Free Scandalous Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novella by Christy Carlyle Page B

way he sometimes licked his bow-shaped upper lip after swallowing a bit
of the concoction.
    Then he looked up and saw her there, listening furtively, lurking
around the corner as if she didn’t belong. His eyes were so dark. For a moment
she thought them black, but then the fireplace kicked up, brightening the room,
and she noticed a hint of amber in their depths. His brows and lashes were dark
and stood out in striking contrast against his pale skin. He wore his hair
long, as detectives were allowed to do. It curled at the ends and curved in
shiny black waves around his face. His clothes were neat and well cut, nearly
as well tailored and fine as her father’s best. And his
mouth. She could not look at his mouth—his wickedly full, perfectly
shaped lips—without licking her own. As she stared at his mouth, burning to
know how it would feel against hers, against parts of her body no man had ever
seen, it curved upward into a grin.
    He’d caught her staring. Her gaze shot up to his eyes and she
found he still watched her. His gaze burned into her, melting her. Damp heat
pooled between her thighs. Though separated by the space of the Ainsworth
drawing room, it was as if they drew near each other, suspended between her
father’s drone and Sara’s silly giggles.
    Her mother broke the spell, calling Lizzy’s name and insisting she
join them, entertain them. It was a tried and true ritual when the Ainsworths had guests. Lizzy played the piano and Sara
accompanied with her sweet, high voice.
    Lizzy agreed. How could she do otherwise? She’d strode toward the piano, crossing near Ian Reed, much closer than was necessary. His
gaze was still on her. She felt it like the lightest touch against her skin.
Sitting at the piano, waiting for Sara to take her place, Lizzy looked back at
him.
    He’d lost interest in her. He was watching Sara as she practiced
scales and prepared to sing.
    Then an extraordinary thing happened. Sara, always so sure in her
notes, soaring higher than a human voice should, lost her pitch. She sounded
out a squeak and then a deep, low octave warble, as if she was singing round a
mouthful of wool.
    When Lizzy looked up to see about Sara, she caught him smiling. It
was only a flash of straight, white teeth, but it transformed his face,
maintaining all of the night-dark beauty and adding a hint of boyishness.
    What if she saw that same smile this night, laughing at her
ridiculous request, just as he’d found amusement in her sister’s poor singing?
    She rapped on the door of his lodging. She half expected a
landlady to open and turn her away. Most landlords did not allow their single
gentlemen to have women callers. But there was no landlady.
    The door creaked open and Ian Reed stood before her, just a
hairsbreadth away, smelling of soap and clean linen, his black hair slightly
damp and his skin smooth and freshly shaven.
    She didn’t get a word out before she heard her name on his lips
and felt his warm breath against her face.
    “Miss Ainsworth.”
    His tone belied shock and disbelief at her presence on his
doorstep so late at night. No proper woman would be at his door at this hour.
He ushered her in, closed the door behind them, and slid the lock in place.
    “Is your father unwell?”
    It was natural he would think her visit related to her father. It
was the only connection between them. Except for her inability to keep Ian Reed
from her thoughts.
    “My father is well, Inspector Reed. Thank you.”
    His rooms were small—just two rooms separated by a doorframe
without a door. A suit lay on his bed, a brush discarded beside it. She had
interrupted his household chores. Sparsely furnished, the room’s only true
adornment was his collection of books, some in a neat row on a shelf, others
stacked on a wooden chair, and two lying on a small table near his bed. His
love of books and literature, his intelligence and voracious curiosity, had
become clear during his visits to Lizzy’s home. She also loved