Prologue
June 1813
If there was one thing impossible for a Davies to resist, it was a challenge from a Montgomery.
Harriet Montgomery knew this in the same way she knew the earth revolved around the sun. She also knew, with aggravating certainty, that her life would be infinitely less exciting if Morgan Davies managed to get himself killed while off fighting against Napoleon. The man was insufferable, but their gleeful mutual animosity had been a constant in her existence for as long as she could remember.
Who would torment her if he were dead? Who would she delight in infuriating as much?
No one.
It simply wouldn’t do.
One solution, of course, would be to tell him she hoped he never came back. Generations of Davieses had made it their primary goal to thwart their Montgomery rivals, and Morgan wasn’t one to flout tradition. He would stay alive just to spite her.
But Harriet couldn’t bring herself to utter those particular words. She did want him to come back—as annoying as that was to admit—and she preferred not to lie unless absolutely necessary.
The best way to ensure that he returned safely, therefore, was to offer him the chance to get the upper hand in their never-ending battle of one-upmanship. At least temporarily. He would do everything in his power to make it back to England simply for the chance to gloat. Or to claim his prize.
He was leaving tomorrow. Which was precisely why she’d saved her most outrageous dare for tonight. Why she’d allowed him to corner her in Lady Glencoe’s ballroom.
She had to give him something worth living for.
* * *
“I suppose you’ve heard I’m off in the morning?”
Morgan kept his tone studiously carefree. It had taken him twenty minutes to maneuver Harriet Montgomery into a quiet corner of Lady Glencoe’s ballroom, and he relished the hectic flush that rose to her cheeks when she realized she’d been trapped into a private conversation with him.
“Yes, I’d heard.”
Harriet’s gray eyes clashed with his and his gut tightened in response, but he kept his face as inscrutable as ever. It would be a cold day in hell before he revealed the effect she had on him.
He tilted his head and sent her a mocking glance. “What, no tears to send me on my way? No wistful goodbyes? Perhaps you’re hoping I’ll meet a watery end out there in the Atlantic?”
Her cheeks reddened even more. It could have been with embarrassment, or merely irritation. It was too much to hope for both.
“My commiserations would be for the fishes, for having to endure your eternal company,” she said pertly. “Now step aside.”
He grinned at her acerbic wit and stayed right where he was. “Come now. Aren’t you the least bit worried that I might come to grief? Who will you aim your barbs at if I’m not here to be your target?”
She raised her brows. “As much as your presence irks me, Davies, I’m not so mean-spirited as to wish you serious harm.”
Her overly sweet tone indicated that a small degree of injury—a bloody nose or a slapped face, for example—would be perfectly acceptable. Morgan fought the urge to laugh. He’d take a slap from Harriet over a kiss from another woman any day. He sent her a mocking bow. “I’m touched by your concern.”
“I am concerned, actually. You’ve had the devil’s own luck up until now. You’ve managed to wriggle, fight, or charm your way out of every sticky situation you’ve been in. But luck runs out—especially in wartime.” She shook her head. “You men are all so foolishly heroic, I bet you’ll do something stupid and end up dead.”
Morgan’s grin turned wolfish as he pounced on her careless wording. “You’ll bet me, eh? Very well. I accept.”
“Accept what?”
“Your bet.”
Harriet blinked. “It was a figure of speech! I—”
“No, no. You said, ‘I bet you’ll end up dead,’ and I’ll take that bet. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to disoblige you.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Harriet gave a huff of disapproval, but Morgan was sure her lips twitched with the slightest hint of amusement too. His gut tightened in response. She really did have the most tempting lips.
“So what are we playing for?” he pressed.
Her cool gray eyes studied his face with such intensity that for a brief moment he lost the thread of the conversation.
“Fine. I’ll play. If you return alive, Morgan Davies, I’ll give you…”
His brain snapped back to attention. “Three wishes? Like a genie in one of those Eastern fairy tales?”
She scowled at his cheeky suggestion. “No! You’d make me do something illegal, or dangerous. Or something that would ruin my reputation.”
He clapped his hand to his chest in faux distress. “You wound me, Miss Montgomery! But all right, think of something else. Something good. If I lose, I’ll be dead, remember. And you’ll be celebrating.”
“If you win, I’ll declare in public that you’re my favorite Davies.”
“Pfft. That’s like saying I’m your favorite strain of cholera. Try again.”
“Very well.” Her gaze dropped to his lips and a flash of naughty amusement lit her face. His cock twitched in his breeches.
“If you win, and return home unscathed, I’ll grant you three … kisses.”
Morgan blinked. In all their previous interactions, they’d never bet with anything so physical.
So intimate.
With anything he’d wanted more.
Harriet’s cheeks were scarlet and he could see from the panicked rise and fall of her chest that she’d surprised herself with her provocative response, but she forced her gaze back up to his and their eyes clashed again.
The gauntlet had been thrown down.
The game was on.
He leaned in, enjoying the way she backed against the wall to try to maintain a chaste distance. He caught a tantalizing whiff of her floral perfume, and bent his head until his lips hovered near her ear.
“Enduring three kisses from me is the worst forfeit you can think of?”
“It is.” She sounded rather breathless.
“Worse than attending a ball without a corset, or accepting a dance from Lord Litchfield?”
He pulled back just a fraction, until they were nose to nose, and tilted his head to indicate the aging, lecherous aristocrat to their right. The man was as renowned for his lack of bathing as he was for his wandering hands.
A flash of defiance lit Harriet’s gray eyes. “A hundred times worse.”
He sent her a cynical, mocking look. “What did Shakespeare say about ladies who protest too much? I’m starting to think you’d like me to kiss you.”
“I’d rather kiss a frog,” she said quickly. “A frog would have a chance of turning into a handsome prince.”
“Whereas I’ll never be anything other than an ugly rogue, is that it?” he finished, amused.
“Precisely.”
“Ah well. Since I am a rogue—although I disagree with you about the ugly part—I can’t refuse your suggestion. Three kisses if I come back alive? Done.”
He let his gaze linger for a long moment on her lips. God, if only he could give her a brief sample of what she’d let herself in for. His blood surged at the thought of pressing his mouth to hers. He’d dreamed of it forever. She would taste of disapproval and desire: a heady, irresistible combination.
She’d slap his face, of course, or knee him in the groin, and there would be one hell of a scandal. He was tempted to do it anyway and then sail away, leaving her blustering to make the necessary explanations.
But he wasn’t such a cad as to ruin her in public. She might be a Montgomery, but she was still a lady.
“Would you like me to enter it in White’s betting book? Make it official?” he teased, just to be perverse.
“What? No! The whole world would see it! This is between you and me, Davies. A private wager.”
“Can a Montgomery be trusted to keep their word?”
She sent him an outraged glare, just as he’d known she would. “Of course!”
“All right then.” He reached out and pinched her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes again. “You know I’ll hold you to it, don’t you?”
Her throat dipped as she swallowed. “Yes.”
“Even if—by some miracle—you find a man fool enough to marry you while I’m gone, you’ll still have to grant me those kisses.”
“I know,” she breathed.
“Good.” With a final nod he forced himself to take a cooling step back.
God, they were ridiculous. Why couldn’t they simply admit to wanting to kiss each other? But things had gone too far to backtrack now. They were stuck in this cycle of provocative teasing, even though there was no question that Harriet looked at him with a combination of irritation and reluctant desire.
She might be too innocent to realize what it was, but he was not. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it now. Not when he was about to leave.
He sent her a mocking bow. “I’ll bid you adieu, then, Miss Montgomery.”
She caught his wrist as he straightened, surprising him. She rarely touched him voluntarily. His skin tingled at the unexpected contact, even though she was wearing evening gloves.
“Don’t say adieu. Say au revoir,” she scolded. “We have to meet again if you want those kisses.”
“Very well. Au revoir.” He tried to lighten his tone, to leave her with a laugh, but a crushing sensation was squeezing his chest and a knot of emotion was forming in his throat. Leaving her was harder than he’d imagined, damn it.
She released his wrist and lifted her chin to that haughty angle that made him want to grab her and kiss her senseless. “Stay alive, Davies. If I hear that you’ve died, I will be seriously displeased.”
Copyright © 2022 by Kate Bateman.
