The Wager (Entangled Scandalous) by Lily Maxton

Chapter One
    London, 1818
    Anne Middleton threw herself behind the billiards table just as the door to Lord Fairchild’s library opened.
    “Damnation!” she cursed under her breath, listening to muffled footsteps cross the red-and-gold Persian rug that rested in the center of the floor. The faint, haunting sounds of a Beethoven piece drifted down from the drawing room.
    This was all Olivia’s fault. Anne’s younger sister had been telling her about a scandalous novel called Confessions of a Courtesan , which was all the talk of the fancy London soiree they were attending. She and her sister had entered a not-entirely-appropriate conversation about whether their portly host, who liked to extol proper, virtuous behavior in ladies, possessed a copy of the book.
    Olivia had said he wouldn’t. Anne had been adamant he would.
    So, of course, they’d made a wager.
    Not a large one—just a shilling. To Anne, wagering was far more about the satisfaction of winning than the money itself.
    Unfortunately, one of them had to search through the man’s study to find the damn thing. Which was why Anne was now crouched behind the billiards table in this masculine space of mahogany furniture and red-painted walls, interrupted from her task of perusing the bookshelves by an unforeseen visitor.
    It was probably for naught. If Lord Fairchild was indeed a lecher, she didn’t doubt he kept the book tucked under his pillow for nightly readings.
    She heard the creak of the door opening again.
    “My lord,” said a breathy little voice. “I hoped I would find you here.”
    A hesitation. “Indeed, Miss Richards? And why is that?”
    Anne frowned. The voice—she’d heard it before, but it wasn’t Lord Fairchild’s distinct nasal-tinged tones.
    Oh good Lord! Had she been caught in the midst of someone’s assignation?
    “I ardently admire you,” the feminine voice declared. “My feelings will not be repressed!” This was followed by an excited moan and what sounded like a scuffle.
    “Miss Richards. I must insist you stop this.” The man sounded breathless, but not in a swoony way like his companion—more as if he’d just exerted himself fighting her off and was at the last thread of patience. “If I’ve misled you, please forgive me.”
    “But…b-but…” she stammered. “You danced with me at last week’s ball. Twice!”
    “I’ve danced with more than one lady twice.” A pause. “It’s best if you go. I should hate for someone to find us here and think I was trying to lure you into a compromising position.”
    The lady gasped, as though the notion was entirely shocking. Anne thought it rang a bit false. “But, my lord, the feelings between us—”
    “I insist,” he said, an edge to his voice. “I don’t like to be so forceful, but you leave me no choice—the only feelings between us are on your side.” It seemed he was done being polite.
    It seemed Miss Richards recognized it, too. “Very well,” she said in clipped tones. “But mark my words, you’ll realize your feelings for me and you will regret this! It’s not over.”
    There was a haughty little sniff, followed by quick footsteps and the thud of the door. A landscape painting above the billiards table trembled.
    Anne waited for the man to leave, but a heavy, masculine sigh filled the room. The sound contained a world of annoyance, and she imagined it was how Atlas, with the world balanced on his shoulders, would have sighed.
    She tried, and failed, to stifle a laugh. She froze at the sudden silence, the stillness. And then those muffled steps, slow and evenly paced, drew closer and closer. Her heart leaped to her throat.
    Gleaming black shoes came into her field of view, long, firm legs covered by well-made trousers, a silk waistcoat, a white cravat. Her upward perusal ended on a striking aristocratic face—high cheekbones, a prominent, aquiline nose, green eyes, and dark hair. At the moment, his firm jaw was clenched.
    A jolt of recognition