“Gentlemen,” Mirabelle chided. “This is collusion!”
Bryght turned to her. “Indeed it is. But if you and Hippolyta want the money you will have to put up with it. Lord Walgrave and I are establishing a side bet. He claims his amatory skills are at least the equal of mine. We are going to dice for the honor. Highest roll.” He turned back to the earl with a challenging look.
Fort’s lips tightened. “Better I maul her than you.”
“I doubt it.” Bryght snared a pair of dice from a nearby table and rolled them. “They seem true. Well, Walgrave? One each. Highest wins.”
Or loses, he thought to himself. The winner was not going to endear himself to Portia St. Claire, who wouldn’t understand the true situation. She would never want to see her false lover again. That was good, he tried to tell himself. Portia was trouble, and had no place in his life.
Then why not let Fort have her? If he abided by the terms of the wager, she’d be safe enough.
Bryght realized that he didn’t want any other man touching Portia St. Claire. He knew then that he was in the mire deeper than he wished, and would be safer out of it. He looked at Fort. “Would you marry her?” he asked quietly.
Fort’s brows shot up. “After this? Are you mad?”
Bryght sighed and passed him a die. “One roll each. Highest wins.”
“Would you marry her?” Fort asked in seemingly genuine curiosity.
Bryght rolled the smooth die in his fingers. “Yes,” he said, and rolled.
A five.
Fort contemplated the white cube and then placed it down, one up. “The whim has passed. By all means pursue your wager, Lord Bryght. And,” he added with quiet malice, “I look forward to dancing at your wedding.” With that he strolled away, leaving Bryght the victor.
Like a victor who has won the right to be a human sacrifice.
“Congratulations, my lord,” called out Mirabelle gaily, “I’ll just have your vowel on it, and then you can show your mettle! And who is the other wagerer? We must have it all in the book.”
Bryght scrawled the IOU. “A fat sugar-planter called Prestonly. He’s doubtless wheezing his way down here. You’d better save him a view.” He looked at the madam. “I need a few minutes. Delay things.”
Mirabelle’s brows shot up, but she nodded.
Bryght swept Portia off the dais into his arms. Cheers resounded. She stared up at him. “No!”
He pushed her head against his shoulder before she said something stupid. “Hush, it won’t be too bad.”
She was trembling, though.
Bryght was suddenly sickened by the world he inhabited. This tiny woman in his arms could be a frightened child, sold by a broken father, and going to a man blighted by disease. These spectators would still be cheering and scrambling for a pair of peepholes.
Bryght carried Portia into Mirabelle’s Rotunda wanting to give her a stern lecture on prudence. Anyone with sense would have abandoned her fool brother to his fate weeks ago. The fact that she could never do that, and that she had the courage to come here today and stand unflinching on the auction block, made him want to wring her neck. It also made her precious to him.
The Rotunda was a perfect circle and the only furniture was a circular bed—a platform, really, padded but covered only with a tight, white sheet. Covers would definitely spoil the fun.
On the ceiling, gods and goddesses lewdly frolicked and the painted walls showed twenty mortals imitating the deities. The difference was that the various pieces of equipment they used—from whips to scented oils—were real and could be appropriated by the users of the room.
The eyes of each abandoned figure were strangely blank, but that was because the observers had not yet taken their places. There was an eerie effect of movement from the figures on the wall, made greater by the flickering candles in colored glass lamps and the faint haze of burning incense. The dimness lent mystery to the scene for the observers, but Bryght could use it to carry off this event.
Had Portia understood anything about the wager? He put her down cautiously and she immediately straightened her garments with a flustered manner that made him want to grin. As if she’d just tumbled on some steps and been helped to her feet.
“Where are we?” she asked, looking around. Then she gaped. “Lud! That’s—”
He put a hand to her head to draw her attention to him. “Hush, don’t look at the pictures. Listen to me. How good an actress are you?”
Even through the mask he could see her eyes widen. “I’ve never tried to act in my life.”
“Then tonight is your debut. You have to act the part of a frightened girl wooed by a skillful lover—myself—into wanting to surrender entirely to his passionate demands.”
