“Is there an order of suits in brag?” Brianna inquired of Rockwell.
“None,” he replied.
Brianna knit her brows and bit upon her lower lip. She pursed her lips and pouted as she stared at the cards. One of the other players sighed loudly.
“I would that you could counsel me, your lordship,” said Brianna.
Deana waited patiently though she wished the woman would hasten her decision that the game could be done with. She intended to quit after just one hand and take her mother’s advice with regards to the gaming hall—for the night at least. Despite her mother’s disapproval, the gaming hall was their only source of income.
Brianna tossed her cards at the table. “I fold.”
The next two players equaled Lord Rockwell’s bet. Deana looked at her own cards: a three of clubs, a two of clubs, and an ace of clubs. Perhaps Lady Luck had not deserted her after all! A running flush was a high note to end the evening upon. She pretended to consider the matter, then put in her two crowns.
In the next round, Lord Rockwell doubled his bet. The player beside Brianna folded, leaving three in the game. They went two more rounds before the third player folded. Deana eyed the pot. Despite her earlier dismay at the Baron’s arrival, she now appreciated that he had sat at her table. She could not pass up such a bounty.
Déjà vu tugged at her. She had sat across from him, a sizable pot between them, before. She had had a strong hand then only to find herself indebted to him for fifty pounds. A foolish desire to best a man who had all that she did not—wealth, title, and appearance—had persuaded her to bet more than she had.
That would not be the case tonight. She raised him another pound.
As he contemplated his cards, she admired the classic lines of his physiognomy, his full lashes, the faint indent to the right of his mouth…those strong, commanding lips.
Rockwell pushed his cards from him. “The win is yours, Miss Herwood.”
After inhaling in delight and relief, she collected her winnings with a calm that belied her fast-beating heart.
“The game of hazard is much kinder to you, my lord,” Brianna purred. “Shall we return to the dice tables?”
Rockwell stood and bowed. “Miss Herwood.”
Deana watched as Briana took his arm. Their departure left mixed emotions within her. She could not deny her disappointment that he had acknowledged her in only the most cursory of manners, though she should not expect the easy repartee they had exchanged in private to take place in a gaming hall. She wondered if he would have been more friendly if they were alone? But what a senseless question to ponder, she scolded herself.
As she collected the cards, she realized they had not shown their hands. She turned over the three cards Lord Rockwell had held. Her eyes widened upon beholding a pair royal, the only hand to trump a running flush.
* * * * *
What an odd fish, Deana decided of Lord Rockwell as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet tighter beneath her chin. First he had gifted her the elephant worth some twenty thousand rupees, now he had deliberately surrendered a winning hand. The aristocracy could indulge in the oddest behavior, she supposed as she remembered his outlandish wager that he would forfeit to her five hundred pounds if she failed to spend at his hands. With such a grand sum, she would have thought it simple to withhold from orgasmos. But her body had betrayed her better interests and surrendered to that sublime climax. Even now she could not contain the thrill from knowing that he could not have forgotten their night together or why else would he have deliberately lost to her? Did she dare hope that he held some affection for her even now?
She hurried down the steps outside the gaming hall with a light and cheerful tread. The late spring mist might soon turn into rain, and though her thin wrap would prove insufficient against the cool night air, she was warmed by Lord Rockwell’s gesture of charity.
But you must put him from your mind, bid the voice of reason. An act of charity does not signify anything more than the presence of altruism.
“Yes, yes,” she mumbled to herself, chagrinned that she could not allow herself to exalt in her small victory.
“Will you not take a sedan?”
She froze in her tracks. Deep in thought, she had not paid heed to the sound of footsteps behind her. Thank heavens it was not a thief—or worse. She turned around to face Lord Rockwell.
As if reading her mind, he said, “I could have done much harm had I malicious intentions.”
In the dark she could not discern his countenance well, but she heard the displeasure in his tone.
He continued, “For God’s sake, if you cannot secure a chair, at the very least, bribe the page to accompany you home. You cannot claim to lack the means tonight.”
She felt the weight of the coins in her purse, but she had no need for a lecture from the likes of him. “I have walked this way well enough many, many times before.”
Her assurance seemed to displease him more for she thought she saw his nostrils flare.
He narrowed his eyes. “With or without consuming three glasses of port?”
It was her turn to be offended. She remembered well his disapproval of her drinking, and though he made a salient point and she should be obliged by his concern, she did not appreciate his unsolicited intervention.
“I am quite capable of taking care of myself, your lordship.”
His frown conveyed the strength of his doubt.
“My carriage is ready and waiting. I would be much obliged if it could take you home, Miss Herwood.”
She hesitated. It was not the ride but the thought of being in his company in close quarters that unsettled her.
“Thank you for the gracious offer,” she replied, “but if you wish to upbraid me for what you consider to be the foolhardiness of walking the streets alone after midnight, I bid you find a different place and time.”
His features relaxed and she thought she detected a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. Once again she had to force her gaze from those tantalizing lips.
“Such insolence must not proceed with impunity,” he murmured.
She flushed at his words. Her skin heated once more with the memory of his commanding lips upon hers, of how delightfully forceful he had been.“For your welfare, Miss Herwood, I urge you to accept.”
She was sure the word he meant to use was command. Her spine stiffened. Their short-lived affair had ended. She was under no obligation to him. He was mistaken if he could carry on as if their prior arrangement were in place.
But the effects of the wine she had consumed lingered, and in retrospect, she was quite fortunate that nothing tragic had happened to her the times she had walked home alone so that she could save a penny or two.
Cutting into her internal debate, he said, “I would be obliged if you would grace me with your company.”
With an elegance that made her heart flutter, he offered his arm. She suddenly envied the women of the ton their constant receipt of such charm.
With a fortifying breath, she took his arm. How solid and strong it felt. She was reminded of the many ways he had once touched her, how he had made her body burn with desire. Feeling her body begin to warm, she suppressed the memories as best she could.
They walked back to the gaming hall in relative silence. She considered a variety of comments, mostly about the weather, to keep her mind from wandering into the past and the attention away from the feel of him about her arm. Waving away his footman, he assisted her into the carriage. It was the same vehicle that had conveyed her to his townhome a year ago. Still in top condition, the carriage would provide the most luxurious ride she had ever experienced. Deciding to encourage her jealousy as a buffer to more delicate emotions, she wondered how many other women the carriage had transported? Would Briana Walpole be a passenger? Had she been a passenger?
When she looked across to the Baron, his discerning stare made her feel as if her questions were writ upon her face.
“Why did you forfeit that h
and in brag?” she directed at him as the carriage lurched forward.
Settling into the plush seats, he did not disavow her accusation. “Because I could, Miss Herwood.”
“Is my situation that apparent?”
“You presume my action to be one of philanthropy?”
Taken aback, she could not voice her query: Why else?
Confused, she replied, “My prospects are not as bleak as you would believe.”
“Indeed? You frequent a gaming hall merely for sport.”
She could not tell if he mocked her for amusement or to make a point. He sat away from the window and the light of the carriage lantern, and his dry tone was too difficult to interpret. It was she who sat in the glow of the light, her every expression visible to him.
“I do not intend to be a regular for long,” she said.
“A wise choice. In the interim, might I suggest you lower your consumption of port?”
Her cheeks grew hot. She almost retorted that she was not wont to drink such quantities until he appeared. Instead, she rebuffed, “You have an affinity for playing my guardian, Lord Rockwell.”
She thought she heard a smile in his response. “It is a role in need of fulfillment.”
“Ah, that is why you have returned to our humble gaming hall—that or the company of Miss Walpole drew you.”
Despite the gaiety in her voice, she wished she had not uttered that last refrain. She had thought herself better than that and was disappointed to find that she could be as jealous as the most petty of women.
“She draws many a patron,” she fumbled. “The gaming hall is quite fortunate to have her company.”
“How fare your mother and your aunt?”
“As well as can be. Better. Thank you,” she replied, relieved that the query saved her from further embarrassing babble. She would have asked after his family, but she knew his parents to have passed.
Rain began pelting the carriage window.
“And you, Miss Herwood? How fare you?”
The gentle eagerness in his tone warmed her. They were no longer lovers, but perhaps they could be friends.
“I am well, especially now that I sit sheltered from the elements due to the foresight and insistence of one very patronizing baron.”
He chuckled and stretched out his long legs.
Encouraged, she continued, “If you intend to make a habit of losing at brag, I shall have to ensure my frequent attendance at the gaming hall.”
“That would not do. A gaming hall is hardly an appropriate den for a young woman.”
At six and twenty, she was considered a spinster by most, but she replied instead, her words coming out more breathy than intended, “Yes, as one might come across questionable rogues with outlandish propositions.”
He shared in her mirth. “Precisely.”
When the carriage pulled up in front of the townhome she shared with her mother and aunt, Deana could not help but feel disappointed they could not continue their tête-à-tête.
Rockwell assisted her from the carriage. Taking the umbrella from the footman, he walked her to the door.
“I suppose I should be much indebted to you,” she remarked as they reached the threshold.
“You owe me nothing, Miss Herwood,” he affirmed.
They stood too close beneath the umbrella for her to look long into his eyes. The rain about them served as walls penning them in, and despite the cool night air, she felt warmed by his nearness. She noticed the driver and footman discretely looking away.
“I should return you your winnings. It was not fairly won.”
At his frown, she added, “At the very least, I should offer you the opportunity to win back your money.”
“I would rather have your company.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
“I am to spend some days in the country at the Chateau Follet,” he continued. “I would be much obliged if you were to join me.”
She hoped her mouth did not fall dumbly agape at yet another outrageous proposition from the Baron Rockwell.
“That is no mere invitation to tea,” she said, unsure of how she should feel. Is that why he had let her win at brag? Were her winnings intended as a payment of sorts for her company? Had he sought her out in coming to the gaming hall then? And above all, why her?
With his uncanny ability to read her thoughts, he answered, “Your winnings tonight are yours regardless of whether or not you agree to accompany me.”
“When is your intended trip?” she asked for lack of a better response.
“It is an open invitation from the hostess.”
“Lord Rockwell, you must disavow these tendencies to proposition me,” she said, feeling her wits returning. “You disapprove of my patronage at a gaming hall—a disapproval I find quite hypocritical as you are a patron of the same—yet would invite unspeakable scandal upon me were I to accept this invitation of yours.”
“Chateau Follet is immensely discreet.”
“I am neither your mistress nor your whore, Lord Rockwell.”
She saw a muscle ripple along his jaw and decided it was best to end their conversation before she incurred his wrath.
“I bid you good night.”
She stepped out from under the umbrella and managed to unlock the door despite her trembling hands. Without a backward glance, she hurried inside the house, safe from the rain and safe from Lord Rockwell.
CHAPTER TWO
THE RAIN PERSISTED into the morning. Sitting in the comfort of his study, Halsten cursed to himself as he recalled the events of the prior night. He had been too injudicious with Miss Herwood and had spoken with the hastiness of a callow youth rather than the maturity of his thirty years. She had such an effect upon him. Despite the year that had passed, her influence only seemed to have grown more potent. Standing beneath the umbrella with her, their bodies so close it was miraculous that they did not touch, he could not resist. He wanted another night with her.
Nay, he wanted more.
He rose from his chair to walk off the tightening in his groin whenever he recalled his tryst with Miss Herwood. How lovely her naked form. How exquisite her lips parted for his kiss. How beguiling her groans as she succumbed to him. He had had little doubt that she would find pleasure in his wanton proclivities. Though her initial fear and doubt was expected, she had not judged or condemned him for a rake. She had acquiesced rather quickly—though he had proposed a wicked wager to tempt her consent. It had been an unfair wager. He knew full well he would make her spend.
What he had not expected was the impression their encounter had made upon him. Though he had not anticipated they would spend more than one evening together, he had to withhold himself from seeking her out in the following days. How often had he jerked his erection while thinking of her? Even now he felt a desire to venture into the room where they had had their one night together and work his member till he could think no more.
He had even taken himself to India in an effort to forget her. Granted, he had business in India to tend to, but the trip had not been necessary. He had no fondness for the long journey, and whilst in India, her absence was made more palpable. He found himself thinking of the temples that he would show her and how delighted she would have been by the markets with their teas and silks. A visit to the most infamous brothel in Mumbai proved as fruitless in erasing Miss Herwood from his mind. As he pounded into one particularly limber nautch dancer who could wrap her ankles behind her head, her slender frame so light he could have picked her up with one hand, he longed for the fleshier body of Miss Herwood.
Gradually, sessions in Parliament, a passing courtship with the daughter of a Duke, and a trip to Bath with Lucille, his younger sister, did force the memory of Miss Herwood to recede. But when he heard a friend mention the gaming hall that he knew Miss Herwood to favor, he could not resist seeing if she were still there. He wondered if she had kept the ivory elephant he had gifted her in their last and only correspondence since their af
fair, but Miss Herwood was not a sentimental woman. He had quickly gathered that her financial situation had not changed since last they met.
His steward interrupted his reverie. “A letter from Miss Rockwell, your lordship.”
Breaking the seal, Halsten scanned the contents of the letter. In between reprimands of his cruelty for leaving her with their Aunt Sophia and lamenting the tedium that would surely send her to an early grave, Lucille alternately scolded him and begged him to allow her to come to London.
“You treat me as you would a child,” she had complained upon his last visit.
“And I will continue to do so until you are happily married to a man who can provide for you,” he had responded without lifting his eyes from the newspaper.
“A more ruthless guardian could not be had than mine own brother!”
Shaking his head at the memory of her words, Halsten cast the letter onto his writing table. He knew he could not keep her long from London. She had already had her come-out last Season, but he knew her primary interest in London at the moment was a young man named Wilson. It was an unsuitable match, and he was quite disappointed with Sophia for having allowed the friendship between the two to occur. Distance and time would cool their interest.
If only the same could prove true for him and Miss Herwood.
* * * * *
The winnings from last night’s game of brag with Lord Rockwell remained in Deana’s purse for she had not wanted to touch them. She had no desire to keep his money, but her more frugal side would not allow her to indulge her anger by tossing the winnings. Did he think that because she had accepted his first proposition—an acceptance under duress, no less, given her need to alleviate her financial distress—that he could waltz into the gaming hall and proposition her as if she were his mistress?
But she was as indignant with herself, for a part of her wanted to accept his invitation. Still cross the following day, she took herself to the gaming hall once more despite her decision not to return for some time. She reasoned that another evening spent at the gaming hall meant avoiding her mother and aunt and their constant laments. It had not at all to do with one patronizing baron.
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