Regency Surrender: Ruthless Rakes. Bronwyn Scott

did she see how she’d overplayed her hand. She should have said nothing about leaving Venice. It gave away too much, it invited too many questions, questions Nolan Gray was well on his way to asking and she didn’t want to answer.

      She speared him with a disdainful look that said the answer was obvious. ‘I can’t possibly stay in a city where everyone knows my guardian wagered me in a card game.’

      ‘Where will you go? Do you have plans?’ he asked, calmly unfazed by her attempt cut him down to size. He was trying to test her truth and her resolve, wondering how much of this was made up. He folded his hands over the flat of his stomach with long slender fingers that gave his gestures a touch of elegance. Those hands had undressed her last night, those fingers had worked the buttons of her gown. They’d been competent and swift, reminders that he knew his way around a woman.

      She infused her tone with a touch of hidden despair. ‘I don’t know where I’ll go. I can hardly think of such things before I have my resources to hand.’ She tried again to lure him into asking the question she wanted. She wanted him to offer, wanted his assistance to be his idea. Men worked better that way and she had no intentions of owing any man anything ever again. She wasn’t going to beg him to help her—then she would owe him. There would be a debt between them.

      ‘I could loan you the funds, gift them to you, if that would help,’ Nolan offered. He was so very eager to get rid of her. That was interesting in itself. She needed to remember that. Last night he’d offered her freedom and now he was offering her money. Therein lay her leverage. She could bargain with her absence. She would leave as soon as she had what she needed. He would quickly see that his help would expedite that.

      Outwardly, she opted for genteel chagrin. ‘I am not asking you for money!’ She flung an arm towards the bedroom. ‘I have enough pearls on that ruined gown in there to see me on my way and then some.’ And that pride went before her fall. She could almost hear proverbial fabric ripping as she metaphorically tripped. Nolan wasted no time calling her out.

      ‘Yes, you most certainly do, not to mention the necklace and earbobs. A resourceful woman could turn those into a comfortable living if she were frugal.’ A wide smile took his face, mischief lit his silver eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking quite satisfied with himself. ‘It seems we’ve established you could indeed leave Venice tonight, despite your earlier claim to the contrary. Now, why don’t you tell me what your father has that you so desperately need?’

      ‘He is not my father.’ If she had to give up some truth, it might as well be this one. ‘He’s my stepfather and not a very good one. That’s the sort of man who would sell his daughter’s virginity to cover a bet.’ The same sort of man who would propose to his stepdaughter and then threaten her when she refused such an unholy alliance. But she was not about to tell Nolan Gray that. She didn’t have to. No doubt he already surmised there was more to it than the count’s random whim to wager her. Cataclysmic events didn’t happen in isolation. They occurred as end results of a sequence of events that led up to them.

      An honest shadow of sadness passed through his eyes. ‘I am sorry.’ For a moment, they were no longer embattled opponents; she trying to hold on to her secrets, he trying to pry them loose. They were allies of a sort and in that moment. She sensed his compassion transcending their agendas, as if he knew what it had meant to live with the count. The compassion was there, just as it had been when he’d dragged her out of the canal, helped her out of her gown, saw to her bath, asking nothing for himself in exchange, not even that to which he was entitled on the base of the wager.

      Those three words, I am sorry, were more compelling than any argument he could have made, and, oh, how they tempted her to spill every last secret. Which of course was what he wanted. Logic waved its red flag. That’s what he wanted you to believe last night, just as he wants that now. He is using it to sneak past your defences. Trust like love was a very dangerous thing to give.

      ‘I won’t send you back,’ he said in even tones that matched the firm set of his jaw. There was a steel in him that had not been there before and it did things to her stomach she couldn’t blame on the brandy. ‘But perhaps I won’t have to. Perhaps he will come looking for you?’ He asked it casually, but she was not fooled. There was a feral tension uncoiling in him. ‘Tell me, Gianna, is the count dangerous?’

      She thought of Nolan’s knife. He would be better able to protect her, maybe even more willing to assist her if she told him the truth about this as well. She gave him her second truth. ‘Yes.’

      Nolan grinned. ‘Well, so am I.’

      In more ways than one. Her mind-reading, knife-wielding, card-gambling, virgin-winning Englishman might protect her from the count, but who would protect her from him? She wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d offered out of altruism. He would expect to get paid.

      Gianna wet her lips in a quick motion and untucked her legs, hoping to guide his response with the movements of her body. ‘What do you want in return?’ Her voice was low and throaty, a temptress’s tone.

      ‘What I’ve wanted all along, Princess.’ He let the words hang in the air long enough to make her pulse race, to steer her thoughts down a dark, seductive path, only to yank them ruthlessly back to reality. ‘I want you to leave.’ He rose and strode towards the door. ‘I have plans of my own and you do not figure into them. But since you won’t take my money or my offer of freedom, perhaps you will take my help.’

      He opened the door as if he’d heard a silent knock. On cue, a porter stood there with two women and their trunks, their arms draped with the frills and lace that denoted feminine garments. ‘Thank you, Antonio. Ladies, do come in. You are just in time.’ In time for what? Gianna wondered. Nolan turned to her. ‘You’ll need clothes if we’re to do this. You can’t wear my shirt for ever.’ He fished a folded sheet of paper out of his coat pocket. ‘Signora, here is a list of the things we’ll need, perhaps you will also have some ready-made items to leave today.’

      The dressmaker smiled knowingly. Gianna knew what the woman was thinking: here was a rich Englishman outfitting his Italian mistress, and she bristled at the implication. It was hard to hold on to one’s dignity dressed in a man’s shirt, no matter how good it smelled. ‘Signor, I know exactly what to do,’ she assured Nolan.

      ‘I know you do.’ He swept her a bow and then made one to Gianna. ‘I leave you in Signora Montefiori’s capable hands. If I have left anything off the list, please order it. I will see you tonight for supper.’

      It took Gianna a moment to register what was happening. He was leaving her here, in this room, to be fitted for clothes while he went off and did who knew what with who knew whom. She was in no position to protest. What woman turned down new clothes? Certainly not the woman who literally hadn’t a thing to wear.

      Besides, she had no claim on him. She could not make him stay nor, in reality, would she want him to stay. Right? On a practical level, being fitted for clothing was a rather intimate experience. Did she want him to be present while she stood in nothing but undergarments—assuming the dressmaker had brought some temporary ones—to be measured and draped, those grey eyes fixed on her for hours?

      The thought made her hot. She was a wicked girl not rejecting the notion out of hand. But she needn’t worry about that particular event coming to pass. Nolan was gone, the door shutting behind him and his promises to return for dinner.

      ‘Signorina, if you will stand here?’ Signora Montefiori brought forward a small dais. ‘Allora! We will get started. We have a lot to accomplish this afternoon. We have a man to please, no?’ She clapped her hands, and her two assistants sprang into action; taking out measuring tapes and notepads from their baskets, opening the trunks and pulling out bolts of cloth. In a matter of minutes, the room could have passed for a dressmaker’s shop.

      Signora Montefiori walked the perimeter of the dais, a finger tapping against her lips, murmuring indistinct sounds every so often. ‘Mmm-hmm, mmm... Ah, sì.’ Then, she stepped back and went to work, issuing commands to Gianna this time. ‘Raise your arms, straighten your