Page 17 of A Wager at Midnight (Betting Against the Duke #2)

Chapter 17

S TEPHEN —A NYA H OUSE —V IXEN OR B RAT ?

M y carriage rumbles forward, but I sit still with a freezing bowl of an ice that’s shaped like a bunny.

My companion licks her spoon, and I shiver.

She slurps and curls her tongue about a banana-shaped ice, and I’m pained. Every mouthful, I count the seconds for the ice to melt on her lips. It’s difficult to watch, knowing I want to yell at her, me . . . I want . . . wanna kiss her. Instead, I’m stuck envying a silver spoon, dying a little more each time it sweeps into her mouth.

“Anya House is a lovely estate in Mayfair.”

I hear her words, but my mind is focused on the bit of ice drizzling down her plump bottom lip. I’m stunned at how beautiful that outrageous mouth is dripping with sweetness.

Oh, soursop. If the ice were my favorite fruit, I’d fight the spoon.

“Are you feeling well?” she says in a sugary voice as she bites down on a big piece of the banana-shaped ice.

I gulp for air and look down at the limp bunny melting in my bowl. Life’s not fair.

“Stephen, this is so good. You must try it.”

Another piece of ice goes in. Her lips form an O. She sighs in delight, and I’m heated. What has happened to me, to her . . . to us?

She leans over holding the spoon out to me. “Stephen, we’ll fight later. Eat your ice before it melts.”

It’s been on her lips. It’s wrestled with her tongue. I dip my head and slip her spoon between my lips. “Pineapple. It’s sweet and tart. It’s you.”

She laughs and continues enjoying her treat.

I want to look away, but I can’t. There’s something in me that wants to watch her finish every dripping morsel.

With the cold bowl on my lap, I continue to grasp the seat edge. I want to punch Torrance for putting me in this situation. Then I want to punch myself for putting me in this situation.

Then I want to thank the stars, the universe, for letting me be in this position, no one else.

I keep my hands still, for I don’t know what I would do with myself . . . if she offers me anything else.

It takes all of this for me to realize I don’t just like Scarlett Wilcox . . . I want Scarlett Wilcox. And I think that’s been my problem since last year’s ball. It’s why I kept delaying proposing to Eveline. I said it was my work or my schedules, bumbling fundraising, or becoming situated in my practice, but truthfully, no one has me this out of control. Nothing I do can harness the euphoria of matching wits with Scarlet. She’s potent and addicting, pure laudanum. To withdraw from her is to feel panic, chaos, and hopelessness. I must have Scarlett Wilcox.

She licks the spoon again. “Something wrong? We have a truce. You’re letting your ice melt. We’ll pick back up arguing when we are done.” She sighs. “Just like we used to.”

“What changed, Scarlett? Until last week, I haven’t seen you in months. Have you been avoiding me?”

“Yes.”

That’s a direct answer, and more succinct than I expect from my vixen.

I’m a fool. The duke made me her chaperone to make me see what’s been true this whole time. The Cossack is right to put me with Scarlett. He knew I’d wake up and want the rose with the thorns. I must have the pain and the pleasure of this forthright woman. “Marry me.”

Slurp. “What?”

“Marry me, Scarlett.”

“You’re not making sense.” She tilts her head. “Are you about to have a palsy again? Stephen, you don’t sound well.”

“What is well? Oh, I’m sick alright, sick about us.”

She shrugs, scoops the last of her ice and sets her spoon down with a clang. “I guess we fight again.”

“No. We don’t. You will wear a dress Friday and be Scarlett for me. You’ll do your best to impress the aunties.”

“Excuse me?” Scarlett wipes her mouth on my handkerchief. It’s one of the most alluring things I’ve ever seen—her patting the corners of her lips with her pinkie finger, then suckling the digit free of sweetness. “What dress?”

I have to blink a couple of times to hear the words she’s saying. “Scarlett, you have dresses. I’ve seen you in them.”

“You’re going to eat your ice? Your bunny-shaped ice is half melted.”

“Take it. Lick the bowl clean. You made haste with the banana.” I slap myself hard in the face, for Scarlett does as she’s told, and I’m tormented until she finishes off the creature.

Does she know how tempting she looks? Again, I thank myself for being in this position and not missing a moment.

How long has she been this beautiful, this sultry?

“Stephen, you’re quiet. You’re angry I ate your ice, but you did give it to me. I should have realized you didn’t mean it.”

“No. Not at all. I enjoyed watching you.”

Her gaze darts from mine. It never does that. “Scarlett, I just have so much on my mind. I have a couple patients—”

“Patients?” She fidgets on the seat, and I notice how her tight breeches cling to her legs. “Do tell, Stephen. I’d love to help.”

“Well. Ah. You can’t. What a patient tells his doctor is confidential. How would it look if I went around town telling everyone my patients’ ailments?”

The energy in her leaves. She withers on the seat like a sad puppy. “Physicians collaborate all the time. In the Royal Society, men of science and physicians offer details of conditions and then debate treatments. It leads to discoveries and new ways of doing things.”

“That’s physician to physician, not physician to physician’s wife.”

She clangs her spoon like it’s a noisy toy. My bowl goes on the bench as Scarlett drops to the floor, kneeling in front of me. “No more talk about marriage.”

Her mouth looks soft and full and luscious. She moves close to my knee and opens the hidden compartment under my bench pulling out her satchel. Her papers and that special notebook, they’ve been in my possession all this time.

“Lord Livingston talks to me,” she says. “He respects me.”

Who can be reasonable, when the vixen with the glorious mouth that probably tastes like pineapples is inches away?

I pinch myself to remind myself I’ve known her forever. That I owe her father. Then I hear my own father’s voice. Deh pickney grow up pretty fast.

She’s still kneeling and looking up at me, a beauty, a rose blossoming in plain sight, and I’m terrified.

I have to go about things right. But what is right when Scarlett kneels before me like a choice offering to the gods? This reaction must be part of the alleged heathen blood in me that an English lass makes boil.

“Please sit, Scarlett. I need you off your knees. If anyone is to be made humble, it’s me.”

Still oblivious to my struggles, she sits beside me.

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Stephen, I was carried away when I spoke with your aunts. You go to church and explain that your new lady has left you. They’ll believe that. Miss Gray did.”

“Scarlett.”

“And the auntie women will help you reunite with the former baroness. You must be ready to marry her now. As you said, your practice has grown.”

I grasp her hand and draw her close. “What are you saying?”

“This time, Stephen, don’t delay. Marry Miss Gray and be happy.”

Her voice is low. She clutches the satchel to her chest like it’s a rope keeping her tethered to her dream world. I’m finally letting my eyes see the beauty who’s been my friend for nine years.

“You have planned this all out for me, Scarlett. What if I don’t want Eveline? What if I’ve brought women to my aunties I knew they’d object to? What if I acted as if I mourned the loss of Eveline to keep from entertaining someone who’d slow down my practice. What if deep down I hesitated with Eveline because I knew she was not the one for me? What if I haven’t been seriously interested in anyone because, deep down, I knew I’d already met the right girl?”

“Hesitation is what you do.” Scarlett smiles and gazes at me with eyes that look like a lamb about to be slaughtered. Then I see a glint and a pout. “Go to Wesley’s Chapel alone. This time, welcome the aunties’ assistance in finding you the right wife.”

Scarlett remains next to me. I’ve kept her hand. She can’t be quite this innocent. She has to see . . . must realize . . . I can’t think of any wife but her.

“After today, Stephen, I won’t be a concern to you. Mr. Steele will be back. He’s my usual minder. Then by month’s end, I’ll have a fiancé who will not care how I occupy my time. That’s part of my criteria to be married. My husband must let me have science.”

The overpowering rosewater scent has to be suffocating my brainbox. I couldn’t have heard . . . what I heard. “You won’t marry me, but you want a husband?”

“The duke will pick one for me.”

“Scarlett, you know so little about marrying a stranger. A husband can be very possessive. No man worth anything will let his wife gallivant around.”

“Well, I know enough to have figured out I can’t be a good wife to you. You’ve said your wife must be demure, quiet, born of pedigree, an impeccable dresser, and beautiful. And above all of this, she must be loyal and wonderful.”

“That’s you, when you make an effort.” I kiss her hand. It smells delicious and fruity. “You’re letting one of our mere hundreds of arguments confuse you. Why are we talking about this when I need to chat with Torrance first?”

“He’ll gather candidates in a week or two.”

“Scarlett, you can’t refuse me. I compromised you. I’ve thought of nothing else. I owe this to you, your father and the duke to make the situation right.”

She puts a hand to my cheek. “You still don’t get it. How can you be handsome and stupid?”

“You’re not marrying anyone else. That’s not possible. Marriage is something to be decided by a chaperone or guardian not—”

“Not a girl.” She sighs, her eyes have tears.

I’m desperate to eat my words. It never occurred to me how much I cared about her until I became jealous of her looking at a naked man and licking a spoon.

The carriage stops, and she grasps me by the barrel knot of my cravat. “Stephen, goodbye.”

She tugs my face to hers. Readying to fight with her and Torrance, I expect a kiss on the cheek.

That’s not what my Scarlett offers. Her lips claim mine. My mouth opens, and I taste sweetness of pineapples. Her tongue curls under mine, and I become her happy spoon.

Her arm wraps about my neck. Part of me is conscious of where we are. I wave at the window to make sure Benny doesn’t interrupt.

The kiss deepens. My pulse chases hers. I fight her tailcoat to feel her, not buttons.

She pulls away. Her face turns slightly. “We should get out. We’ve arrived.”

Scarlett is close enough that I smell sandalwood on her throat. The awful rosewater fumes from the brothel lessen when she fills my nostrils.

Her eyes, wide and dark, glitter at me. “Goodbye, Stephen Adam—”

I can’t let her finish. We can’t be done, when I just figured out what I want. I tug her back to me and teach the woman of science the proper mathematics of a kiss.

A kiss—its volume is infinite. It should take time, time without limit to explore the depths of her, her sweet mouth. Easing to the floor with Scarlett in my arms, I find the circumference of her hips and hold on to her with one arm. Half propped up along the cabinets beneath the seats, I let my free hand do division—splitting open a waistcoat, a shirt placard, and untucking the hem of some sort of shift.

“Yes, Stephen.”

This agreeable whimper alters my universe. Again she says my name, and I reach for the planets, the heavenly bodies of a bosom bound in bandages. I count the rotations of linen about her chest. These are the layers I must traverse to free her, to find us, to find our universe.

Scarlett straddles me and I understand that there’s a hidden beauty to her wearing breeches. Undoing a fall flap would be more accessible than layers of petticoats in the confined space of a carriage.

I tug a button. I stroke a waist. Silky skin and strong abdominals wait for me. Yet, we are on an open street in front of Anya House. There was more privacy at Madame Rosebud’s. The way we are dressed, a molly-house for gentlemen would do.

The humor of it all, how wrong all of this is, breaks my desire. “Scarlett, we need to stop. Scarlett—”

Her mouth covers mine. Her kisses grow more intense. I hear whispers for more, whimpers to love her, a list of wanton anatomy. Her textbook knowledge of parts and functions blisters my skin.

If she uses a Latin term, I’m done.

“Don’t hesitate, Stephen,” she says. “Give me something to remember of you. A comparison.”

“Remember . . . what are you saying? Goodbye? No. This is a beginning.”

She stops. “Why can’t you be normal? Why must you think of tomorrow?”

“Because that’s who I am. Temptress, tormentor, who are you?”

I pull my hands from her hips and fall to the smelly floor. The brothel’s rosewater scent is like smelling salts. It brings me back to my senses. “The duke can get us a special license. Or we can do that Cossack marriage thing Lord Mark and Georgina speak of. I want you as my wife as soon as possible.”

Her head tilts as she hovers above me. “I just like that you want me.”

Her smile is wicked as her hands claw into my jacket. Her fingers slip against my waistcoat. Like a scalpel, her fingers find skin. With a firm hold, she dips close and kisses me.

I savor her and laugh inside at how quiet talkative Scarlett has become. She’s studying me like I’m an exhibit. Yet, I just want to love her.

Her heart pounds against my chest. Again, I forget myself, all the promises I’ve made to the duke, her late father, and even my soul. I tow her to me and taste warm and sugary Scarlett until she moans my name. “Stephen Adam Carew, take me.”

Nothing has ever sounded so good.

I savor her lips, draining all the honey this haven of beauty, this hive of wonderment, offers.

My hand finds her hips again, the breeches, the fall, her buttons. It takes everything to stop. I raise my hands high. “I’m begging, Scarlett. Let’s do this right.”

Frowning, the honeybee pulls away. But I’m already stung.

Her eyes are wide. She’s staring at me.

“Listen.” I say. “You will marry me. I’ve compromised you in a brothel, and now in my carriage.”

“No one saw. The prostitutes won’t speak of it.”

I point to the glass behind me. In her mirror-black eyes, I see the reflection of Benny’s hat, the back of his mantle. “He’s always right there to open the door when my carriage stops.”

Her gaze flicks up and she leaps away, backing onto the seat. “Command him not to tell.”

“It’s not that simple, Scarlett.” Breathing heavily, I sit up. “Benny’s loyal. He’ll protect us, but that doesn’t change what I know, what we almost did. Your trust in me deserves bettah.”

“Better?”

“Yes. That’s what I said. We’re going to marry. And Friday, you’ll go with me in a dress to the aunties. You’ll be pretty and introduced as my wife.”

She’s silent. Yet, her gorgeous eyes are wet. “Thank you for the decent kiss. I like comparisons. These were better.”

“What comparisons, Scarlett?”

“Immaterial. For I must decline your offer. The duke knows beautiful women. He’ll arrange for you to have someone good to bring to the aunties. Good day, Stephen.”

Scarlett opens the door, bounces off my seat and runs into Anya House.

I’m stunned. Why would she say yes to a moment of passion, but not a lifetime? We can plan and build a life.

My head is all over the place. What did I let happen? What did she do to me? Why do I know she just won whatever game we’ve been playing?

A knock on the carriage door startles me. “Great, Scarlett. We need—”

The door opens and disappointment hits my gut.

Benny leans inside. “Yuh going to get out and chase her? ’Bout time yuh realized yuh love her.”

What?

“But since she’s left yuh, guess she don’t feel the same.”

Looking up at a frowning Benny makes me feel more foolish. “You think you can get the rosewater smell out of here, so the next time I lose my mind, the stench won’t cheapen the moment to a brothel?”

Benny’s frown deepens. “Did yuh lose yuh mind, sir? Or did yuh find yuh heart.”

I ‘ve lost my mind and Scarlett’s gone. Was I grander, more passionate, more of a hero when I was out of my mind? “She said I bettah now and not then?” I work my jaw and say, “Better.”

“Yes, sir?”

I wave him away, but as I sit up, he says, “I’ll get the smell out wit help from di duke’s mews. That should give yuh plenty of time to go fix what yuh did wrong.”

I check my buttons, tweak the position of my cravat. “I need to get this right.”

Benny tries to help, but I force myself out of my carriage. Again, I wave away assistance. Straightening my wrinkled tailcoat, I start walking toward the front door of Anya House.

I must find the fleeing bride-to-be. I’m annoyed, hot and stiff. She’s left my skin feeling like fire.

But I want her, want her back. I need her fighting with me, kissing me, sending me to crazy places, where every time we talk, touch, taste seems safer and more sensible and secure.

I don’t understand why Scarlett is willing to be with me in a brothel, wanting to bed me in my carriage, but won’t wed me. What has soured her to the idea of marriage. These unions can be respectful and lustful . . . and become loving.

I’m not my grandfather. I won’t force a marriage by confessing to a compromise, but I’m not giving up on Scarlett. She needs to tell me why my hesitation to have at her in the carriage has chased my vixen away.