He nodded. “He grew up on the streets, knew the game. Brought his own pea and slipped it into place as he was lifting his cup. I couldn’t very well call him out for a cheat without exposing my own trick.”
“So you had to pay him an entire guinea?”
He shook his head. “He told me, ‘Never let the mark lift the cup himself.’ He’d been watching me for some time apparently. Introduced himself. Jack Dodger he was.”
Her eyes widened. “Not the Jack Dodger?” One of the wealthiest men in London, in all of Great Britain for that matter.
He nodded. “Indeed. I went to work at his gaming hell, Dodger’s Drawing Room, learning my way around proper gaming. Eventually I became a dealer, the youngest they’d ever had. But I wanted to be the one standing in the balcony looking down on my domain, not standing on the floor being watched. So when I was nineteen I struck out on my own. I didn’t think it was right to go into competition against a man to whom I owed so much, so I opened the Cerberus Club in Whitechapel, more for the dregs than the posh, but dregs have coins, too. And not all the nobility is welcomed in the finer circles.”
“And from there you decided women needed a place as well.”
“I can’t take credit for that. It was my brother’s idea, but his heart was never truly in it, so he gave the place to me.”
“Gave it to you? Without recompense? Just like that?”
“He felt he owed me.”
“Why?”
“Ah, darling, that’s another story entirely.” Abandoning her feet, he straightened and leaned toward her. “Now you need to tell me a tale. What brought you here tonight?”
“A carriage.”
He chuckled low at her quick response, her deliberate failure to properly address his question. This one was full of secrets. He’d wager the entirety of tonight’s take on it. He couldn’t figure out what it was about her that drew his attention, that kept him at her side. Normally, he didn’t linger with the ladies, having no desire to make any of them jealous—jealousy was bad for business. But for some odd reason, he couldn’t seem to tear himself away from her. Perhaps it was the sadness in her eyes, or her discomfort. Most women had excitement thrumming through them when they came here, but with her, it was as though she had no interest in the place but felt compelled to be within these walls. She was searching for something, thought she’d find it here, but he could have told her no treasures resided within these rooms. They provided only momentary escapes. There was value in that, but it was always fleeting. Which was the reason people returned. Because the joy they found here could not be taken with them. It always dissipated once they exited.
Which was good for business. Ensured they’d return.
A footman came by, refilled her wineglass, and went on his way. She didn’t object, and he suspected she was beginning to feel a bit more relaxed. Reaching for her free hand, he began rolling her glove down past her elbow. Why did ladies wear frocks that exposed their arms and then add an accessory to hide them?
“What are you doing?” she asked, and he heard a measure of alarm in her voice.
“Gloves are a nuisance.”
She closed her fingers into an ineffectual fist. “Please don’t remove them.”
He thought of the ring that might be recognizable to those who knew her. “We could place your ring inside one of the gloves. It would be safe there. We have no thieves here. Or I could tuck it into one of my pockets.”
She shook her head, and he wondered about the man who had placed it on her finger, and how she wanted it to remain there. If she loved him, would she be here? Hell, Lady Aslyn visited on occasion and she adored his brother. Sometimes a lady just needed to escape for a while.
He rolled the glove back into place, trailing his finger along the soft flesh of the inside of her arm where the glove did not reach. “I’m waiting, sweetheart, for your story.”
She brought the glass to her lips, delaying the telling, and he rather regretted not deigning to join her, but he did have a rule about not becoming overly familiar with his guests because fraternizing too much wasn’t good for business. Like his siblings, he was very much aware that his fortunes rested on taking care of his enterprises. Those in his family were born of scandal, and it still dogged their heels, and while he sometimes skirted the edge of impropriety, he didn’t do it here, never here. Yet she tempted him in ways no other woman ever had.
After licking her lips, she turned her attention to the shadows. “I told you of the clover.”
“You’ve more interesting tales than that.”
Her gaze swung back around to him. “Not really. It’s the reason I’m here.”
Not for a single minute did he believe she was as boring as all that, but he also knew when not to push. “Finish off your wine. I’ll show you another room of entertainment.”
He liked watching the way her delicate throat muscles worked as she swallowed. There was not a solitary aspect to her that did not draw him in. He wondered if he took her to a room cloaked in blackness if she would remove the mask and allow him to outline her features with his fingertips. He’d always had a knack for drawing things and thought if he traced her features, he could transfer them to paper.
She’d barely gathered the last drop on her tongue when a handsome lad—they were all handsome; Lavinia had convinced him the ladies would appreciate fine scenery wandering through the establishment—barely twenty was taking her empty glass and offering her a full one.
“We’re done here,” he told the servant, surprised by the gruffness of his tone, the curtness of it.
Jasper must have been surprised as well because his eyes widened considerably before he gave a quick bob of his head and made a hasty retreat.
Aiden felt her speculating gaze on him, more than he saw it. He had an urge to apologize to her, to the lad, but he was not in the habit of apologizing, and an apology might lead to him having to confess he didn’t much like the idea of any of his lads fawning over her—even though that’s what he paid them to do. Make the ladies feel special so they would return in order to feel special again.
“I’ll need my shoes.” She surprised him by her absence of a comment on his earlier reaction.
“No, you won’t. As I said, the floor is clean. Why close those lovely feet in leather when there is no need?”
Standing, he took her hand and helped her rise to her feet. Without her shoes, the top of her head came to his shoulder, and he didn’t want to consider how much he might like tucking her cheek into the curve there, an odd thought for a man who never tucked women in close. He liked them well enough, enjoyed their company immensely, but wasn’t one for offering hugs when they were in need of them. Tears usually had him searching for the nearest escape. He didn’t simply hold and comfort for the sake of simply holding and comforting. He liked having a jolly good time.
Tonight he was not acting himself: lounging about with a woman, giving her attention, excluding all others. Perhaps it was merely the mystery of her. But others wore masks and he wasn’t slavering to know details about them. He should hand her off to one of the attention-givers but he feared he’d then find fault with how much attention the gent was giving her. If it wasn’t enough, he’d be angry because she was doing without. If too much was lavished upon her, he’d be furious because he wasn’t the one doing the lavishing.
If she was aware of his rioting thoughts, she gave no indication, merely tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow as though it belonged there. The wine had done the trick. She was more relaxed, more at ease. Strange how he was suddenly more tense.
Taking his time, he guided her into the next room, one that Lavinia had insisted would appeal to the ladies, one he referred to in private as the Wallflower Parlor, although to his guests it was merely a ballroom, like any other they’d visited before, but within these walls they were guaranteed a waltz with a charming gent. Although he’d have preferred to provide employment for the poorer among them, he’d needed fellows of a certain ca
liber to entertain his ladies, men who spoke with a bit of polish and knew how to dress to please in jackets, waistcoats, and cravats. Most of his visible male staff had been trained to take a position in some posh house as a footman. Here they earned double what they would have elsewhere.
“I’d not expected dancing,” she murmured.
A few ladies lined the edge of the dance floor, awaiting their turn, knowing they would soon circle about the floor. No female here was ever neglected.
“Perhaps you would care for a waltz?” He never danced with his patrons, but he wanted to hold her in his arms, sweep her over the polished parquetry. The fact that he’d never waltzed in his life would hardly serve as a deterrent to something he desired. Lavinia had taught him the basics, thinking it might come in useful at some point, that he might wish to dance with one of his guests. He hated to give her credit for being correct. While she was now his sister-by-marriage, he was still struggling to forgive her completely for the horrid past she’d wrought upon his brother.
Selena shook her head. “I am not here to dance.”
“You have no interest in gaming, in feasting, in dancing. Why are you here then, darling?”
With a bit of obstinance and daring, she met and held his gaze. “I am here to be bedded.”
Chapter 3
Growing up in the rookeries had taught him to never show exactly what he felt so he didn’t allow so much as a muscle in his cheek to tic, but the bluntness of her words took him off guard. As did the fact that she continued to hold his gaze as though she hadn’t said something outrageous. He wanted to tear off the damn mask and see if she was blushing. If she was, it was only her cheeks because her chin remained a pale alabaster, with no hint whatsoever of pink or a warming.
He didn’t like at all the singular purpose for which she’d come to his club, and the irony was not lost on him. He reveled in sin, enjoyed his role in introducing people to vice. It was unlikely he was headed to heaven and so he fully intended to enjoy the ride that would deliver him to hell. He understood people had urges, had never understood why fault was found with people satisfying those urges—in or out of marriage.
Yet at that moment he wanted her to be more discerning in her tastes, her desires. He didn’t want her interested in the act alone. He wanted her interested in engaging in the act because of how madly she was drawn to someone in particular, drawn to him. What the devil was the matter with him?
“If you look closely, you’ll see that some of the gents wear a red button on their left lapel. They will provide that service for you.” He said the words flatly and yet an unwelcomed tightness was building within him like a volcano on the verge of erupting.
“I’m not interested in them. You intrigue me, Mr. Trewlove. You are the one I want.”
“Alas, I do not mix business and pleasure.” It nearly killed him to say the words.
“Consider it all business.”
“I do not involve myself with my clientele.”
“I’m not asking you to involve yourself. I’m asking you to bed me.”
He was accustomed to being the one in pursuit, not the one pursued. While he appreciated her boldness, was quite taken with it if he was honest, it did make him feel uncentered. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to bed her. It was simply that he was wary of her motives. Did ladies in whom he showed an interest feel the same, worry they might be left with regrets?
Was it even possible to bed her without involving himself? Certainly he’d had encounters that were designed to merely slake lust, but she seemed a lady deserving of more. Did she fully comprehend the loneliness that could strike when the body was replete, but nothing called to the soul? It was an odd thing, having just met her, to realize he didn’t want to bed her and then be done with it. He wanted a bit more time to explore the possibilities of her.
“We can stand here and debate or we can waltz and debate.” Bowing slightly, mockingly, if truth be told, he waved toward the dance floor. “Shall we?”
“I’m not wearing shoes.”
“All the better.”
How often had she considered slipping off her slippers, certain the flow of her skirts would keep her bare feet hidden while she danced? She abhorred shoes, the manner in which they confined, often causing her toes to pinch. So the freedom she now had was as delightful as she’d always thought it would be, with her soles skimming over the polished wood as he swept her over the floor.
It didn’t hurt that a handsome man whose gaze never wavered from her was the one doing the sweeping.
“I shocked you with my bluntness.” Had shocked herself, truth be told. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out, had intended to be a bit more subtle in gaining what she required.
“Not shocked. Surprised, more like. Certainly you’re not the first to come here wanting to dive into the more unforgiving of sins. Unhappy wives, lonely widows, doomed spinsters. Why not spend a night dancing with the devil?”
“I don’t believe the devil would have rebuffed me.”
“I am too familiar with temptation, vice, and addiction. I do not gamble at my own tables. I do not drink of my own spirits. I do not lounge upon my own ottomans. Until this moment, I’ve never waltzed upon my own floor.”
She offered him a small, tentative smile. “So you are open to making exceptions.”
“It would appear so.”
Laughter nearly erupted from her. It had been too long since she’d had a good laugh. “You don’t have to sound so disgruntled.”
“I’m curious. Have you ever been told you’re beautiful?”
“So many times that the word has lost all meaning.”
“Did you marry for love?”
“I did not.”
“He does not satisfy you?”
“Can a woman be satisfied?”
“With proper bedding. And a proper bedding begins with seduction.” With the slightest of pressure from his hand splayed over her lower back, he urged her nearer until his legs were brushing against her skirts and her toes were coming dangerously close to his boots, but she trusted him not to step on them, not to send her hobbling home.
“You’ve been seducing me since you approached me in the corner.”
One side of his mouth hitched up. “Before that, I’d wager.”
She smiled fully then; she couldn’t help it. “Your earlier strutting through the gaming floor? Was that for my benefit?”
“You noticed me, didn’t you?” He shook his head as a small self-deprecating grin formed. “You’re making me break all my rules.”
“You don’t strike me as one who adheres to rules.”
“I was striving to turn over a new leaf. To become respectable.”
“Respectability is overrated.”
“And you know that because you are so disreputable?”
“I know that because I want to be so disreputable. I have observed propriety my entire life. It grows wearisome.”
“I have another rule, sweetheart. I don’t bed married women. That one I have never broken.”
“Fortunate for me, then, that I’m a widow.” Not so fortunate really. If she wasn’t a widow, she wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have sought him out. She hadn’t meant to confess the truth of her marital status, but even if he’d read Lushing’s obituary in the newspaper, it was unlikely he would associate the duke with her, for surely he would not expect a woman only three days a widow to come so soon to a house of sin. Still, the less he knew or suspected about her, the better. She didn’t know why she found herself telling him things she shouldn’t. She’d learned early on, from the cradle, to hold her thoughts to herself and never reveal her true opinions or feelings, and yet here she was blathering on like a fishmonger’s wife who wouldn’t soon find herself facing consequences.
On the other hand, where was the harm in what she’d revealed? Even if he managed to discern exactly who she was, he didn’t have the power to interfere with her plans. Besides, she was accustomed to having her way in most things. It was
a privilege of her rank, and she’d discerned she wanted him. Why was he playing so hard to get? It was her experience that men were ruled by their baser instincts and nothing was baser than the need to see to their cocks. Why was he being so blasted difficult? Why hadn’t he immediately escorted her to a darkened room and lifted her skirts? More irritating than his apparent lack of interest was the sympathy that plunged into the depths of his brown eyes.
“How long?” he asked.
“It’s of no consequence.”
“Do you miss him?”
At that particular moment, she missed the silence of him, the fact that he’d never bombarded her with questions in an attempt to discern every facet of her. “Have you no interest in bedding me?” Her voice held her impatience. She’d come here for a purpose, and he was delaying it.
His long fingers splayed against her back, dug in, and claimed as he brought her scandalously nearer, until his thigh was practically nestled between both of hers and she feared his feet might become entangled in the hem of her skirts. But apparently he was too light-footed for that disaster to occur, knew precisely what he was about, had calculated exactly how closely he could hold her without causing any mishap. Or perhaps it was simply at that moment they seemed to be one and the same. Strange how she felt as though she was sharing a familiarity far more intimate than anything she’d experienced in a bed.
“You deserve better than to be bedded.” His low voice thrummed through every nerve ending she possessed. “You warrant a scandalous and thorough seduction.”
His eyes locked with hers, offering a promise she didn’t know if she had the courage to accept. She couldn’t draw in a single breath. Suddenly coming here seemed an incredibly reckless venture, yet in spite of the pounding of her heart, which she was rather certain he could feel traveling all the way to her fingertips, she couldn’t bring herself to break free and leave. She was all of twenty-five and not once, in all her years upon this earth, had she ever been thoroughly seduced. She couldn’t even claim to have been slightly seduced.
The Duchess in His Bed Page 3
