The Rake's Bargain. Lucy Ashford

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?’

      Beau gripped her tight and let his mouth come down on hers. Hard, relentless and demanding.

      He wanted to teach her a lesson. He wanted to show her that her charms left him cold. He planned to kiss her briefly, than thrust her away with some icy insult.

      But instead it was he who was being taught a lesson—that her kiss was sweet, sweeter than he could have believed possible. He found himself holding her closer, prising her lips apart, forcing his tongue inside her mouth to take sure possession, and he was mystified, because there was something totally unexpected about her. In spite of those outrageous books, she somehow carried the allure of innocence, and at the first touch of her lips desire had hit him like a punch in the stomach, momentarily winding him.

      And now her arms were tightly around his waist; her lovely face was lifted expectantly to his and he was unable to resist caressing her lips with his again, feeling arousal thud through his loins as he drew her closer, thinking in wonder, Her kiss is soft and sweet. She’s not like the other one, even though she’s the exact image. Not like her at all...

      In almost the very same instant, he heard two sets of footsteps pounding up behind him.

      Before he could do a thing, the girl was already plunging her hand into his pocket to snatch out his pistol, and both his arms had been seized from behind.

      Her two colleagues had returned.

      You fool, he told himself bitterly. You stupid fool. To fall for her tricks...

      The girl had retreated a few yards,