Lucy Ashford - The Rake's Bargain

Deb’s pulse bumped sickeningly. Why, oh, why hadn’t Luke and Francis searched him? But they weren’t the only ones to blame. She should have noticed the pistol’s bulk when she pulled out his watch; she should have gone through everything he carried, except that it felt like a gross insult to his privacy...

More of an insult to him than taking him prisoner, you mean ? ‘Well,’ Deb said, tilting her chin so she could meet his hard gaze. ‘So much for your oath to let us go .’

A slow smile curved his arrogant mouth. ‘Your memory is failing you somewhat. I did indeed swear not to set the law on your friends, but you forgot something rather important. You see, you didn’t include yourself in the bargain.’

Deb stood very, very still. She concentrated on meeting his gaze without flinching. Don’t let him see you’re afraid. You must never let an enemy see you’re afraid ...

‘Trickery with words,’ she scoffed. ‘Usually the last resort of a man who knows he’s in the wrong.’

‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about who’s in the wrong here. Empty your pockets.’

‘I don’t see why I need to—’

‘I said, empty your pockets—Deborah.’

Deb breathed hard and deep. ‘Why? Unlike you, I don’t carry a gun. If I did, I assure you you’d have seen it by now.’

‘No doubt,’ he retorted calmly. ‘Nevertheless, I want you to empty your pockets. You see, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’d been off on a thieving jaunt of your own while your friends were busy setting their trap for me.’ Mr Beaumaris nodded curtly at her little jacket. ‘What have you got in your pockets? I can see something . Stolen trinkets? Silver?’

Deb fought sheer panic. ‘I’ve just got some old books, that’s all. And I can’t imagine you’ll be in the least bit interested in them...’

‘Let me see them.’

‘What? No, they’re nothing of value, really ...’

Her voice trailed away as he took two steps towards her— my, he was tall, he was big —and jerked that wretched pistol towards her head.

With his free hand, Mr Beaumaris began to explore her pockets. His cool blue eyes never once left her face, and she couldn’t help but marvel at the man. He’d been subjected to a dangerous fall from a speedy mount. He’d lain stunned and trussed up on the cold ground—and yet he could still have walked into a Whitehall club and not looked an inch out of place.

He could also, she thought rather wildly, have walked into a crowded ballroom and had every woman there falling at his feet. Handsome wasn’t an adequate word for him. She’d spent a large part of her life in the theatrical world of fantasy, and Mr Damian Beaumaris, if he weren’t so unpleasant, surely resembled every woman’s dream of a hero. But at that exact moment, her rambling thoughts stilled into an awful realisation of doom as he pulled out the first of Hugh Palfreyman’s books.

‘Take it.’ He shoved the book towards her.

She took the little volume without a word. He drew out the next one, and the next, handing them to her until she was holding all three.

‘Old books,’ he said softly, echoing her very words. ‘Now, you’ve already assured me that you’re not a thief. So what precisely is your occupation—Deborah?’

She stared up at him defiantly. ‘My friends and I put on—entertainments.’

‘Entertainments.’ He repeated the word almost with relish. ‘Well, I can only assume that these books are part of them, since you carry them with you all the time. Show them to me, will you?’

‘Oh, I assure you, you’ll find them very dull—’

‘Will I? Let’s see,’ he interrupted. ‘Open the top one—yes, that’s right—and let me judge for myself.’

He’d lifted his pistol so close to her face that she could almost smell the cold, deadly metal. Slowly she opened the first book. Please, let it be all writing. Please don’t let it be one of those dreadful pictures ...

She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath. She’d opened it, as luck would have it, at the most lurid illustration she had yet seen.

‘Turn the pages,’ he ordered.

She did, one by one, feeling his contemptuous blue eyes burning into her.

‘Part of the equipment of your trade, I assume?’ he said at last. ‘Intended, no doubt, to arouse the interest of any prospective client who might find your feminine charms rather less than—overwhelming, should I put it?’

‘No! I—’

He gestured with his pistol. ‘Show me the next book. Now .’

Deb felt her cheeks burn. Bastard. Bastard, to do this to me . She turned the pages of the second slim volume, hoping it might be marginally less shocking than the first—but it wasn’t. Oh, heavens. What on earth were those two in the picture doing? Yes. She saw exactly what they were doing. And so did Mr Beaumaris.

He regarded her with cool appraisal. ‘You don’t look like a whore,’ he said.

Oh, what would she give to insult him in equal measure? Her skin tingled with fury. But right at this minute, it was her absolute priority to keep this abominable man unaware of the fact that she had just robbed Hugh Palfreyman’s abode, so she gazed up at her captor and smiled sweetly. ‘Such things are a matter of taste, sir, as I’m sure you’re aware. And some men prefer to— vary their choice from time to time.’

His eyes glittered—blue, dangerous eyes—and they were so transfixing that she couldn’t tell whether he was amused or madly angry at her gibe. ‘Men might vary their choice of women, yes. But you look more like a boy,’ he said, quite calmly.

She shrugged. ‘I’ve heard that’s what some gentlemen prefer.’

‘You think so? Not me.’ He briefly took his eyes from her as he checked his pistol and eased it back into his pocket. ‘I can, of course, have the gun out again no time at all if you try to run. But now—tell me your favourite.’

‘What?’ Deb’s heart hammered.

‘Tell me which illustration is your favourite.’ His brows tilted wickedly. ‘Since you must know the contents of these books rather well.’

Oh, heavens . ‘Well, of course,’ she said, ‘it all depends on what mood I’m in.’

‘And what kind of mood are you in?’ he asked in an interested way.

I just wish I had that damned pistol of yours in my hand , she muttered under her breath. ‘Of course, I always endeavour to match my clients’ inclinations rather than my own,’ she responded sweetly. ‘But my time costs money, Mr Beaumaris.’

‘And I’m not usually in the habit of paying,’ he replied smoothly, ‘least of all for a travelling slut—’

He broke off when she flung out her hand to slap his cheek. Which was more than foolish of her, because before she’d time to reach her target, Beau had knocked aside her raised hand, cupped her chin and tipped her face up to his, while his hard blue eyes scoured her. He felt her go very still as he let his fingertips slowly caress the warm silken skin of her cheek. She was so like—so very like—the other one ...

He was aware of the books dropping from her hand, one by one. And the idea—the idea that had been lurking at the back of his mind since he first set eyes on her—took firmer shape.

He said softly, ‘Well, Deborah. How do you fancy a trip to Hardgate Hall—with me?’

He thought he saw a flicker almost of horror cross her face. But then she smiled up at him. She reached to touch his cheek with her fingertip. And gently, almost mischievously, she murmured, ‘So you’ve a notion to take our acquaintance further, have you, sir? But first—why not try me here, for yourself?’