A Gamble on Love by Blair Bancroft Page A

was. Had he actually thought
he could carry this off like any other business contract? Just sign
his name and acquire yet another vast holding? If he had, he’d been
disabused of the notion when he saw his new wife about to be taken
from him. Of course, no one and no thing, once acquired, was ever
allowed to escape Thomas Lanning’s control, yet . . . this had been
different. As difficult as she could be, the new Mrs. Lanning had
some rather remarkable qualities. Besides being an all-too-tempting
morsel—
    A soft snick of the door . . . and
there she was, turning scarlet the moment she saw him looking at
her. Virgins!
    Lord, what else could he expect? Her
only contact with men was likely her father, the dastardly Trevors,
and that son of the squire, who was likely so backward he hadn’t
even tried to steal a kiss. And her mother may well have died
before having time to impart the necessary female information. Not
that she would need it tonight, of course. But Thomas began to
realize that his body had failed to get the necessary message from
the more rational part of him. Devil
it! Bridegrooms should be granted immunity from
fashionable tightly knit trousers. He could only hope his wife was
too innocent to notice. Thomas Lanning, rock hard man of business,
brought low by the sight of a female— his female—enveloped from neck to toe in a cocoon
of dark velvet. Thomas Lanning—Prince of the Exchange, the man who
prided himself on never being at a loss for words—rose to his feet,
cleared his throat, and held out his hand. “Do join me, Aurelia.”
Somehow he could not call her Mrs. Lanning, in spite of the vicar’s
words, the music, the avid congregation, and his signature on so
many official documents. The reality of it would not settle in his
mind. “You will find the fire . . . warming,” he added with little
of his usual glibness of tongue.
    Relia fixed her gaze on his hand. He
was adept at holding out a hand, was he not? Both literally and
figuratively. But— dear
Lord! —what was he wearing? Or not wearing.
    “ I trust you have no objection to
dining en déshabillé ?” her
husband ventured, as he waved her toward a tall upholstered chair
next to his.
    Relia had strong objections. No
gentleman would think of dining with a female with his jacket off
and his waistcoat quite shockingly unbuttoned, revealing so much of
his fine lawn shirt that she could see the shadow of something dark
beneath. Merciful heavens ! She
had occasionally seen shirtless workers in the field and knew many
men had hair on their chests, but surely not here in her very own room!
    Their room.
This very morning she had married this man.
    But, of course, Thomas Lanning was not
a gentleman, so how could she expect gentlemanly manners? Relia
rather suspected he had . . . had stripped quite deliberately—
    “ Come, come, my dear, no need to look
so wary. How could I tell you to dress comfortably and not do the
same myself? I would have looked quite foolish in coat and cravat
when you were . . .” Thomas sketched a graceful wave toward her
garments, his voice trailing away, to be replaced by what Relia
could only characterize as a salacious grin. She remained immobile,
her lower lip jutting into something that might, in a lesser
female, be called a pugnacious pout.
    “ Aurelia,” her husband said, still
holding out his hand, “may I remind you we are married? We are
about to enjoy our wedding supper. Think of it as en famille rather than en déshabillé .”
    Relia stared at the solid reality of Thomas
Lanning. Husband. The strongly handsome face, the warm brown hair
and piercing gray eyes. So very far from the vulgar Cit with
mediocre education she had once feared. The man who had saved her
life in more ways than one.
    Yet her feet refused to move toward his
outstretched hand.
    With easy grace, he strode toward her, as
inexorable as the change from day to night. He clasped her hand,
then paused, his gaze shifting to someone behind her.