The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(20)

She pressed her fingers to her swollen mouth, tamping down a groan. He’d kissed her. Helena slapped her palms over her face. How had she failed to lock her door? That rule had been the simplest of all the bloody rules laid out by Ryker. Pressure built behind her eyes as she tried to dredge up details of what had transpired after she’d finally managed to find sleep. She’d been so distracted by her encounter with the tall, golden-haired devil in the corridor, she’d not taken all of the one second it would have required to lock the door. She rubbed the points at her temples in a vain attempt to wake from this horrific nightmare. To no avail. Sickening waves of nausea slammed into her as she tried to sort out that which had been a dream and what was, in fact, her reality.

And if he’d kissed her . . . Her jumbled thoughts skidded to a stop, and then picked up at a frantic pace. Oh, God. Her body still burned with the memory of the handsome stranger’s touch. What if she’d wantonly turned over her virginity to the golden-haired lord? What if in her slumber, somewhere between dream and fantasy, she’d made love with him?

Helena set her teeth hard in her lower lip. Having guarded her virtue when most children and women in the streets were robbed early on of that gift, surely she’d know if she was now without? One of the girls employed by Ryker had taken the liberty of answering the questions Helena once had about what occurred in the rooms rented by the powerful peers. Determined to maintain her freedom and safety, Helena had resolved to never marry. As such, she had not really given much thought on that long-ago lesson. Now she wished she had. She quickly ran through all the words imparted that day. There had been talk of pain and discomfort and bleeding, even during that first encounter. She shifted her buttocks, moving her legs experimentally. There was no pain.

Lifting the sheet ever so slightly, she glanced about for any hint of crimson stains. Instead . . . she gulped, her eyes landing on the broad, naked chest of her bed-partner. Coils of golden hair upon a muscular canvas. Her mouth went dry and she searched desperately for the far safer panic and fury. Instead, her curious eyes wandered downward.

He still wore breeches.

Grateful for small measures, Helena cast a prayer skyward.

The gentleman at her side let out another bleating snore and she jumped. He flung an arm across her stomach, effectively trapping her. His touch penetrated the thin fabric of her nightshift.

With panic wildly spiraling, she tried to lift his muscled arm from her person, but he may as well have been carved of iron.

If she could manage to quickly dress and escape, then none would be the wiser to the fact that she’d spent the night with this man. With her parentage and upbringing, she would never be a respected lady, but she had her virtue and that meant something in her world, where girls tossed away their virginity for some coin and a hot meal. She pressed the backs of her hands against her eyes. Or she had, until last evening. Panic grew in her breast, suffocating.

Renewing her wiggling, Helena managed to scoot out from under his arm. Free of his hold, she stopped. Holding her breath, she stole another glance at the stranger.

His thick, blond lashes fluttered, lashes that no man should have the good fortune to possess. He turned his head on the pillow and their gazes collided.

A lazy grin played on his firm lips. “You,” he said, his voice hoarse, and then he promptly winced.

No doubt alcohol had left him with the deuced awful headache. Good, the bloody bugger.

And because he had a grin as wide as the cat who’d caught the kitchen mouse, she hissed, “You bastard.” How dare he look so . . . so . . . pleased with himself.

His grin fell, and he blinked several times.

Helena snapped her eyebrows into a line. Did he believe she would be thrilled by his presence in her bed? The arrogance of these nobles. She opened her mouth to blister his ears.

“What are you doing in my rooms?” he asked, his voice gravelly. “Not that I’m complaining or ungrateful.” He winked.

Winked.

Winked?

As though she were some kind of Covent Garden doxy. “Did you wink at me?” Her hushed whisper shook with fury.

“I—”

Not wanting another one of his smug words or smiles, she used the full force of her body to shove him over the side of the bed. She panted heavily, out of breath from her exertions, rewarded a moment later as he landed with a loud thump.

He grunted, and then fell silent.

Gripping the edge of the mattress, she pulled herself over to glance down. Not taking her gaze from him, she fished around the edge of her bed for the handle of her dagger. Relief surged through her as her fingers met the reassuring cool of the steel blade.

“You certainly didn’t need to enter my rooms if you didn’t desire my attentions,” he drawled in that gruff, lazy baritone that ran warm over her.

“Your rooms?” she squawked. With stiff, jerky movements, she leapt off the bed and kicked him in the shins. “You, sir, entered mine.” She should have called for the guards last evening. Foolishly she’d believed the problem of the wandering stranger ended when she’d pointed him on his way, and then disappeared down the opposite hall.

So many mistakes. Too many of them.

The gentleman swiped his hands over his eyes. “Impossible,” he muttered, those clipped, precise tones, a testament to his birth, sending outrage spiraling all the more.

In a world where you possessed nothing more valuable than your word, this man would throw into question her honor? “I am not a liar,” she bit out, and kicked him again, this time in the lower portion of his well-muscled stomach. Who knew noblemen were so expertly sculpted in that region?