or more, certainly.”

  The petticoats fell to the ground. She blushed at the sight of herself in stays and shift. He began to unlace her stays without effort.

  “Should not a man of your stature be seeking a wife instead of indulging in prurient interests?” she asked, averting her eyes from the mirror.

  “Should not a woman of your situation be seeking a husband instead of gambling at a gaming hell?” he returned.

  She bristled. “I asked first.”

  “A wife is easy enough to attain. I see no reason to rush.”

  How she wished she could claim the same of a husband!

  “I am earning my dowry, if you will, at the gaming hell.”

  Clever response, she praised herself.

  “You require a husband with funds, not a man in search of a dowry.”

  She pursed her lips at his obvious statement, which made quick work of her smugness.

  “It is no easy matter to find a man with funds and possessing a decent character.”

  “Especially in a gaming hell.”

  Their dialogue was proving quite effective, for now anger trumped all that she felt. To her surprise, tears threatened. She was well aware that her current finances necessitated her spending time in a gaming hell, which dimmed her marital prospects and future security.

  “You see the irony of my situation then,” she replied with an edge. “I have not the fortune to have been born into the ton or with a bounty of assets at my disposal.”

  The stays dropped from her.

  “I beg to differ,” Rockwell said.

  She saw herself wearing only her chemise, stockings and garters.

  He slid the sleeve of the shift down a shoulder and kissed her there. “You have remarkable assets.”

  He gripped the flimsy fabric and tore it in twain down the front, exposing her breasts, her abdomen, her pelvis. She gasped and stared at the mirror in shock. Modesty finally set in and she looked away. As if his words had not riled her enough, he had to destroy her shift as well?

  “I will compensate you for your loss, but look in the mirror, Deana.”

  She should chastise him for the familiar use of her name, but she fixed her concentration upon the ground.

  “Look,” he ordered in a tone she found difficult to disobey.

  She moved her gaze to the mirror.

  “You are lovely.”

  He pulled the torn garment from her and circled his arms around to cup her breasts.

  “In addition to many other fine attributes in your possession,” he continued.

  He tugged at her nipples and all her anger dissipated, replaced with a poignant need. She looked away once more, but he took her chin and directed her to the mirror.

  “Look at yourself,” he commanded.

  She raised her eyes.

  “I am no poet,” he said, “or I could speak eloquently of these.”

  Once more he fondled her breasts. Desire warmed in her loins despite the awkwardness of having to look upon her own nakedness.

  “And these.”

  His hands dropped to her hips.

  “And this.”

  One hand reached the triangle of hair at her groin. How delicious his warm, strong hands felt upon her body…

  A hundred pounds, she reminded herself.

  “You have the body of a goddess.”

  His voice was a caress as powerful as his touch.

  “That of lithe Artemis,” he continued, “or Athena.”

  He took both her hands in his and guided them to her breasts and over her belly. He moved their right hands between her thighs. She gasped. She was touching herself in front of him! He stroked her flesh through her fingers. His left hand moved hers back to a breast, palming the mound, rolling it over her chest. She needed to escape the assault of sensations but tried not to squirm. He began strumming against her flesh, bumping her fingers into herself. She squeezed her thighs together to limit the movements but he managed to push her forefinger into her wet heat.

  Dear God, he’s making me frig myself. She was both aroused and flustered. He lifted his head to see her countenance. The flash in his eyes made her heart thump even more. He pushed her finger deeper inside her while he pressed his thumb upon her clit. Gradually he increased the motions of both hands. Her head fell against his shoulder at the onslaught. She could look no more. Wonderful sensations brewed and ricocheted inside her.

  A hundred pounds. A hundred pounds. A hundred pounds.

  “Do not move,” he said, withdrawing his hands.

  She saw herself in the mirror, one hand upon her breast, the other buried between her legs. Her flesh throbbed about her finger. When he stepped away to retrieve something, she pulled out of herself and covered herself.

  “You moved,” he scolded upon his return.

  The darkness of his tone quickened her pulse. A threat lay beneath his words. She saw he held a length of rope. What was that for?

  “And I have yet to punish you, Miss Herwood, for your first indiscretion.”

  She could barely speak but managed to croak, “My lord?”

  “I specifically told you not to come inebriated.”

  She felt like a chastened child but retorted, “I forget you are accustomed to women doing all that you bid.”

  He pulled the rope taut between his hands and sauntered over to the bed. “By all means, contravene me at every turn. I shall have as little qualm in administering punishment as I do pleasure. Come here.”

  After some hesitation, she complied, praying that she would not regret her decision to place all trust in him. With the servants asleep, there would be no one to come to her rescue should she need it. She doubted they would hear her screams through the door and down into the servants’ quarters.

  He positioned her before one of the bedposts and, pulling her arms up, tied her wrists above her to the post. Her heart beat rapidly. Did he intend her harm? Her intuition had never suggested the possibility to her, but why would he bind her to the bed?

  “Is this necessary?” she asked, testing the bonds to see if she could escape if needed. They held fast.

  “I find the placement of one’s hands to be an unnecessary distraction,” he replied, stepping back to look her over. “You may attend your enjoyment better this way.”

  He cradled a breast, then kneaded the flesh. He passed a thumb over the nipple, causing it to harden further. She shivered.

  “And it permits me complete freedom to have my way with you,” he finished.

  She was about to protest the necessity of being tied to the bed when his mouth covered her nipple, dashing all words from her. The wet warmth encasing the sensitive bud sent her senses reeling. He sucked, taking her breath as well and sending flutters from her bosom to her loins. For several minutes he toyed with the nipple—licking, tugging, nipping. Closing her eyes, she tried not to let the sensations overhwlem her. She squirmed against the bedpost and was now partially glad that he had bound her hands for she knew not whether she wanted to push him away or pull him closer.

  When he stopped, she opened her eyes to find him assessing her. Her gaze caught in his, she sensed she could have been prey he intended to devour. His mouth descended upon hers. She could do nothing but submit to his ferocious kiss and understood then why he had wanted her sober—that she could appreciate every maddening sensation. When he released her from his kiss, she felt as if a fine wine had been dashed from her lips. She wanted more, wanted his tongue to continue probing her depths.

  But a hundred pounds was at stake, she reminded herself and did her best to quell her nerves.

  “You are quite delectable, Miss Herwood,” he murmured as a hand slipped between her legs to her wetness. She groaned. He teased and tormented that traitorous nub of desire there. Despite her efforts to resist, she felt the arousal intensifying, felt herself growing hotter and wetter. She shifted, against both the constraints of the rope and the ache emanating from within.

  With his free hand, he attended her other breast, groping her, pinching the nipple. Her breath grew erratic as she writhed ben
eath his dual ministrations and the beautiful agony they created.

  “Please,” she mumbled after he had withdrawn his hands.

  “Miss Herwood?”

  Remembering their wager, she stopped herself from asking him to continue.

  “Do you desire me to continue?” he inquired, his hand softly brushing the top of her thigh.

  She could not think properly when he caressed her there, tantalizing close to where he had been touching her before. Of course she wanted him to continue—not to continue, that is.

  His hand returned to the heat between her thighs. He strummed his fingers along her.

  “Do you desire this?” he asked before slowing to a stop.

  “Pray continue,” she mumbled.

  Silence.

  Was he reveling in his victory? Glancing down, she saw the bulge at his crotch. Perhaps she was not the only one fighting back urges.

  He resumed his stroking, stoking the tension in her loins. Lubricated by her wetness, his hand created a delicious friction against her. She could not ignore the heat engulfing her body, the blood pumping in her veins. The odds of her winning the hundred quid were no longer in her favor. Her body craved to be led up to the precipice over which she would find release.

  Dear God. Shutting her eyes, she tried to pretend the exquisiteness waving through her body were not hers. She was elsewhere. This woman at the mercy of Lord Rockwell, this woman bound and fondled was not her. Think of something inane!

  Her mind went briefly to her aunts recounting their walks through Hyde Park, whom they saw, what was worn by those they saw, whom they didn’t see…

  She should not have asked him to continue! She cursed to herself. A hundred pounds…

  As she warred with herself, he undid the rope. She had not realized how sore her arms were till they fell to her sides. Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her to the bed. He lay her on her stomach over a stack of pillows.

  She heard the rustle of his clothes being shed and remembered how inviting his chest had looked beneath his shirt. Twisting her head, she looked behind herself to see his desire spring from his pants. Thick and hard, it was a beautiful member. She wanted it, needed it to tame the heat inside her.

  No, that will not do! She needed to prevail with this wager. She forced her mind to consider the soreness in her arms and how unsettling it was to have her most intimate parts fully exposed and at his mercy.

  And yet there was something quite titillating, exhilarating and seductive in submitting to Lord Rockwell.

  He encased his cock with a protective sheath. Partaking of her wetness, he rubbed it upon the covering and looked at her. The dark hunger in his eyes made her quim throb. She straightened her head and took a deep breath. When his erection grazed her, she gasped in delight. He sawed his erection between her legs. Back and forth. Back and forth. As pleasurable as the action was, she wanted more.

  Take me, she nearly shouted.

  As if reading her mind, he plunged himself into her. How marvelous he felt inside her. She would have savored the sensation longer but her arousal, brought to a famished height, was impatient for more. Her hips moved of their own volition. He moved his own in rhythm to hers until he was thrusting deeper and deeper into her. She moaned her appreciation. Yes…

  No.

  She managed to calm her hips. With her mind she tried to extinguish the fire consuming her. The effort made her feel as if her body would twist itself inside out.

  He reached around her and pinched a nipple. The sensation shot straight to her quim. He continued his thrusting and circled his hand around her hip for her clitoris, stroking the engorged nub as he pumped in and out of her.

  No, no, no…yes…no…yes!

  Desire vibrated with unbearable intensity within her. The tide pushed against her now meager wall of resistance and her body shattered into a thousand pieces. She cried out as the waves washed over her. Spasms rippled through her limbs, jerking her against him. She vaguely heard him grunt and felt his thrusts quicken before he fell atop her, his weight pushing her into the pillows. They lay, their bodies still joined, taking in air as they sank back to earth.

  * * * * *

  A full sennight had passed since her visit with Lord Rockwell and still her cheeks flushed when she recalled their assignation. For days she could not sit without feeling the flogger upon her arse.

  Applying a balm to the affected area, he had murmured, “Well done, Miss Herwood.”

  Despite having lost the wager, she had felt quite satisfied with herself. She had not required her safety word. Her body had been pushed to limits she had never thought possible. The whole experience had been unworldly.

  With tenderness, he had removed her bonds and rubbed her sore arms as she lay against him, her body spent. And that too proved pleasurable. She would have been content to fall asleep in his arms but for the need to return before the household awoke. He had attended to her toilette with the air of a gentleman, notwithstanding what he had just done to her.

  “I presume my debt to be disposed of?” she had inquired before departing.

  His eyes had glimmered. “Indeed.”

  “Then I bid you good evening—or good day, rather.”

  “Good day, Miss Herwood.”

  He had lifted her hand to his lips. The kiss had sent the embers of desire flaring and she would have been tempted to stay if he had asked her to.

  “Oh that I could have a new ribbon for my bonnet. This one has lost its color and is more white than pink.”

  Her aunt’s voice broke into her reverie.

  Deana studied the petticoat she was mending for the fourth time. Perhaps she should have tried harder to win the hundred pounds from Lord Rockwell. She would not have minded another hand at cards with the man—and she was unsure whether she would prefer to win or lose against him.

  She looked outside the drawing room window at the setting sun. It was almost the time when she would make her way to the gaming hell. The first few days she had looked for Rockwell often but he had not appeared. She could not help some disappointment at first. But why would a man like him seek her out again? He owed her nothing, not even a letter. They had said their farewell.

  So she ought to turn her mind toward her customary pursuits and the constant goal of winning enough at cards to pay for the food upon their table. Her encounter with Lord Rockwell would be relegated to the past, an isolated exchange but one she would not look back upon without fondness.

  “Dear, I hope it not be the creditors,” her mother bemoaned.

  Engrossed in her thoughts, Deana had not heard the knock at the door. She put down her sewing.

  “I shall see to it.”

  She opened the door to a messenger holding a brown paper package.

  “For Miss Herwood,” the young man said.

  Looking at her name upon the package, her heartbeat quickened. She recognized the hand. After thanking the boy, she quickly stole upstairs. In the privacy of her room, she carefully untied the string. She peeled back the wrapping and, lying in the middle of red and orange silks was a familiar ivory elephant with ruby eyes. Heart pounding, she picked it up gently. Beneath the elephant lay a simple note.

  For a most pleasurable evening.

  Smiling, she returned the elephant tenderly to the silk. A pleasurable evening indeed. Losing a hand at cards had never proved more delightful.

  ###

  Excerpt from

  THAT WICKED HARLOT

  By Georgette Brown

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN wrapped in the arms of Radcliff M. Barrington, the fourth Baron Broadmoor, sighed into a wide smile as she nestled her body between his nakedness and the bed sheets. Gazing down at Lady Penelope Robbins, his mistress of nearly a twelvemonth, Broadmoor allowed her a moment to indulge in the afterglow of her third orgasm though he had yet to satisfy his own hardened arousal. He brushed his lips against her brow and happened to glance toward the corner of her bed chamber, where a man’s waistcoat was draped over the back of a chair. He did not recognize it as his own. The fineness of the garment suggested that neither did it belong to one of her male servants.

  Penelope was entertaining another lover, he concluded even as she murmured compliments regarding his skills as a lover. The realization came as no surprise to him. Indeed, he had suspected for some time. What surprised him was that he cared not overmuch. Nor had he the faintest curiosity as to who her other lover might be. He wondered, idly rather than seriously, why he continued to seek her company. Or she his. They had very little in common. He knew that from the start and yet had allowed her to seduce him into her bed.