Shayla Black Page 9

  Thank God, he never forgot gossip entirely. One never knew when such tidbits were useful. Or people, for that matter, he thought, staring at Roberta. Given her connection to Lady Wolcott, and by association Brock Taylor, he might do well to see just how much she knew. And since gossip had it that Lady Dudley had taken more than one lover in recent months, he saw no reason not to approach the widow.

  “Lady Wolcott is indeed inconsiderate not to take your feelings into account.”

  Tears pooled in the woman’s hazel eyes. “Completely!”

  “Do not upset yourself,” he crooned, producing a handkerchief.

  Lady Dudley wiped her eyes and nose with the scrap of linen. When she would have handed it back to him with her thanks, Belwick held a hand of protest aloft.

  “Keep it, fair lady.” He dropped his voice an octave. “You may return it to me when I call tomorrow. Perhaps we can talk more then?”

  Roberta’s gaze flashed across his face. Her inviting smile was easy to read. Belwick held in a sigh. Lady Dudley was an attractive, though tiresome, woman. Still, he could sacrifice a few nights in her bed for the potential to make a fortune if she helped him to eliminate the competition.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Brock entered the cottage the following midnight, wearing stunning evening black, his cravat askew, and a gleam in his eye. Tonight, he seemed formidable. Hungry. The impact of his presence made Maddie shiver. Then again, Brock had always affected her, even when he had been a servant with daring ideas and big dreams of wealth.

  He paused in the doorway. She watched silently, heart beating in a heavy thud. The power of his reckless grins and drugging kisses swept over her. And the memories of their last night here together. God, they were impossible to forget. She closed her eyes, praying for the strength to resist him. But wanting him came dangerously easy. Heady anticipation coursed through her when he closed the door with a quiet click and stepped into the flickering candlelight.

  He looked ready to deliver a devastating smile, a wicked word, and a touch designed to make her melt in surrender. Gone was the ardent though awkward lover she had known in Ashdown Manor’s stables. The bliss he had shown her that one stolen tumble in the hay had been of the heart, a joining of souls. The pleasure of flesh had been but a brief warmth. But what he had made her feel mere nights ago... She could scarcely find words to describe those hot, compelling sensations. She only knew two things: If she again shared Brock’s bed he could unleash a deluge of desire unlike anything she had ever dreamed, and few realizations had ever frightened her more.

  Drawing in an uneven breath, Maddie fought for control as she rose from her oversized chair on trembling legs and greeted him with a seductive smile. “Hello, Brock. I’m glad you have come.”

  “Good evening, Maddie. Champagne?” he asked, lifting a bottle she had not previously noticed up for her inspection.

  She frowned. “We have no society here.”

  “Must there be?” he asked, sauntering forward until the golden candlelight caressed his dexterous hands and tapered fingers as they worked at the cork.

  “One usually drinks champagne at social events.”

  His reckless grin appeared with a flash of white teeth. “Why wait to enjoy the best?”

  Maddie had no real answer for that as the cork gave way with a resounding pop in the nearly silent room. Foam bubbled over the top of the bottle and splashed onto the breakfast table in a cool puddle. Brock laughed. The hearty sound resonated all through her body and settled uncomfortably between her legs.

  From his interior coat pockets, Brock withdrew two fine crystal glasses and filled them with the pale, potent brew, then handed her one. “What shall we drink to, interesting wagers?”

  Maddie’s fingers curled around the crystal, wondering if the man knew how to be anything but audacious. Here he was, in the thick of the night, visiting his would-be mistress whom he had no intent to make love to. He sipped champagne without society and sported a too-sexy grin, while reducing the most important circumstance in her life to a mere wager.

  She had known he was different from the first time they had spoken. A week after he had come to work at Ashdown Manor, her father had informed her she would have a season that year. With his shaking finger and stern countenance, he had made it clear that he expected her to marry well.

  Nervous and fearful, Maddie had sought refuge outdoors, on her mare’s back. Unfortunately, thunder and twilight had proven too much for her skittish horse. The mare had reared at the sharp crack and sent her hurtling to the ground. Brock had reached her first. He’d been so handsome and solicitous, setting her naïve heart racing. He had quickly ascertained that she was not hurt, made light of the fall, and used his words to ease her embarrassment. For the next three months, she had been love struck.

  Shaking away the bittersweet memory, she found Brock still awaiting a toast. Summoning every ounce of brazenness she possessed, she stepped closer with a sway of her hips and looked directly into his eyes, whispering, “Why drink to wagers when you can toast pleasure?”

  Without another word, Maddie lifted the glass to her lips and emptied it, pressing her thigh to his. She prayed it roused him, for the visceral contact did irrepressible things to her pulse.

  The champagne sluiced down her throat in a tangy slide of effervesce. Moments later, it warmed her belly. And the warmth spread to all parts of her body, most especially to their nuzzling thighs. Brock’s heated gaze only served to make her aware of their seclusion, of him.

  “Yes,” he murmured, his gaze intent on her mouth. “I never refuse drinking to pleasure.”

  Brock threw his head back and gulped the liquid down. Maddie watched the thick column of his throat working, surrounded by the loosened cravat of snowy white. The room felt much too warm as a new flush of awareness came over her. Now that they had drunk to pleasure, would he take her to the bed upstairs and give her a night full of it?

  “I’m in the mood for a good game, Maddie.”

  Mind racing, she pondered all the possible interpretations of that statement. A thousand tangled images of bare skin and open-mouthed kisses leapt immediately to mind. She drew in a shuddering breath.

  And he produced a deck of cards. “Speculation, perhaps?”

  Cards? Brock wanted to play cards? Maddie stared. The man had become such an enigma. Why wasn’t he interested in her as a mistress?

  Purposely swaying against him, Maddie curled her arm around his neck. She ignored the small zip of thrill being so close to him incited. “Cards are for dotty old ladies and stodgy gentlemen.” She trailed a soft fingertip down the hard line of his jaw. “We are capable of far better...sport than cards.”

  Brock raised a brow at her. When his gaze trailed down to her cleavage, visible above the green moiré dress he had given her, she tingled in anticipation. Would he touch her now?

  Without warning, Brock stepped away and pulled out one of the Yorkshire bow back chairs at the breakfast table.

  Taking a seat, he waved her to another across the table. “But I find Speculation so stimulating. Will you deal?”

  Maddie stared at the deck as he slid the cards toward her. Apparently, he was serious. She could feel a damp ache building within her, and he wanted to play cards? With a sigh of frustration, she picked up the deck.

  “Dealer wagers double, Maddie. Those are the rules.”

  Her gaze flew to him. “You know I have nothing to wager.”

  That brutally sexy grin returned. “Not true.”

  “I have no money, as you well know.”

  “You have words, Maddie. Answers. If you win, I will answer a question. If I win, you will answer two.”

  How like Brock to make up his own rules. His daring ideas had always attracted her. Five years ago, she’d been preparing for a season she didn’t want and dealing with the pressures of marrying well, of others expecting her to behave perfectly in polite society. All the while, he had talked of discovering what made her happy, of casting aside s
enseless convention.

  Brock had listened to her dreams and feelings in a way no one, especially her father, ever had. Certainly, old Avesbury had never asked what she sought from life, nor would he have cared for her answer. Her duty as his daughter had been to bring more fortune to the family through marriage. She had failed abysmally, and the rift between father and daughter had never truly healed.

  Still, how wonderful Brock’s bold ideas had seemed to her girlish heart then, the concept of doing nothing more than pleasing herself, marrying where she wanted—marrying Brock even.

  She had learned quickly how foolish such dreams were.

  “Two answers? That ante is unfair,” she protested.

  “Nevertheless, those are my terms. Now deal.”

  Maddie thought briefly of refusing, but it would do no good. If he wanted to play this game, she must play. As long as he was here and happy, she stood a chance of becoming his mistress.

  Without another word, Maddie dealt them each three cards, then the trump card face up between them. Their play was swift. Maddie quickly discovered Brock had a knack for cards, never forgetting what had been played and guessing all too accurately which cards she held. The game lasted less than five minutes.

  “Now you must answer two questions,” he reminded, his smile that of a pirate.

  Disliking his tone, she stared at Brock through eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What?”

  He smiled and reached across the table to brush a tender stroke across her lips with his thumb. Maddie froze. The years between them peeled away as she recalled the times in years past when he had touched her with playful affection. A pang buckled her chest.

  She had missed that unforeseen way Brock had about him. Colin had always been self-indulgent and self-absorbed, and predictable for it. Brock had always been a mystery, a thrilling, heart-stopping puzzle. And she’d missed it.

  With a glance at Brock’s face, she realized his smile had faded, too. Did he remember those days of love’s exciting discovery, the belief that anything was possible between them?

  He cleared his throat, his blatant gaze unwavering. “What are you wearing beneath that dress?”

  Against her will, Maddie felt herself flush. “The sheer, lacy shift you sent, along with the matching garters and stockings.”

  He groaned. “I dreamt of you wearing those lacy underthings—and nothing else.”

  The low, deep rumble of his confession made Maddie gasp. She could have no more turned away from him than she could have denied her next breath.

  Brock stared with those compelling green eyes, seeming to penetrate her soul. “I can’t tell you how badly that dream made me want to kiss my way up your body, then bury my cock deep, deep inside you.”

  His wicked words nearly unraveled her sanity. Need flared through her. Why did her body want him so badly? Why was Brock, despite his betrayal, the only man she had ever desired?

  By the time she regained her reasoning and realized she should seduce him with an offer to show him those dainty underthings, he went on to his next question.

  “How did you arrive here tonight?”

  “My horse.”

  He scowled. “Did you ride into the city before dusk?”

  “Heavens, no. I cooked for Aunt Edith and her companion, Vema, then we ate together. I read Aimee a bedtime story and tucked her in. After she fell asleep, then I came here.”

  “You rode here by yourself, in the dark, across Hampstead Heath?”

  The incredulity in his tone took her aback. “I’ve already answered three questions, sir. More than our ante demanded.”

  Brock leaned in, looking like his temper was about to boil over. “You did ride by yourself in the dark, and you’ve done it each night for the past two weeks. Damn, do you have any notion how dangerous that is?”

  “Of course.” But she could not seduce Brock from Ashdown Manor while he stayed in London. Necessity had forced her to sweep aside her anxiety whenever she rode in the dark.

  “There are vagabonds and dastards awaiting a tempting morsel like you.”

  Annoyance and pleasure tugged at her. “I’ve nothing to give a thief. Thus far, the vagabonds and dastards have had no problem resisting any temptation I might present.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And you leave here in the dark as well, I assume.”

  Maddie threw back her shoulders. “I like to be home when Aimee awakens and share breakfast with her.”

  Sweeping his gaze across her face, Brock took in every detail. “No wonder you look exhausted. How much sleep do you manage each night. Three or four hours?”

  “That is another question and not within the ante.”

  “Forget the ante.” He shoved away the cards and rose, rounding the table to her side. “You cannot continue this way. You will either be attacked or become ill. I won’t have either on my conscience.”

  Maddie watched with wide eyes as he knelt before her and took her fingers in his gentle grip. Concern shone from his eyes, despite his harsh tone. She felt an insidious wave of softening. How nice it was to be cared about. How like Brock to see through her façade as a seductress to find this weakness.

  The Brock of old had been this way, too. Thoughtful, somehow understanding her needs before she understood them herself. She had missed that about him most after her dreadful marriage to Colin.

  Gathering her scattered emotions, she murmured, “Should anything happen to me, I absolve you now—”

  “You can’t, Maddie.”

  “But I choose to come here—”

  “For me,” he said with a squeeze of her hand. “Stop this dangerous game and marry me. I swear I will take care of you and Aimee.”

  The offer wrenched at her from somewhere deep inside. She stifled the feeling. Brock was good at weaving a dream where tradition was cast aside for desires, and all things were possible if she simply wanted them enough. Colin, with his ugly words, degrading slurs, insinuations—and worse—had taught her reality.

  Brock might seem to care now, but once he had what he wanted, he’d put distance between them quickly, just as he’d done before.

  “No. I will come here each night to warm your bed, nothing more.”

  “Do not be so stubborn! Marriage would solve so many problems for us both.”

  “Since you know nothing of the married state, let me disagree.”

  Brock swore viciously. “Then I will find us a cottage nearby. In Paddington, perhaps. You will not leave Ashdown Manor until my carriage comes for you. It will return you home.”

  The biting finality in his tone made her flinch, even as his brash care struck a chord within her. Still, she had to refuse.

  “I will stick with the terms of our wager.”

  “It will be my way or the wager is off. I’ve played this game because it’s amused me, but I can stop. Then it’s marriage or a debtor’s consequence; the choice is yours, Maddie.”

  She lunged out of the chair and tore her hands from his. Anger charged through her in a fiery rush. The wretch was high-handed, insistent on having things his way. And he called her stubborn?

  “Why start this ridiculous wager at all?”

  He shrugged. “I have the time, and the idea of breaking you down slowly and seducing you to the altar excites me. You’ll understand, of course, that I’ll derive far more pleasure seeing you naked in my bed than rotting in jail. Take my offer or make a choice.”

  Having a trysting spot closer would solve many problems. She had often feared for her own safety, traversing the notorious Heath by herself so late at night. The extra sleep sounded heavenly to her weary body. Having Aimee a tad closer, just in case, would be something of a relief. She had nothing to gain by remaining stubborn.

  “Very well. I will accept the offer of a closer cottage.”

  Brock released a sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath. “Good. I will look about tomorrow for some possibilities.”

  That settled, Brock turned away, abandoning the cards and the champagn
e, and headed for the door. Surprise awashed her mind as panic clawed at her stomach.

  “Wait! You’re leaving? We haven’t...”

  Maddie flushed as she groped for the appropriate words. Everything she knew—consummated, had intercourse, engaged in congress—sounded so awkward.

  Brock watched her, a wisp of an amused smile curling up the corner of his wide mouth. Slow steps took him back to her side. She found herself holding her breath as he drew near, his form and face so blatantly male. He stood close. His strong body radiated heat and musk, an elemental spice that clung to his skin. She felt his desire, but he did not touch her.

  “Fucked?”

  The word should shock her, but it sounded raw, earthy, real—just like her passion.

  “We will,” he promised. “Perhaps you’ll tempt me to it tomorrow night, sweet girl. Tonight, go home and sleep.” He turned and strode for the door.

  Holding in a futile protest, Maddie watched Brock go. Fury and a terrible desire tangled up with the worry that he no longer wanted her as badly as her body craved him. Above it all was a feeling that frightened her most: The trembling realization that some part of her wanted him to care for her as more than the means to an end.

  #

  As night fell in London two days later, Brock sat in the walnut-paneled study of Gavin William Alexander Daggett, the Duke of Cropthorne, after receiving a summons. With a racing heart, he began to outline in detail his proposal for the T & S Railroad.

  Two hours later, firelit shadows slanted over the sketches, furious notes and empty glasses of port lay on the desk between them. Cropthorne’s bottle green superfine coat lay discarded on the back of the sofa.

  With nothing more to say, Brock looked at Cropthorne expectantly. The solemn office, draped in subdued deep greens and browns, exacerbated the thick silence.

  “You’ve put a great deal of thought into this venture,” said the duke finally as he raked a long-fingered hand through his black hair. “It is impressive, I confess.”

  “I believe we can make your fifty thousand pounds into two hundred in under five years.”