But her reply mattered.
She walked her fingers up his chest, the tips tangling in the elaborate knot of his cravat. “What are the rules to this game, pray tell? And what is the reward for winning?”
John all but rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Oh, how he enjoyed this part. Devising an amusement to thrill and titillate a partner was almost as satisfying as sliding inside the woman when the game had ended. Almost.
Usually he liked time to plan, but he was willing to make do. His mind spun. What predicament could he put little Netta Pickle in? He couldn’t do anything with a hint of danger. Those games did require time to plot, and he wouldn’t subject Netta to even the slightest threat of harm. But something that would frustrate her. Make her press her lips together and give him that squinty-eyed look of annoyance he was becoming so fond of.
He’d set it up so she’d fail, of course. He did like to win. But her punishment for losing would be satisfying to both parties.
He picked up the book she’d grumbled so about. “I think this should do it. I want you to make an entire circle about the room without this falling from your head. And no hands,” he added sternly. Netta would be the type of woman who would use any loophole in the rules to her advantage.
She plucked the book from him and plopped it on her head. “Child’s play.”
“I haven’t finished.” He stroked his chin. “At each corner of the room, you will have to remove one article of clothing. If you can do that, without touching the book or letting it fall, you will have your reward.”
“Which is?” The book wavered, and she steadied it with a frown. “The game hasn’t started yet,” she reminded him.
He smothered his grin. Her confidence was endearing. And cock-hardening. Which was a novel combination of reactions for John. “Your reward…” He paused, thinking. He could offer her money; he knew she needed it. But he didn’t want their game to be sullied by commerce. His mind whirred with all that he’d learned of her since her stay. Her sweet tooth had no equal that he’d yet met. “Your reward shall be one of Pierre’s plum cakes delivered here for you every morning.” He bent his head and nudged her cheek with his nose. “Hot from the oven,” he whispered.
“And if I fail?” Her breath tickled his neck.
“If you fail, I get a kiss.”
She pulled back. “That’s it?”
Was that disappointment in her eyes? John hoped so.
“Just a kiss. Your virtue will remain intact.” For now. It pained him to wait. Certain parts of him ached more so than others. But the anticipation always increased the pleasure.
She nodded, and blew out her cheeks as she righted the book. “Starting now?”
He waited until she removed her hands and held them out to her sides. One side of his mouth curled up. There was no chance in hell she’d win. “Starting now.”
She eased her way to the first corner of the room, deftly avoiding an arm chair. John couldn’t help but be impressed. Her step had definite notes of a glide now. She paused and slid her fichu from around her neck. She let it float to the floor.
John found a chair with a good view and settled in. This was damnably good entertainment. If he did lose his ore mines, he could probably recover his fortune by charging men to watch women slowly remove their clothes. He should suggest it to Sutton as a special room in The Black Rose. “The fichu was easy,” he called out. “But what will you choose next?”
The book wobbled, and Netta drew up short, holding her breath.
If there was a next corner.
The book stayed in place, and John didn’t know if he was disappointed or relieved that the show would go on.
At the next corner, she toed off one of her slippers, kicking it in his direction, and continued on her way.
John harrumphed. He’d forgotten about her slippers. Those were easy.
“You don’t have to look so disappointed.” She reached the next corner and turned with a military precision. She wiggled her slipper to the end of her toes and took aim. The slipper flew straight at him, and John snagged it from the air before it could clock his head. “When I decide to do something, I do it to win.”
Damn it, she only had one more corner to turn. He twisted on his seat to watch as she sauntered behind him. “Has anyone told you before that you’re too cock-sure? You’ve divested yourself of the easy gets. This next one will be the true test.”
She stood in the final corner and considered. Sinking into a low curtsy, she raised her gown, revealing inch after inch of tantalizing calf.
His breath stalled when her skirts raised over her knee. Her thighs were plump and shapely.
She raised her dress another inch, and his mouth went dry. Her skin looked like the softest silk, and the urge to flip her to her back, press open those creamy thighs, and slide his hands over every inch was almost overwhelming.
She tried unlacing the knot that held her stocking up. The book wobbled and she stilled. Biting down on her lower lip, she next attempted to tug the stocking down underneath the garter. The book slipped, and she tilted her head to keep it centered. Carefully, she straightened.
