But, dear reader, Sir K—F—has gone too far this time!
Our sources tell us that at the Standish Ball, a wicked wager was made, and the loser is to be one Miss B—F—! Yes, no matter who wins the wager, this Baron’s daughter will lose because of the terms.
Our rake agreed to a wager determining theBest Rake in London, and his terms necessitated theseductionof such an innocent, demure wallflower! Yes, delicate reader, our Miss F—, she of the academic pursuits, Egyptian antiquities, and lamed foot, already teeters on the brink of social ruin, thanks to her older sister’s recent scandalous marriage. What will such a wager do?
On behalf of all that is Right and Decent in the world, we beg Sir K—F— to reconsider the terms of his wager, and cease the clear seduction of poor Miss B—F—, before social ruin befall her.
Yours quite Brazenly,
The Belle
Barbara’s breaths were coming too fast, and as she reached the end of the sheet, she found her fingers crunching the paper again. The words swum before her eyes…and she slowly looked up, a victorious smile wreathing her face.
It was happening.It was happening!
The threatened misfortune was happening to her—and her canopic jars!
She slowly stood, clutching the paper to her. She needed a plan. She needed to reach Kenneth! Together they could decide how to use this threatened social ruin to their advantage.
“Barbara?” her brother asked tentatively, apparently having managed to unstick enough of his teeth. “Are you quite well? Please don’t be angry—I can have Elmo fetch you some treacle toffee?—”
“No!” She whirled on Alfred, eyes bright and mind jumping from one plan to the next. “I need you to fetch Kenneth. No! Have Elmo fetch him, I need to speak with him immediately.”
Her brother edged from the room. “Alright. So no more toffee!”
Barbara beamed at him in excitement. “Just Kenneth. Hurry! My public ruination is nigh!”
Kenneth’s breath was short as he ran—yes,ran—along the dirty London streets.Fook fook shite fook, his mind chanted in time with his pulse. He dodged urchins and shoppers and one particularly enthusiastic treacle-and-toffee cart owner.
Nay, nay, nay!
This morning he’d snuck out of the Fokette home, discovered his boots had been stolen sometime during the night, anddid not care. Because his evening had been…
Magical.
He had no confusion over what he was: a rake, a rogue, a lothario. He had made love to dozens of women—though admittedly not at the same time—and often snuck out of their beds before daybreak.
But never, not once, had he felt as conflicted about it as he had this morning.
Holding Barbara in his arms had been magnificent, transcendent—and he was not a man to use the termtranscendentlightly when it came to fooking.
Nay, what ye and Barbara did wasnaefooking.That had been making love.
The inner conflict had come when, in the wee hours of the morning, he realized all he had to do to win the wager he’d made with Remington Ives would be to allow himself to be discovered in Barbara’s bed. The scandal would make the rumor mill, Remmy and Merevale would hear of it, Standish would be perfectly distracted for the investigation, and Kenneth would…
Would what?
Kenneth would what?
Kenneth would go back to the life he’d been living?
Kenneth would lose the woman he was coming to love?
Kenneth would regret everything that brought him to that point?
Nay, he could neverregretit. Meeting Barbara—wager or not—was the best thing to happen to him, and making love to her last night had nothing to do with their wager. He’d been ridiculously aroused by her certainty,herseduction, and he’d happily given into the urge to show her what she meant to him.
And this morning, he’d known he couldn’t hurt her by sticking around.
