The Wager

He smiled. Of course. Rather than being unskilled in her field, the girl was, quite to the contrary, very good. She was acting out her role of “ward.” Delightful.

With no further ado, Desmond picked her up in his arms and carried her to the big, dark, four-poster bed in the middle of the room.

“No…no, you mustn’t!” she cried. “Oh, please, no.”

But Desmond, believing it was all part of her “ward-andguardian” game, ignored her pleas as he pinned her arms with his left hand and with his right loosened the bodice of her dress. The buttons were frustratingly small and he was tempted to rip the material, but he focused his concentration on the little bits of obsidian and at last unhooked them all, without puiling any of them loose.

The dress fell open and he quickly pushed her confining undergarments out of the way.

As he freed her firm, young breasts, he released her arms, meaning to cup the tender morsels to his mouth. But the girl beneath him swung her freed hand, delivering a resounding slap to the side of his face.

Intoxicated by passion, Desmond only flinched in surprise and then chuckled. It was a dark sound, a sound without mercy, and Marianne’s heart clenched tightly.

“You are a little spitfire, are you not?” he said with a laugh.

He captured her hands again and started to pull at the material of her skirts and petticoats. He had expected cooperation, but the girl was very good, determined to make it exciting for him.

Her gown was like a maze. He would work his hand under one length of material only to find another blocking his path. But at last his fingers touched the smooth skin of her thigh, warm and yielding. He rubbed the inside of her leg delicately, trailing his palm over the silky skin, pushing aside confining undergarments here, as well. He nuzzled her exposed bosom, taking the tender mounds into his mouth.

By now he had raised all her skirts and petticoats out of the way. He was excited to feel the smooth, cool length of her bare legs against his own. He pushed his thigh between hers and began to rock gently.

At any moment she would begin to relax and respond. She would move beneath him, shifting to accommodate him. They would push against each other, the heat building between them, until they melted into one another.

With his lips against her ivory skin, he moaned softly, lost in the smell and feel of her. He expected to hear a soft murmur from her in response.

But she did not give voice to her passion. The form beneath him did not relax, did not move to accommodate him. She remained cold and stiff. She might have been petrified. And then he noticed a hitch in the rise and fall of her chest against his mouth.

He freed his hand from the intricacies of her undergarments and raised himself to look into her face.

Tears were streaming from under her clenched eyelids, wetting the hair at her temples and the pillow under her head. Her lips moved, and in the sudden stillness in the room he heard her murmur, “Please, no. Oh, dear Lord, please do not let him do this to me. Please, no.”

He released her hands and rolled off of her, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He glanced behind him and pushed his fingers through the wild tangle of his hair.

What did she mean by this? What was happening? This was not what Carstairs had promised him.

Desmond took a breath and told himself to think. His breathing became deeper and slower, as the fire in his loins cooled. What exactly had Carstairs promised him? The man had offered him his “ward.” His ward? Was it possible…?

“Marianne?” he said at last, very softly.

The girl did not open her eyes, but her lips stopped moving.

“How old are you, Marianne?” he asked.

There was a long pause, during which the girl hiccupped and Desmond gently smoothed away the tears on one of her cheeks with his thumb.

“Sixteen,” she whispered.

Sixteen? Was she as young as that? He studied her unlined face.

There was no question. He had been a blind fool.

“And you…you have nevei done this before, have you?”

She shook her head.

Desmond withdrew his hand from her face, almost expecting to see her cheek stained by his touch. He was suddenly filled with a great revulsion. A revulsion for Carstairs, who had delivered the young woman to him, fully aware of her probable fate. The wager had been offered and accepted with a mutual understanding as to what they were playing for.

But he also felt revulsion for himself. Carstairs was a pig, but what was he?

It was very silent for two or three minutes. The girl’s tears had ceased, though her sobs occasionally shook the mattress.

Desmond appeared to be completely lost in thought, totally unaware of the girl, but in fact he was consumed by thoughts of her, considering what her life must have been like, wondering what had brought her to this place tonight and where the path on which Carstairs had planted her would eventually lead her. If this was her first time, Carstairs must not have tried this ploy before. But since his wager had been accepted once, it would be again. Probably often. Until she was no longer worth the bet. Even though Desmond would not touch the girl again, if he sent her back he would be delivering her straight into a life of prostitution, into the the jaws of hell. He would be no better than Carstairs.

He grimaced. He was no better than Carstairs now, for he had brought her here expecting to collect his “winnings.”

“Mr. Desmond?” the girl whispered.

Desmond started in surprise and turned to look at her.

Her eyes were open, red rimmed and swollen, focused on him with an expression Desmond would have thought only executioners saw in the eyes of the condemned.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

“What?”

“Is it over? Can I go back to my room?”

“Yes. Go. Go,” he said hoarsely, turning his face so he would not have to watch her struggle from the bed.

She rolled to her side and swung her legs toward the edge. She had to work her way across the wide mattress before she could reach the floor, but at last she stood. Aware of the man on the bed behind her but not daring to look in his direction, she pushed her skirts down self-consciously and fumbled to refasten the bodice of her dress.

With slumped shoulders and heavy tread, she walked to the door and struggled to release the lock. He could not help raising his eyes to watch her when a relieved sigh signaled that she had finally succeeded. He saw her pull open the door of his room. Before stepping out into the hallway, she pushed the hair back from her face, squared her shoulders and raised her chin.

He was touched by her bravery and determination. But before his door shut her completely from view, he saw the line of her shoulders slump again as if with a terrible weight.

Desmond felt crushed with remorse. There was no question about the physical damage he had almost done to her, but what spiritual blow had he actually delivered?

He could not keep her here at Kingsbrook, subjecting himself to the accusations of her presence. But neither could he send her back to her former home.

He had played for a ward and he had won a ward, but now that he had her, what was he to do with her?

Chapter Three (#ulink_58283149-aaa8-5494-b52c-c15fd01e8b84)

To Marianne, her short lifetime seemed to be a succession of frightful nights. Endless nights spent waiting for Uncle Horace to return to the town house, fearfully wondering what abuse and indignity she would be required to endure this time. That ghastly night she had spent at her mother’s bedside, watching her become weaker and weaker, unable to do anything to overturn the awful verdict, to bar entrance to the merciless reaper.

But not even the memory of that night seemed as horrible as this night in Kingsbrook.

Marianne undressed slowly, careful to keep her eyes turned from the mirror, fearful of the physical evidence she would see of what had happened.