The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(38)

The widow opened and closed her mouth, and then a full-sounding laugh spilled past her lips. “You jest.” She shot her fingers out, and rubbed him through the front of his breeches. “I have even more important business to discuss.” Lady Danvers dropped to her knees, all the while toying with the placket at the front of his pants.

A sound that had the hint of disgust emerged from within those curtains and Robert shot his gaze across the room. And he, who’d believed himself long past blushing, felt a dull flush climb his neck. He staggered back a step, removing the baroness’s determined hands from his person, and jerked the lady to her feet. “I am afraid our meeting will have to wait until another time, Baroness.”

His almost lover pursed her lips and in that moment there was nothing remotely pretty or pleasing about her pinched features. “You might find I’m a good deal less obliging after this, my lord,” she snapped.

“My apologies,” he murmured, and on a huff, the baroness sailed to the front of the room, and took her leave in a magnificent show of fury. She slammed the door in her wake with such force it shook the foundations.

Robert took three long strides, and again turned the lock. With a healthy dose of aggravation, he turned around and folded his arms. “You may come out, my lady.”

For a long moment, the curtains remained still. He peered for the interloper who’d gone and ruined his bloody enjoyment. Another wave of frustration stirred. “Or . . .” He stretched that one word out in slow, lazy tones. “Are you waiting until your mama arrives before flinging yourself into my arms? I am afraid if those are your intentions, my lady, then your efforts are wasted.” Though in fairness, a prickle of apprehension burned his neck. For in his bid to gather her identity, he may very well have stepped neatly into her trap.

The young lady shoved aside the gold brocade and stepped out. Robert squinted in the dark, as something pulled at the edge of his thoughts. There was something familiar about the figure who stood, partially cloaked in shadows. Who is she? “I assure you, my lord,” she said sardonically, “the last thing I wish, want, or would ever do is bind myself to one such as you.”

Robert blinked, her voice hauntingly familiar. And the stranger’s spirited reaction brought him back to another woman. Another night. Inside a gaming hell. I don’t care if you are a duke or prince or the King of England . . . He gave his head a hard shake. Impossible. He’d apparently had more champagne than he recalled. It was the only thing to account for seeing the minx who’d captivated him inside a gaming hell . . . inside an earl’s parlor. Suddenly, tired of being toyed with like a mouse caught between the cat’s paws, his patience snapped. “Madam, have I done something to offend you?” he demanded tightly.

“Indeed, you’ve done far more than that,” she bit out as she strode forward, and with each step that brought her closer, the sense of familiarity strengthened, until she stood before him. Taller than most, clad in pale yellow satin, the woman had the look and tones of a lady. However, with the space now gone between them, he took in the detail that had escaped him—the large scar down the right corner of her cheek. The air left him on a whoosh. “You.” How had Ryker Black’s mistress come to be here now? Questions spun wildly inside his mind.

“I see you at last have placed me,” she said dryly. “I must say, I am impressed, my lord. I expected you’d less familiarity with scarred ladies.” Her lip peeled back in a sneer. “Or mayhap it was me whom you forgot, altogether?” Had those words been uttered by any other woman, there would have been a coy search for platitudes and assurances. From this one, there was nothing but an admonishment, lined with disgust.

“I did not forget you,” he said, a muscle jumping at the corner of his eye. No sane man would ever lose the memory of her lips, and the satiny softness of her skin. Desire slammed into him.

“It matters not,” she said with a cool indifference that effectively doused his ardor. “Though I don’t expect one who ruins women, and meets married ladies in his host’s home, has much honor. I expect you have, at the very least, some.”

Fury ran through him, and he compressed his lips into a hard line. “Are you calling into question my honor, ma’am?” he demanded in terse ducal tones his grandfather would have been impressed by.

The woman snorted. “I expect if you cannot tell that I am, then I should also call into question your intelligence.”

“Furthermore,” he bit out. “She was a widow.” Vastly different than a married woman, whom Robert decidedly did not dally with.

“Ah, that makes your clandestine meeting here all the more . . . honorable?” she sneered.

Robert narrowed his eyes when the woman tugged off her white gloves and beat them together, bringing his eyes to her long fingers and the marks at the top of her hands. The stinging rebuke died on his lips as he fixed on those scars.

Following his gaze, she colored and hurriedly yanked on her gloves, concealing her hands once more.

“Helena from the club,” he said, with wry disbelief, still marveling through her sudden reentrance in his life.

She pursed her lips, and said nothing.

Arms still folded, Robert drummed his fingertips on his sleeve. How did one of the whores at the Hell and Sin Club come to be here in the Earl of Sinclair’s ballroom? The man must be dafter than the late King George himself to have let a woman with Helena’s spirit go.