Montfort had sent her. Percy knew it in a flash.
What he didn’t know was why.
Familiar anticipation charged through Percy, urging him on, toward the edge of the precipice that would drop him into the thick of whatever this night—and this woman—held for him. As a spy, he’d loved nothing better than a path that bent at sudden angles.
“Lead the way,” he replied, only just containing a cynical snort. What did Montfort think sending him a whore would accomplish? If this was a stratagem to catch him unawares, it was for amateurs.
The crowd, which had quieted to take in the exchange, burst free and broke into rounds of leers, hoots, and rowdy whistles. The frisson of unease returned and snaked through Percy, as if an unconscious part of himself understood that within this woman lay something he shouldn’t get tangled up in. Except . . .
When had he ever let such a feeling stop him? When hadn’t that feeling, instead, pushed him into the thick of it?
Whatever game Montfort had planned for Percy, he would play.
And he would win.
Chapter 2
Layered in thin black lace and thick red rouge, Isabel Galante looked her part.
Whore.
Except, was it playing a part once one did the deed and accepted payment? Wouldn’t it, in reality, make her one?
She wove across the main floor, through tight spaces packed with gaming tables, chaise longues, and sweaty bodies, expertly eluding the excited grasp of a hand or errant jab of an elbow, and questioned all the choices and bad luck that had led to this moment, with that man at her back.
Her instructions had included a short description—tall, dark, aristocratic—along with his precise location at the hazard table. And this tall, dark, aristocratic man had been standing in that very spot. She’d expected to find a thoroughly intoxicated, boorish lout bent on dice, women, and self-indulgence.
Instead, she had a wolf dogging her step, which was an altogether different proposition. In the general sense, louts were easier to tame than wolves. They didn’t lie in wait to consume one whole for a late-night dinner.
Further, she hadn’t expected him to be so . . . so devastating.
The way he moved suggested, utterly and completely, a body at ease with itself. In this place, the men put on a bold show of the confidence exclusive to the upper-classes, but the man at her back, unlike those others, inspired the belief that he could follow his supreme confidence with action.
A shiver of portent purled up Isabel’s spine, and a snatch of the conversation that had brought her to this moment pushed forward.
“What shall I have to do?” she’d asked.
“Hand me the keys to a man’s ruin.”
“Does he deserve it?”
“Likely not, but it’s for the good of England.”
Tonight, at last, after an interminable fortnight of waiting, Isabel had received her directive. It was clear, concise, and utterly distasteful.
A voice of doubt plagued her. And how do you expect to succeed where Eva failed?
Because she must. Because there was a debt. And it was she who must pay it. All other options had been exhausted.
Then, once paid, she would never look back on the sordid night that had bought her family’s hard-won safety.
Her step stuttered, and a firm hand—his hand—found the small of her back for no more than a pair of seconds, but long enough to make her body flash hot and cold and hot again. Dizzy nerves jangled through her body.
To steady herself, she called upon an image of Eva’s tortured, clammy face. Isabel’s jaw clenched with resolve. Her family’s future lay in her hands. Nothing else mattered. Her purpose regained its footing.
She found the first step of the staircase and glanced up to find a young—too young—strumpet named Tilly cascading toward her with girlish vitality, slowing long enough to whisper in Isabel’s ear, “Lawks, snatched yerself a right good ’andful o’ man there, didn’t ye?” A twinkle in her eye, the girl continued past on a giggle and a wink.
Wolf at her back—Isabel didn’t need to glance around to know he was there. He was the sort of man who made his presence felt—she hesitated at the top landing and considered the dim hallway and the door at its end. She must keep placing one step in front of the other. Now wasn’t the time to lose her nerve. Down the corridor she trudged, the discordant sounds of downstairs revelry fading fast. He stepped with a lighter tread than she would have thought for such a sizeable man.
Sizeable? Rangy and lean, he possessed a mass larger than the sum of its parts.
At last—or too soon?—the bedroom door handle was in her hand, and she’d pushed it open. The door clicked shut behind her, and her fate was sealed.
She was alone with this wolf.
If he decided to devour her, no one would be coming to her rescue.
Above her head, delicate, painted angels frolicked on the high fresco. Beeswax candles burned bright and clean in their polished brass candlesticks and candelabra, unlike the tallow to which she’d become accustomed these last few years. The air smelled fresh, expensive. Lush alabaster velvets and silks covered every soft surface, inviting the brush of a palm, the press of a body . . . or two. What better way to convey sinful luxury than with white?
She made a direct line across dense Persian wool for the libation cart, relieved it was on the opposite side of the room. On her way, she passed gaming table, chaise longue, and bed, a huge, canopied monstrosity that she had yet to sleep upon, having chosen the chaise longue instead. In truth, she’d only looked at the bed from the corner of her eye, knowing what she would have to do there when the time came, a time which was nearly now.
Numb fingers wrapped around the neck of a crystal decanter. “Brandy, my lord?”
“None.” His voice was masculine and controlled, as if he never raised it above its current volume. It was a voice that spoke of power, latent and confident.
She held the decanter suspended midair. “Something else?”
“Nothing.” Annoyance ran through the word. “Shall we begin our game?”
Isabel set the decanter down on a splashy clatter. “Of course, my lord. Your pleasure is mine.” She’d been told to speak those terrible words, and to smile while saying them.
Well, that last bit was too much.
The next phase of the night awaited her. Trembling fingers found the knot of her shawl and tugged it loose. It slipped off her shoulders in a soft shush. On a deep inhale, she pivoted to face him. His dark gaze narrowed and fixed onto hers. There they remained, inscrutable, never once darting to catch a glimpse of her bare breasts pushed up by the short whalebone corset that Tilly had pulled so tight that Isabel could hardly draw breath. Her traitorous, bare nipples puckered and all but screamed for his attention.