The Lady's Wicked Proposition (Wicked Liaisons series) by Vivienne Westlake

Chapter One
     
    London, May 21, 1816
     
    As the heavy sighs of his lover quieted to slow breaths, Francis Chevalier stroked her collarbone and pressed a hard kiss to her lips. The dark night enveloped them in the secluded corner of the garden, far from the other guests.
    “I wish I could stay.” Lady Braun twirled a lock of his ash-brown hair around her gloved finger. “My husband returns from Vienna tomorrow.”
    He nodded and then kissed her again. The flavor of champagne and strawberries lingered on her tongue, and she smelled as sweet as she tasted.
    The sound of voices cut through the still night air. Had Simon and Rowena come looking for him? To linger would risk the lady’s reputation, and he had no desire to face the baron over pistols at dawn.
    With a soft kiss and a squeeze, Lady Braun whispered, “You must go. Please.” The silk curtain of her dress fell to the ground, signaling the play had ended, and it was time for his final bow.
    “ One kind kiss before we part, drop a tear, and bid adieu; though we sever, my fond heart till we meet shall pant for you .” The sweet line from The Parting Kiss seemed fitting.
    She smiled. “I shall think of you fondly.” He squeezed her hand one last time before he walked away.
    As the cool night air enveloped him, he sighed. Another lover lost. Tomorrow, the game would begin anew.
    Down the path, he saw Simon, the new Earl of Waverly, with his bride. Their bright smiles seemed genuine, and the way her arm pressed into his, looped close together, spoke of an intimacy that Francis envied.
     
    ***
     
    Two Weeks Later
     
    After nine glasses of champagne, Edwina Merriweather had lost all pretense of modesty and conceded that she was thoroughly enjoying herself. This was so unlike her last visit to London, when she’d been too meek and tongue-tied to speak to a man as captivating as Mr. Francis Chevalier.
    What a difference five years and a new-found fortune could make.
    “You have spent most of the night playing cards,” Mr. Chevalier remarked, studying her from across the card table. “I suspect you are avoiding someone, or you are keen to spend your family’s fortune post-haste.” He patted the pile of bank notes and markers he’d won from her.
    “I should say the same to you, sir.” This was the third party where he’d spent hours in the card room rather than on the dance floor, though Chevalier had no shortage of available dance partners. “A flock of admirers follow you at every soiree, yet you’ve been at the tables all evening.” They’d been playing Vingt-et-un for two hours.
    “I confess. I see no need to spend the evening letting naïve debutantes step on my toes and make silly declarations of love. I am not in the market for a wife.”
    She lost herself in the deft manipulations of his strong, firm hands as he shuffled the deck. His gloves lay casually discarded on the polished walnut table. On the back of his hand, she saw a pale, thin scar. Another marked his chin. Were those from the war, or from a brawl?
    He handed her two cards. No doubt she’d lose another hundred pounds before the night ended—he was a far better card player than she, even when she hadn’t been drinking—but she had no inclination to walk away and look for her friend, Lady Swinton.
    “Since we are making confessions,” she said, taking another sip of champagne, “I shall admit that despite the current rumors, I am not in the market for a husband.”
    She glanced at the ace and the two in her hand and determined that the round was already lost. He had a king visible, and if his other card was a ten, he’d win.
    “What is it that brings you to town, then?”
    “I could answer that I simply wanted the freedom to enjoy myself. However, it is much more than that.” She fingered the crystal glass, nearly toppling it over in her clumsiness. So much for impressing him with her grace and charm.
    When she looked up, his stare caught hers. What if she admitted her true