“It’s quite simple, Miss Thorne. You attempted toblackmailme before. I don’t give into threats, no matter how charming the extortionist is. A wager, however, is a matter of honor between gentlemen—or in our case, a gentleman and a lady.”
Dear God. Only a duke would draw such a costly distinction. “Your honorable wager is costing you an extra thousand pounds, Your Grace.”
He smiled. “Only if I lose, Miss Thorne.”
“Which you’re certain won’t happen, I take it.” His pride, alas, might cost him even more than his scruples before the game was over.
“I’m willing to take the risk, yes. I want those earrings back in my possession, and you happen to have them. The fifteen hundred pounds brings you to the table, but it’s still a great deal less than what the earrings are worth. I don’t intend to lose our game, Miss Thorne, but if I do, the fifteen hundred pounds is yours. You have my word on it.”
The word of a scoundrel, yes.
Still, for all his questionable behavior, the Duke of Montfordwasa gentleman. He’d consider an unpaid debt a stain on his honor. She could trust him in this, if not in anything else, and goodness knew the earrings weren’t doing her any good languishing in her pocket.
She was going to return the earrings to him no matter what happened. She had everything to gain, and nothing to lose.
It was the perfect wager.
“We haven’t got all night, Miss Thorne. Do you accept the wager, or not?”
She raised her face to his, a thrill rushing up her spine at the look of anticipation in his dark eyes. Strangely enough, the two of them weren’t so different. “Very well, Your Grace. I accept your wager.”
CHAPTER12
Miss Thorne was still wearing her dinner gown.
The same dinner gown that turned her eyes from hazel to a soft, inviting green. The dinner gown that clung to every curve and skimmed every sleek hollow. The dinner gown with that maddening green velvet bow that tied just underneath the swell of her bosom.
Which was all very well, of course, because he was a gentleman, not some lecherous savage. It was perfectly fine. Why, once they started the game, he’d hardly even notice her gown, or her green eyes, or her curves, hollows, and bosom.
Jasper carried on with this lie right up until the moment she stripped off her cloak and tossed it over the back of a chair, her dark green skirts swirling around her ankles as she marched across the room to inspect the billiard cues. She selected one, then turned to face him, the cue in her hand and a cool smile on her lips. “Shall we begin, Your Grace?”
Begin? How could he begin when she was wearingthat?
He’d admired the gown at dinner, but he hadn’t appreciated the full hypnotic power of it with Stoneleigh hovering over her as if she were a porcelain doll on the verge of shattering. Now, with the firelight behind her outlining her shape, there was no overlooking the way the forest green silk clung to every inch of her.
The gown was outrageous, a torment, a scandal! What did she mean, wearing such a shocking garment? Oh, at first glance it appeared plain enough, but the simplicity of it—the very lack of the usual busy trimmings meant a gentleman’s eye had no place to land other than onher. The bare skin of her arms and shoulders, the sweet, creamy swell of her bosom . . . dear God, he hardly knew where to look first.
He’d never seen a more diabolical frock in his life.
“Is something wrong, Your Grace?” She was frowning at him, a fetching little wrinkle between her brows. “If you’ve changed your mind about the wager—”
“No!” He tore his gaze away from the maddening wisps of her loose hair, the firelight gleaming on the golden strands and flickering over the long, slender line of her neck. He wouldn’t get another chance to undo the mess he’d made with that wager with her father, so he’d simply have to keep his gaze averted from that . . . that mockery of a gown.
Especially that fiendish little bow tied under her bosom. “Of course, I haven’t changed my mind, Miss Thorne.”
“If you’re certain.”
“Quite certain.” He nodded at the billiards table. “After you. You have played billiards before, have you not?”
“Once or twice, yes.” A little smile twitched at the corners of her lips. “Cues or maces, Your Grace?”
“I prefer cues, but I shall defer to you.” He offered her a bow.
“Cues are acceptable to me, with chalk, of course. How many points wins the game, Your Grace?”
For a lady who’d only played once or twice before, she appeared to have a solid command of the rules. Could it be that Miss Thorne was a mountebank? It would be just as well if she were, as it would make it easier for him to lose this game without attracting her suspicions. “Twenty-one points. One game, one winner, and no regrets. That means no weeping or other histrionics if you lose, Miss Thorne.”
“Histrionics?” She threw back her head in a laugh. “Do you take me for a sore loser, Your Grace?”
