Page 20 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

She blinked, and her mouth pursed into a sweet O. She smelled of apples and musk, and without even looking, he knew her nipples were tight. She was aroused, and he was painfully hard. Clearly they were insane. He, for desiring her when she’d been so terrible to him. Or she, for hating him and yet allowing herself to remain panting in his arms.

“I am not wayward,” she said, her chin hardened with stubbornness.

“I am not useless.”

She swallowed. She looked at his lips, and he let his gaze drop to her breasts. Plump and pointed. He tightened his grip on her. She didn’t try to escape.

Instead, she met him eye to eye. Her head was canted back, exposing the arch of her neck. His gaze was burning downward, and he longed to free himself from his clothing and let her see what she did to him.

“Are you sure?” he pressed.

“What?”

“Sure you would refuse my offer?” He leaned down. Their breaths mingled, hers sweet with apple. Did she know he’d chewed mint before seeing her? Could she smell it like he scented her?

He touched his lips to hers. Her breath caught on a gasp, but he did no more. Just held there, his lips slanted across hers. A touch. No more.

Then he bit her. A tiny nip along her bottom lip. She shuddered in reaction, then surged forward. She checked it as soon as it happened, but he felt it nonetheless.

“You destroyed me, Miss Powel, and I am better for it.”

He pulled away while part of him howled. He wanted to throw her on the table and take her, propriety or no. She did nothing but stare at him. Her cheeks were red, her lips even more so, but she said nothing. And when he straightened, his coat did nothing to hide his erection from a discerning gaze. But her eyes never left his face. Did she even know to look? Or feel for it? Did she understand what she did to him?

Then with a slow, dazed look, she pressed her fingers to her lips. She held them there, her eyes fluttering. Good God, he realized, he knew exactly what she needed. She needed to be touched, to be caressed, to be worshiped in a very physical way. If he had it right, she was starving for it.

He almost did it. He could give her all the worship she desired, but it would be a fool’s game. She was not ready to accept him yet, and he would not go where he wasn’t wanted. Even if it was exactly what she most needed.

“I am leaving for a few days,” he said, his voice tight. “I suggest you use that time to your advantage.”

Her eyes blinked and focused on him, but she still said nothing.

“With Greenie,” he explained. “But talk to a trainer first.”

She frowned. “A trainer?”

“Horse trainer. Dog trainer. Falconer. Anyone. You’re a miserable hand at it, and I consider it gentlemanly to give you a few days to figure out the basics.”

“The basics?”

“Yes,” he said. “It isn’t fun to play with someone so miserably outmatched.”

Then he had a choice. Either press her against the table and take what they both wanted or escape before he lost all credibility with himself. It was a near thing. He wanted her that badly. But eventually, he forced himself to leave. Or more accurately, he fled all the way to Lincolnshire, because that’s what she did to him. Made him insane with want, even as she cut him to the quick. It was what she’d done six years ago, but he refused to let it to happen again.

He wasn’t a boy anymore, and when he returned, it would be to fight toe-to-toe with her. And by God, next time he would win, because this was the very last time he was leaving before all was settled between them.

Chapter Five

Mari stood beside the silent bird and tried to function in a world gone insane. First she had to stop her lips from tingling. Her body was recalling in vivid sensual memory about the way he had touched her. About the press of his lips, the heat of his breath, and the startling nip on her lower lip. He had kissed her, and she ached with the need for him to do it again.

No, no, no. She couldn’t desire Lord Whitly. He was the man who had destroyed her.

But what if she was wrong?

It wasn’t possible, but what if…

For years, all she’d heard was Wayward Welsh. It had never occurred to her that Welsh was the problem.

She could fight “wayward.” Indeed, she had been. But there was nothing she could do about being Welsh. Plus, she was proud of her heritage. Was she truly barred from the best gentlemen because of where she’d been born?