The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(37)

Floorboards creaked, and he froze, glancing about. Shadows cast by the lit sconces flickered off the walls in an ominous dance. He skimmed his gaze up and down the earl’s corridors. When a distant footfall reached his ear, decidedly not of the female persuasion, Robert silently cursed, and hurried inside the nearest room, closing the door quickly and quietly behind him.

Silence hummed loudly in the empty parlor and he stared at the wood panel of the oak door until the heavy footsteps passed. Then continued waiting, unmoving, even longer.

A frown pulled at his lips. After his near wedding to Lucy Whitman and her betrayal at his grandfather’s hands, Robert had committed himself to a carefree, roguish existence. One in which he’d quite taken his pleasure. There were no risks of entangled hearts or too-powerful emotion. His heart was safe and his mind clear in terms of his expectations for and of all women.

Still, hiding behind a parlor door the way he had so many times over the past twelve years, a certain restlessness surged through him. Ennui and frustration rolled together at the remarkable sameness of that existence. On the heel of that came his father’s admonishment from months ago, chiding Robert for being like every other lord. At the time, he’d been filled with a seething resentment for his father having lied about his impending death, all with the purpose of forcing Robert’s proverbial hand.

Now, perhaps it was the quiet of the empty room, with the near-discovery moments earlier, but there was something so very . . . hollow about these clandestine meetings. He slowly grinned. Not that he would be in the habit of failing to honor said clandestine meetings. He was bored by life but he still rather enjoyed the pleasure of a woman in his arms. And women had proven with their breathless cries and soft, pliant bodies that they were just as eager.

Consulting his timepiece, Robert squinted, bringing the numbers into focus. He was late. Quickly stuffing the gold watch fob inside his jacket, he slowly opened the door and stepped outside. A cursory search revealed nothing but empty halls and still-dancing shadows. Quickening his step, Robert turned on his heel and continued on.

It was preposterous to believe an unkind stare could be fixed on him. He didn’t have an enemy in the world. He frowned. At least, not one he could identify on his fingers, or in any other sense. Nor did he have to worry about an irate husband. The doddering letch Baroness Danvers had the ill fortune of marrying some years ago had made her a widow in short order.

A memory trickled in of a cursing, furious bed-partner whose room he’d unwittingly stumbled into. His grin widened. Given his near-discovery by the ruthless club owners, he’d taken care to avoid that particular hell. There was still the matter of the knife in his possession belonging to that enchantress, but Robert’s affinity for his neck, and the whole living business, far exceeded any sense of honor for a woman who’d threatened to spill his guts.

Yes, he far preferred his women pliant, welcoming, and not at all shrewish. As such, the baroness made the perfect lover.

Reaching the end of the corridor, Robert came to a stop at the last door and pushed it open.

“You are late, Lord Westfield.” The baroness’s seductive purr sounded from deep inside the room. The lady moved in a noisy whir of satin skirts, stopping at the center of the room.

With a lazy grin, Robert shoved the door closed behind him and turned the lock. “Baroness,” he greeted. With a lush décolletage spilling indecently over the scandalous neckline, she had the look of a fertility goddess. He ran his gaze over her dampened gold skirts. Generous hips and equally generous buttocks, she, with her midnight curls and rouged red lips, fit within all the desirous musings of a healthy gentleman. So, why in this instance, did he feel this . . . ennui?

The small, well-rounded widow sauntered forward. “Do you like what you see?” Her sultry whisper wrapped around him.

Battling down his restlessness, he forced himself to look her over appreciatively. “Indeed,” he drawled, and a teasing smile played on her lips as she stopped before him.

“Are you bored, perhaps?” The promise in her words traveled to his ears.

“And if I said yes?” He brushed his hand over the generous swell of flesh spilling out of her gown, and the lady’s lids fluttered as she swayed closer.

“Then I would say I can think of all number of amusements to help with that, my lord.” She layered herself against him and twined her hands like ivy about his neck, bringing his mouth down to hers.

By the force of her kiss, and the fingers she roved along his back, the lady was an inventive piece who commanded his attention. Or she should. Yet, as he returned her embrace, the sense of being watched froze him.

As he distractedly trailed his lips down her neck, Robert opened his eyes and looked about the room for . . .

From within the thick, gold brocade curtains, a pair of furious, and most decidedly unfriendly, eyes met his.

Robert stiffened. Long ago he’d enjoyed the thrill of performing for wicked voyeurs. He’d not for some many years now. Even so . . . the faint flesh of pale fabric and the lady’s flared eyes hinted at an innocent, and the distance between them did little to conceal the spark of antipathy that lit her eyes. Then she disappeared behind the thick curtains.

All desire died a rapid death. Robert drew back.

“My lord?” the baroness whispered, blinking wildly at the sudden loss of his attentions.

“There is . . . business I’ve only just until now recalled.” Which was not untrue. One thing was certain; he’d little intention of being trapped by an innocent hiding in the curtains. And the sooner he had the identity of the little schemer, the safer he’d be from being trapped by that one.