Author: Anne Stuart

"Was that rough?" she asked innocently. "It perhaps lacked a bit of finesse, but you managed well enough."

He wanted to laugh, he wanted to kiss her. "I didn't really consider you deserved my best effort, since you had absolutely no idea what you were doing."

"Indeed. I would hope that wasn't your best effort. I would be sadly disappointed if society considered

"Society does not have an opinion of my expertise in the bedroom."

"Of course it does. Where do you think you get your nicknames? Skirtchaser. Whoreniaster. Libertine. Gamester. Drunkard—"

"Bitch," he returned pleasantly.

"Oh, dear," she murmured. "Does that mean you've changed your mind? Perhaps you only like sweet, inexperienced women."

"Are you going to tell me you've suddenly gained experience other than the quite effective swiving I gave you?" His voice was silken.

"It's been three weeks, my lord."

"Has it? I haven't been paying any attention." Point lame, he thought.

"Ah, but I've been enjoying myself immensely. I suppose I should thank you for introducing me to the sport of lovemaking. And I don't mean to criticize— you did your best, and for a halfhearted effort it was a good beginning. And truly, I don't mind bedding you again. I'm certain you improve with practice."

He was quite in awe of her. She was carrying this off beautifully. She was expecting she could infuriate him enough to let her go. Unfortunately the more inventive her insults the more enchanted he was with her imagination. It was, of course, possible that she'd spent the last three weeks imitating her dear friend and shagging everyone in sight. Bui he sincerely doubted it. She still moved like an innocent.

A woman changed. Not through the magic of sex—the women in his family, in society, still walked demurely, at least for the most part. But women who spent the majority of their lives in their lovers' beds walked differently. With an erotic sway to their hips. A knowing way of carrying themselves certain to draw the attention of any randy young buck.

Charlotte walked like a virgin, kissed like a virgin, reacted to his ridiculous attempt at abducting her like a virgin.

But she fought him like a woman, an angry one. A hurt, abandoned one. And part of him wanted to slop playing this ridiculous game and hold her. The rest of him was having too much fun.

"I'm honored that you're giving me a chance to improve on such a shoddy performance," he said, and grinned in the darkness when he heard her distressed intake of breath. If she'd ever played cards with him she would have known this wouldn't work. "What else?"

“What else what?" Her voice quieter in the darkness. They were nearing Grosvenor Square—the best way to reach his home was to go directly past Whit-more House. He wondered if she knew that.

"What other insults are you planning to lob at my head?" he said. 'They're quite entertaining."

"I'm so glad I've amused you," she said, some of her bravado fading. "But in truth, I think we can both agree that what happened three weeks ago is something not worth repeating. You can certainly find much better company for that sort of thing."

"But Miss Spenser, now that you have all this expertise, don't you want to form a more experienced opinion on my technical prowess? Size, stamina, imagination..."

She said nothing.

"Admit it, Charlotte," he said lazily. "You've spent the last three weeks mooning over me. Crying your eyes out over my rude departure. I think you'd give anything to have me again."

"Do you, indeed? When I've had so much better?"

He laughed softly. "Prove it."

He heard her swift intake of breath. "I beg your pardon?"

"If you've spent the last three weeks on your back with various men, show me what you learned."

The coach had pulled to a stop, but no one came to open the door. His servants knew not to disturb him until he rapped on the roof of the carriage.

She sat there frozen, holding her breath. And he was holding his, hoping against hope that she was going to try to continue this charade to its natural

And then she let it out in a whoosh. "Take me home," she said in a small voice. "So you lied."

“Yes. Take me home or I'll scream.”

“I’m shocked," he said cheerfully. "I would never have thought you'd succumb to such a weak defense. I'll tell you what. We'll wager for your release."

There was more light coming in the carriage now, and he could see her clearly. Unfortunate, because his wanting her became stronger than ever.

"So you can get away with saying you never rape," she said bitterly. "I suppose you want to play cards so that you can easily cheat."

"Nothing so crass. Just come over here and let me kiss you. And then it's up to you whether you go or stay."

She stared at him in disbelief. "You've already kissed me tonight," she said flatly. "Half a dozen times, if anyone's counting. And I still want you to let me go."

"Well, then you shouldn't worry about the wager. You'll win. All you have to do is let me kiss you for, let's say, three minutes, and then if you want to leave I'll have my coach take you straight back to Grosvenor Square."

He could see her swallow, and he wanted to put his mouth against her throat. He stayed very still.

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"Why not? I'm perfectly willing to live with the consequences. In fact, it's more than dear that I happen to want you. I don't know why—you're clumsy and red-haired and too smart for your own good. I'd be much better off with a whore, or at least someone like your friend Lady Whitmore. Someone marginally familiar with the delights of bed sport. But for some inconceivable reason I happen to want you."

"I'm so flattered," she said in acid tones.

He knew her weakness. She wanted to be pretty, and thought she wasn't. When in fact he thought she was quite the prettiest thing in his memory. With her sun-flecked skin, her round, gorgeous breasts, her long, exquisite legs. Everything about her was pretty.

But he wasn't going to tell her that. He was going to tell her everything that was wrong with her, in hopes of keeping her away.

"I may want you, but if you say no it won't trouble me. We had unfinished business when I left Sussex. Tonight it will be finished, one way or another. Are you game?"

"And if I refuse?"

He hadn't considered that one. "I suppose I can let you down here and you could walk back to Grosvenor Square. I wouldn't recommend it—a woman alone on London streets might be mistaken for a woman of easy virtue. Which, unfortunately, you are not. Come, my sweet darling, take the wager. We can't sit here all night."

She looked at him for another long, contemplative moment. "All right."

He kept his smile hidden. “Come over here and climb on my lap again.”

"We were talking about a kiss and nothing more.”

"No, we were talking about three minutes of kissing and whatever that entails. Surely you don't think I could get into that much trouble in three minutes, do you?"

The blessed girl looked torn. Clearly she had no idea just what he could manage in that period of time. "All right," she said again, and moved across the seal toward him.

It would have been entertaining to make her climb into his lap, but he had a real fear as to what her knee might hit, so he picked her up and placed her there, crossing his legs to provide a cradle for her. "When do the three minutes start?" she asked, some of her nerves finally showing.

"Now," he said, one hand pulling her head down to his. The other reaching beneath her skirts.

He was ruthless, Charlotte thought dazedly as his mouth covered hers, hot and wet, breathing in her breath, using his tongue with such thoroughness that she started to think it was her favorite part of his body. He leaned back against the seat, pulling her with him so she half sat, half reclined, the ever-present reminder of his own arousal beneath her bum. His kiss was a reminder of everything she had felt in that small room in Sussex, the emotions, the sheer, blazing passion, even the shame.

And she was lost in it. Lost in him. Just for a moment, just for now, she could have it back, that which she thought was gone for good, and she was done fighting. She felt him slide his hands under her voluminous skirts and she didn't try to stop him. When his fingers slid between her legs she didn't clamp them shut in maidenly modesty, she let him push them apart, touching her in her most private place where she knew she was shamefully wet from his words and his promises, wet and she didn't care. His fingers slid easily amid the moisture, touching the place he'd told her about, the place mat held such power over her body, and she whimpered in response.

He moved his mouth across her cheek, to the soft edge of her hairline, and his tongue was at her ear. "That's right, my precious Charlotte. Don't fight me. You'll like this, I promise you." And he slid one finger inside her, deep.

She arched off his lap, struggling for a moment, but he simply pulled her back against his body, clamping her there, while he replaced one finger with two, as his thumb brushed above.

The feeling was electric, powerful, disturbing. It was one thing when they were both naked in bed, but here in his coach, fully dressed, the driver above and people walking by on the streets, he was touching her so intimately that she wanted to die of shame. And pleasure.

Her hands had been trapped between them, but when he'd shifted her they were free, and she knew she ought to push his hand away, push his body away. He'd lied, he said he was only going to kiss her, and instead he was doing this unspeakable thing to her.

But instead, she put her arms around his neck and brought his mouth down to hers, kissing him back as he rubbed her, slowly, deliciously, his fingers pushing in deep as he brought her to the very edge of rapture, so that she was barely able to breathe, her fingers clutching him, her hips pushing at him, wanting more, needing more.