The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(17)

She snorted.

He bristled. “I don’t.”

“No matter,” she said with a flick of her luxuriant tresses. She pointed behind her once more. “You need to walk down the corridor, past the long-case clock . . .” Her words droned on and on. The husky, almost musical quality to her contralto lulled him to distraction . . .

The earth swayed under his feet yet again and he tumbled into an ignoble heap at the feet of his dagger-wielding, blood-thirsty hellion.

She cursed roundly, the words vulgar enough to make a guard at Newgate’s cheeks burn.

How very refreshing that with all the practiced words and false smiles around him, her response should be so honest. He grinned.

The woman planted her arms akimbo. “Do you find this amusing?”

“Er . . .” Her glare killed the admission on his lips. Either way, he would have chosen entertaining and diverting, and yes, he supposed amusing. Given the turn of events, he did find this whole exchange amusing. Listening to a tart-mouthed, fiery-eyed stranger and her inventive curses was vastly preferable to the thoughts that had driven him to the club.

She nudged him with the tip of her foot and as he tipped his head sideways, his gaze caught on dainty toes. Odd, he’d never before appreciated just how enticing a pair of feet happened to be. He fixed his tired stare on her right foot and the slightly crooked littlest toe. How very endearing . . . that slight imperfection on an otherwise perfect foot.

His eyes grew heavy, even as her melodic words washed over him, lulling him to sleep.





Chapter 4


Rule 4


Never approach a drunken man.

With the exception of her brother, Ryker, his partners, and Clara, the woman responsible for the prostitutes, no one entered the main living quarters of the hall.

Many, nay, nearly all women would have dissolved into a fit of tears or given over to the vapors at coming upon a strange gentleman in her home, but it would take more than a drunken gentleman to rouse fear in Helena Banbury’s breast.

Standing in the main corridor of the Hell and Sin Club’s owner suite, with a too-tall, well-muscled stranger, Ryker’s fourth rule blared around her brain.

Never approach a drunken man.

How many times had those words been impressed into her? If her brother knew she’d been so foolhardy as to investigate the commotion instead of turning the lock and ringing for a servant, he’d build a keep and lock her away in it as he always threatened to do when she was a girl.

Except, Ryker really should have amended the rule to include, “Never approach a well-muscled gentleman more than half a foot taller than oneself.” It put one at an extreme disadvantage.

A bleating snore escaped the same gentleman she’d been studying earlier on the gaming floor. Now thoroughly foxed and graceless, he bore no hint of the commanding, slightly sad figure seated alone at his table. She leaned over, her knife extended out toward him, and then waved the blade in front of his harshly beautiful face. Why . . . why . . . he’d gone and fallen asleep! Here. With the tip of her foot, Helena nudged him in the leg. She frowned when her ineffectual efforts were met with another broken snore. Some of the anxiety slid from her taut frame, as the earlier threat of a drunk, unpredictable stranger lifted. Helena fisted her blade, her gaze inextricably drawn to him. Over the years she’d made it a point to never look at noblemen visiting the clubs, either from her window or the floors when she was permitted to walk about during the day. Those men were treacherous fiends with but one thing on their minds where a woman of her station was concerned.

In the countless rules Ryker had heaped upon her shoulders, most had pertained to the unreliability and depravity of noblemen who believed women existed as nothing more than as diversions from their staid, proper lives. Avoid their attention at all costs. The lesson she’d learned at her brokenhearted mother’s side had been lesson enough.

Or apparently not, given her unwitting fascination with this particular stranger. It was just . . . She chewed the inside of her cheek.

She stole a nervous glance about. There was no harm in simply looking at the lofty lord. Especially if that same lofty lord in his passed-out, inebriated state remained wholly unaware. She took a step closer to study him.

This stranger, however, in his immaculate black coat and crisp white cravat had the mesmerizing look of no other man she’d ever before seen. Granted, her exposure to the world was rather limited, but this inexplicable pull held her enthralled. Perhaps it was the halo of unfashionably long, golden strands or the firm, unyielding jaw gentled just the slightest bit by a faint cleft at the center of his chin.

Blade held protectively close, Helena carefully lowered herself to the floor, and continued her examination. With his blond, golden lashes and the sculpted quality of his sharp features, he was far more beautiful than any man had a right to be.

She swallowed hard, and stole another look about. If she were discovered, her brothers would commit her to Bedlam for her folly in remaining at a drunken nobleman’s side. Except she was riveted, transfixed by the glorious golden perfection of him. Her heart hammering wildly, she returned her attention to the stranger and gasped as his eyes flew open, and he smiled.

Butterflies danced riotously inside her stomach. Where was the proper fear and wariness? She’d long prided herself on being logical and practical in all matters.

For . . . with the previous distance between them in the darkened room, their color had eluded her. Endless blue. The color she imagined a countryside summer sky to be. Not that she’d ever been outside the dark, grimy streets of London. Nor likely would ever be, to verify such ponderings. But in her mind, she imagined the country to be different . . . and have the look of . . . this stranger’s eyes.