“I can take care of this,” the woman cooed. “If you wish.”
He did wish. Except that he wished another woman entirely would take care of it. What idiocy.
“Fine,” he said, though in truth he had no desire to engage with this woman when his head was filled with another. She started to position herself over his hard cock, and he said, “No. I want your mouth on me.”
Because then he could pretend it was Delia. He could pretend her mouth was engulfing him and her lovely hands were gripping his thighs and . . .
“There you are, Knightford!” said the voice of some fellow he half knew, as the blonde knelt in front of Warren. “I expected you to be at Dickson’s, gambling.”
Irritated by the interruption, he growled, “Why would I be at Dickson’s?”
The gentleman shrugged. “Because Jack Jones is there. And since the two of you didn’t finish your game last night, I thought you’d be there demanding another go at it.”
God help him! Warren rose, ignoring the whore who was already unbuttoning his trousers. Impatiently, he shoved her hands away and refastened his buttons, his cock already softening. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. The lad is hard to miss. And his card playing is even more distinctive. I swear, I’ve never seen a fellow so adept at . . .”
As Warren headed for the door, he listened to the rest of the fellow’s babbling with only half an ear. Delia had lost her bloody mind. And Owen, too, apparently.
He stalked out the door, ready to do whatever he must to take the chit in hand. Now that she and Owen had called his bluff, he had no choice but to make certain she stayed out of trouble. Or get her to leave Dickson’s.
That would undoubtedly be a feat. And even as irritation surged through him, another feeling mingled with it. Anticipation at the thought of sparring with Delia.
Bloody hell.
As soon as he entered the place, Dickson greeted him jovially, but Warren brushed him off and strode straight to the card room. He spotted her at once, playing cards with some dandy. And Owen was nowhere to be seen.
God, she was here without any protection at all. Foolish woman.
He strode up to the dandy and said, “Get up. I have a game to finish with Jones.”
The dandy blinked. “But my lord, I have already—”
“What are your stakes?”
“Twenty pounds.”
He dug in his coat pocket and came out with a fifty-pound note. “Here. That’s more than double your stake. Get up.”
The dandy goggled at the note, then snatched it and jumped to his feet. “You’re welcome to him, sir.”
Him? Oh, right. Delia was a him. Warren kept forgetting that. Probably because the way her eyes glittered at him as he took a seat was decidedly feminine. Only a woman could put that much anger into a mere glance.
“What if I don’t wish to play you, m’lord?” she said in her gruff approximation of a male voice.
“You wished to play me last night,” he countered. “And you ran off in the middle of the game, no doubt because you thought I was winning.”
Her eyes flashed fire. She had to know that a reputation for abandoning a game to keep from losing would make others cautious about playing her. “I do not avoid fights, sir. I merely remembered I was supposed to be somewhere else. I’m sorry we weren’t able to finish then, but—”
“We’ll finish now.” And then he would take her somewhere and put the fear of God into her, if it were the last thing he did. “Sadly, we can’t reconstruct the hand from last night. So we’ll have to begin that partie again. If that suits you.”
She hesitated, clearly debating whether she could get away with choosing not to play him. But she had to know that would be frowned upon by the onlookers, who might assume she really had run off to avoid losing. “Of course it suits me. I was winning handily after the second partie, remember?”
“Hard to know who’s winning when the game isn’t even half finished.” He picked up the deck of cards. “It was your deal last night, wasn’t it?”
“It was.” Smug satisfaction crept into her voice. “And I had twenty-two points more than you.”
“Don’t remind me.” He shuffled the cards, then set the deck in front of her.
As she dealt, it occurred to him that although she rightfully wouldn’t accept a loan from him, he could give her money by letting her win. Which wouldn’t be hard, given her skill. Piquet wasn’t his game, and he’d never been that fond of cards. It had always been just a way to pass the time in the evening.
So once the game began, he played with his usual haphazard nonchalance. It was only money, after all. God knew he had plenty enough of that.
Somewhere in the next partie, she seemed to realize he wasn’t taking the game seriously and began to press her advantage. He let her.
Better than having her come here night after night, risking her reputation and forcing him to come here to keep her from trouble. There were still two days until the house party. Anything could happen in that time.
“So where is your friend Owen tonight?” he asked.
She stiffened. “He’s ill. Stomach ailment.”
“Ah.” So she’d come without her guard rather than give up her plans. Reckless chit.
But a clever one. By the fifth partie, she was winning by a substantial margin.
“Are you sure you’ve played piquet before, my lord?” she asked blithely, clearly determined to goad him into giving her a challenge.
“Once in a while. Perhaps after this game, we should switch to vingt-un.”
Her brow clouded over. “I don’t like vingt-un.”
“Because vingt-un has more of an element of chance?”
“Because vingt-un was my father’s game,” she admitted.
Interesting. “Ah yes, I remember your saying your father was a gambler.”
“An avid one. My mother despaired over him.”
In that one sentence she told him more about her upbringing than she could have done in hours of polite conversation. Of course Mace Trevor would have been hard to live with. Gamblers usually were.
Warren’s brother Hart had been a heavy gambler in school. Fortunately, being an army officer had knocked that tendency out of him. He still played cards, but he’d found a profession that he enjoyed, so he felt less need to spend his time at the tables.
Besides, Warren had been very strict with him after their father had died. He’d not allowed his young brother any funds to pay his gambling debts, and Hart had soon learned not to gamble unless he was prepared to pay for it out of his own pocket.
Delia didn’t seem enamored of gambling, just what it could bring her. That no doubt came from having a famous father who’d won an estate with his skill.
“So, Jones,” Warren said, determined to make her realize the madness of her scheme, “what do you generally do with your winnings?”
She eyed him coldly. “I have a family, sir. I must take care of them.”
“Of course. Though I do wonder if your family is aware of how you go about supporting them.”
“It doesn’t matter. A man has to do what he must to fulfill his obligations.”
He couldn’t help snorting. “Indeed, a man must. Still, gambling is an uncertain profession, even for someone as skilled as you.”
“Then why do you engage in it, sir?”
“To entertain myself, of course.”
“Only a rich lord would entertain himself by losing money,” she muttered.
“I can afford it.” He eyed her over his hand. “And I don’t always lose.”
The barmaid from the previous night sauntered over and leaned down, probably purposely to give him an eyeful of her ample bosom. Which was quite nice. A pity he had no interest in it.
“Can I get you anything, my lord?” she cooed.
“He’s playing badly enough already, Mary,” Delia snapped. “Don’t distract him.”
Warren glanced at Delia to find her staring dag
gers at Mary. How interesting. The chit was jealous. Though he generally found jealousy in a woman tedious, in this case he rather enjoyed it. Because it meant she was as susceptible to him as he was to her.
“Ignore my surly friend,” Warren told Mary with a wink. “And fetch me a bottle of port. Only don’t put it too close to Jones. I don’t relish having another shirt ruined.”
The onlookers laughed as Delia hunkered down with a scowl.
“And here’s something for your trouble,” he added, and tucked a sovereign between Mary’s breasts, watching to see Delia’s reaction.
“Thank you, my lord,” Mary said silkily, and ran a hand up his thigh. “I’m happy to give you whatever pleases you. You need only ask.”
“Looks to me like he doesn’t even need to ask,” Delia grumbled.
Warren bit back a smile. “Poor Jones, without a woman to please him. Here’s another sovereign for you, Mary, if you go give Jones what you’re giving me.”
“Gladly, sir,” she said, and walked over to Delia.
But as the taproom maid leaned toward “Jones,” Delia growled, “Lay a hand on me, Mary, and I swear I’ll break it off.”
When Mary froze, Warren burst into laughter. Delia was very good at playing the grouchy Jack Jones. If he hadn’t known who she was from the beginning, he would never have guessed.
“It’s all right, Mary, leave Jones be. You don’t want such a grumbler for a companion when there are more amiable gentlemen to be had.”
With a sniff, Mary flounced off to fetch Warren’s port.
Delia glowered at him from beneath her hat. “Are we going to play or not, sir? Because there are plenty of brothels down the street where you can take your pleasure without wasting my time.”
“Sheathe your claws, Jones. I’m beginning to think you envy my prowess with women.”
“I don’t give a damn about your prowess with women, except when you try to use it to throw me off my game. Now, stop your chattering and play.”
With a chuckle, Warren played his first card, and the game was on. Delia played like an exquisite machine, always aware of the perfect strategy and always determined to implement it. He found it fascinating. He’d never met a woman so adept at cards. She understood the game far better than he.
Tonight Dickson himself brought in the port. Hmm. What had the maid said to the fellow?
Whatever it was, he didn’t appear disturbed. As he set out a glass and decanted the wine, he asked, “Anything else, my lord?”
“No. Thank you, Dickson.”
Dickson nodded and started to leave, then paused near the table. “So, Jack, where is Owen?”
She shot Warren a black look. “He’s ill.”
Bloody hell. Clearly, she had figured out that he’d attempted to force Owen into staying away.
Dickson was of course oblivious to the undercurrents. “Well, will you tell him that I’ve been asking around about that lord with the sun tattoo above his wrist? So far I haven’t heard anything or found anyone who has such a thing.”
Tattoo? Like the ones she’d claimed to have an interest in at the breakfast?
When the color drained from her face and her gaze shot to Warren in alarm, everything shifted in his brain.
He’d completely misread the situation.
This scheme of hers wasn’t about money or supporting her family at all. She was searching for someone at Dickson’s. That was why she kept asking questions about tattoos. That was why she persisted in coming here, even when Owen wasn’t available to protect her.
Bloody hell.
But whom did she seek? And why?
A sudden chill ran through him. Had she been attacked by a man with a tattoo, perhaps at some masquerade? Good God, could she have gone through something similar to what Clarissa experienced?
Then again, if she had, she certainly didn’t act like it. Whenever he kissed her, she melted into his arms so sweetly that he—
Damn it, that didn’t matter. Whomever she was looking for and whatever the tattooed man meant to her, he intended to find out the truth. Because that was clearly the key to Delia’s secrets.
Ten
Delia tore her gaze from Warren. How should she handle this? He would surely find it odd that she’d been asking about some lord’s tattoo after she’d expressed an interest in tattoos to him.
She needed to come up with a lie to cover her purpose. But first she needed to get rid of the pesky gaming hell owner, who was hovering about the table as if eager to talk about Owen’s quest.
“Thank you for the information, Dickson,” she said. “I’ll be sure to let Owen know.”
Dickson shoved his hands in his pockets. “He never said why he was looking for the man.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said. “Probably idle curiosity about some chap he met here before. I’ll pass on the message.”
“I told him I didn’t see how there could be any lords with tattoos, on account of its being such a vulgar practice, but he insisted—”
“Thank you, Dickson. I’ll see that he’s told.”
The man blinked, but apparently realized he was being dismissed. With a shrug, he headed back to the taproom.
“Dickson has a point, you know,” Warren drawled. “It’s very unusual for a lord to have a tattoo of any kind.”
A pox on the man. He was a dog with a bone, and she was the bone. And she had no desire to see him sink his teeth in her.
Although the thought of his mouth on her . . .
No, she mustn’t let that image rattle about in her head or she would lose her ability to trounce him. And she fully intended to trounce him, if only to wipe the smirk off his lips.
An onlooker spoke up. “Sailors have sun tattoos, you know. To show they’ve crossed the equator. I suppose a lord who’s a naval officer might have one.”
That was what the sun stood for? Perhaps it would help her narrow her search.
Warren snorted. “Yes, but sailors are one thing. Lords are quite another. Gentlemen don’t mark their bodies to announce such things.”
“How do you know?” she asked. “It’s not as if tattoos are easily visible.”
“Yes, but I know a few naval officers—friends whom my army officer brother grew up with. I’ve seen most of them casually dressed but have never spotted a tattoo on them.”
“Perhaps not on those particular men, but that doesn’t mean no one has them. Your brother’s friends might even know some. I’m sure Owen would like to talk to your brother or his friends.”
Warren lifted an eyebrow. “That will be rather difficult. Hart’s friends spend most of their time at sea. For that matter, Hart has been posted with his regiment on James Island for a couple of years now. So Owen is out of luck. And he’s probably looking for someone nonexistent, anyway.”
She stared him down. “I’m sure Owen knows whom he’s searching for.”
“Whatever you say. Seems spurious to me.”
Blast Warren. He was making everything difficult. On purpose? She didn’t think so, but she honestly didn’t know.
They were almost done with the game, anyway. Soon it would be over, and he would leave.
Please, Lord, let him leave.
Warren dealt the cards for the final partie. In a short while, she’d finished him off. Even knowing that he had probably let her win, she took a certain pleasure in it.
When they were done, she raked in her winnings. “Thank you, my lord. My family greatly appreciates your generosity.”
“Then let’s play once more. Give me a chance to recoup my losses.”
“I don’t think so, sir. You talk too much.”
“Afraid to take me on again, are you?”
She bristled. “Just bored with your conversation.”
His eyes gleamed at her. “Bored, eh? Well, how about we make it more interesting. We’ll up the stakes to a thousand pounds.”
Her heart dropped into her stomach. A thousand pounds would go a long way toward forestalling
the foreclosure. It was more than she’d taken in during all these weeks of gambling.
Yet the longer she stayed here, the more chance he might expose her. For all she knew, he could be the man with the sun tattoo. She hadn’t seen his right wrist, only his left. He could even be planning to cheat her.
She sighed. That seemed unlikely. It was probably his way of giving her money to help her out of her situation. Which she would consider lovely and sweet, if he had no ulterior motive. And she wasn’t sure of that.
Well, if he was fool enough to throw funds at her, she should take them. A gambling debt wasn’t the same as a loan, and she could easily trounce him. She’d better. She didn’t have a thousand pounds.
“Very well,” she said smoothly. “A thousand pounds it is. I’ll even give you the choice of who deals first.”
“Good,” he said. “Because this time I mean to prevail.”
He could try all he wished. No one ever beat her.
The next game was long, heated, and intense. There was no chatter. No baiting her. Warren seemed determined upon winning, which she preferred. She didn’t like knowing that he had let her win the last game.
In the end, of course, she still won. It took an effort for her not to crow over it, but she had no time for that. The hour grew late. She had to be home.
She waited for Warren to hand her an IOU, but instead he said, “I tell you what. My rig is outside. Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll pay you at my town house? That way you don’t have to wait for your funds.”
“An IOU is acceptable, sir. I trust you to pay your debts.”
She wouldn’t let him trap her at his town house, although how she would claim the funds otherwise, she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if Miss Delia Trevor could ask for them. Although Owen could.
“Come now, Jones. It’s not far. And afterward, I’ll have my coachman take you to wherever you stay.”
She hesitated. It didn’t sound at all wise to be alone in a carriage with him, even for a short amount of time. “I shall call on you tomorrow, my lord, if you will give me your direction.”
The Danger of Desire Page 10
