She fixed her gaze firmly on her cards. It was silly to think that he could spot a cheater. Lord Jameson was renowned for his teasing manner and he was not averse to making up a rumor just to amuse his listeners.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious. Especially since she’d quite decided to make St. John’s purse her own. Verena lost one game. Then two. All the while, she was watching Brandon, but she could see no sign that he was more capable of spotting someone fuzzing the cards than anyone else.
If anything, he seemed far too focused on her to pay much attention to the game, often staring at her with a speculative gaze that made her frown. Despite his earlier gallantry, he seemed very serious this evening.
She played the third game straight as well, and tried not to wince when she lost yet again. Her pile of guineas had thinned noticeably, as had the stack in front of Brandon. It almost hurt when he negligently tossed a marker onto the table when he ran out of coins.
Verena ran her fingers over her last guineas, catching James’s eye from where he stood across the room. He read her expression immediately and frowned.
This really could not continue. If she was going to help her brother out of his predicament, Verena was going to have to take some chances. Risks. The very thing Father and James lived for and she avoided. Even though the blackmailer hadn’t asked for money, Verena was certain she and James would need it—Father always said there were few problems a handful of gold could not fix.
James stopped a passing servant and spoke quietly. Within moments, the servant arrived at Verena’s table, three bottles of port on his tray. “From Mr. Lansdowne. In celebration of Lady Westforth’s beauty.”
Verena sent James a grateful smile. “Oh my! How generous!”
Brand’s sharp gaze raked over the bottles. “Indeed.”
Lord Jameson held out his empty glass. “I don’t even know the man, but I think he’s a prince.”
Mr. Cabot-Lewes agreed, allowing the servant to fill his cup to the rim. “If I ever meet him, remind me to thank him for his largesse. Port is my favorite.”
Brandon frowned at Verena. “Shall I order you something else? Some sherry perhaps.”
“Oh no! I love port.” She allowed the servant to fill her glass as well.
Verena played the next two hands more aggressively, winning one and losing one. She made sure everyone’s glass remained full, including her own, though she drank little. She couldn’t afford to drink, not if she wanted to play this game well. When no one watched, she poured her port onto the dirt of one of the large plants that sat at the sides of their table.
Time passed and the servant, heavily bribed by James, continued to refill their glasses. Soon, Lord Jameson showed serious signs of inebriation. He caught Verena’s gaze and smiled, a woozy, unfocused smile that set her nerves at rest.
She glanced next at Mr. Cabot-Lewes. He was squinting at his cards, blinking as if his eyes wouldn’t focus. Verena hid a smile.
Last, she glanced at Brandon. The light from the candelabra warmed his black hair and touched his cheekbones, giving him a harsh appearance. She noticed that the glass at his elbow was almost empty—again. She nodded to the servant, who immediately refilled the glass.
Brandon looked up then, his gaze resting on hers. There was something insolently possessive about him, as if he thought he had but to crook his finger and she’d fall into his lap.
That might be interesting, falling into his lap, her unruly imagination told her. Or it would have been interesting, if she hadn’t been so determined to show him that she was completely unaffected by his presence.
She lifted her chin and met his gaze with a challenging one of her own. He smiled, his eyes softening slightly and just as before, she felt a strange sense of connection with him. As if he knew who she was and all of her sins, and he didn’t give a damn about a one.
She forced her gaze back to the stack of guineas on the table before her, her palm itching. Brandon St. John was a very dangerous man.
“Lady Westforth,” Jameson slurred. “It’s your deal.”
Verena took the cards, her fingers sliding over the smooth surfaces. She glanced at Brandon, but he was regarding his glass with a fixed gaze. Jameson and Cabot-Lewes were so sotted they could barely sit up. The time was now.
She shuffled the cards, deftly placing the queen on the bottom. Verena won the next three hands. As she pulled in her winnings, she met James’s gaze across the room and gave him an infinitesimal smile. Things were indeed going well.
“Lady Westforth, you are not drinking.”
The dark voice feathered over her. Verena found Brandon’s intense gaze on her. He had the most astonishing eyes, a blue so rich they appeared black in certain light. “You mistake, Mr. St. John. I’ve had more than my fair share.”
He lifted his own glass and she noticed that his hand appeared slightly unsteady. She was almost chortling at her good luck when it became Brandon’s turn to deal. She watched him fumble a little with the cards and she smiled encouragingly at him when he passed the first card her way.
His eyes narrowed and he gave her a raw look, hot and proprietory. One that sent a shiver down her back. She pulled away at the intensity of his expression. He must have realized he’d shown too much, for he immediately looked away, dealing the remaining cards.
Verena picked up her cards, more shaken than she wanted to admit. It wasn’t that he’d looked at her in such a way; men tended to do that, especially after imbibing so much port. But her own reaction startled her. Her body had softened as if he’d touched her intimately, like a lover.
It was not a response Verena was used to having. Indeed, she could recall only one other time that she’d reacted that way to any man’s look. And that had been with Andrew.
She looked at Brandon again. Surely not. Surely she didn’t feel anything for Brandon St. John other than—
“It’s your turn, Lady Westforth.” Brandon’s gaze slid over her again, but this time with more control. His deep voice curled about her, brushing her bared shoulders. “Do you discard?”
Verena found that her hands were trembling just the faintest bit. That would not do at all. How could she change her cards if her hands shook as if she had the palsy? She quickly discarded, then placed her cards on the table.
Brandon’s attention seemed to move on to Lord Jameson. Verena almost sighed in relief. To give her something to do with her hands, she picked up her glass of port and took a sip. Everyone’s glass was empty but hers. That would not do at all. She glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then reached down to pour it into the plant.
Strong fingers encircled her wrist, bearing her hand up. Up. Back to the table. Verena looked into Brandon’s eyes.
He smiled, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “I do so hate to see good port go to waste.”
“What’s that?” Cabot-Lewes asked, straining to look over the table without getting up from his seat. His double chin quivered. “Did Lady Westforth spill her drink?”
“Not yet,” Brand said. He leaned forward so that no one could hear him. “I believe the port is not to your liking. Shall I order you some lemonade instead?”
Verena pressed her lips together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was merely looking at the plant, enjoying how very…green it is.” She looked meaningfully at her wrist. “You can release me now.”
“Take a drink.”
“No.”
“Verena.” He leaned even closer. To anyone watching, it was a lover’s intimate moment, his hand about her wrist, his lips near her ear. “Drink it or admit you were tossing it out.”
It was a threat. Verena didn’t like threats. But even worse, she didn’t like men who tried to force her into saying things she didn’t want to say. “Release my wrist.”
He lifted his brows.
“I cannot drink with your hand about my wrist.”
He released her hand, a challenge in his hard stare.
Something dee
p inside Verena quivered at his challenge. This man had insulted her, trifled with her, and now, on top of everything else, seemed determined to hold her out for mockery. Well! She would show him. Every drop of Lansdowne blood that flowed through her veins began to simmer in earnest.
Verena locked her gaze with Brandon’s, lifted her glass, and drank the port. Not just a sip, either. She drank the entire glass, one burning gulp at a time. The port seared its way down and made her eyes water, but she finished the last dregs. Then she set her glass on the table with a thump.
He swore softly. “You little fool. You’d do anything other than admit the truth, wouldn’t you?”
Lord Jameson chortled. “Here, here, Lady W! That’s the way to show him!”
Verena blinked back the water that stung her eyes. Her whole body felt as if it was afire. “Whose turn is it?”
Brandon leaned back in his chair, a faint sense of disapproval clinging about him as Jameson continued the game.
Verena didn’t care what Brandon St. John thought. She was a full-grown woman and if she wanted to drink port, then she would. Any time of the day. In fact, she just might have another glass. Or two. Maybe three.
She caught the eye of a passing servant and pointed to her glass. It was immediately filled, as were those of everyone else at the table. Verena quickly emptied that glass, as well. Why not? She’d already won a fair amount. If she was careful, she’d still rise a winner. And that was enough. For now.
Verena allowed a servant to refill her glass yet again.
Brand’s disapproval grew until it seemed to Verena that it hung over them like a cloud.
She refused to acknowledge him, but spared no pains to flirt with Lord Jameson and Mr. Cabot-Lewes. She took a deep sip of the port, finding that it wasn’t nearly so bad this time. The more one had, the better it tasted. Perhaps that was the trick.
They played another round of cards and to Verena’s surprise, not only was her glass empty once again, but she won. She was considering asking for more port when Brandon’s voice sounded in her ear.
“Don’t even think it, damn you. If you get any more, I will be the one tossing it into the plant.”
She sniffed. “You are not my father.”
“No,” he said grimly, his gaze raking over her in a way that made her shiver.
“You aren’t my brother, either.”
“No, I’m not,” he agreed quickly enough.
“Then you can’t make suggestions about the way I live.”
“I’m not making a suggestion. I’m making a statement. You’ve had too much to drink and I’m not going to allow you to have any more.”
“Allow? Who do you think you are?” She glared at him challengingly. Strangely, his face seemed to waver in front of her. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Moving. It’s making me ill.”
He dropped his cards onto the table. “That’s it. We’re leaving.”
“We’re not going anywhere. I came to play and I’m going to play.”
He stared at her a long moment, his face as black as a thundercloud. Finally, he picked up the deck of cards. “Then we’ll play. But a new game.”
“I say, what’s going on?” Jameson asked blurrily.
Brandon shot him an indifferent look. “Lady Westforth and I have an argument to settle. We’re going to cut the cards in answer.”
Cabot-Lewes waved a hand. “Carry on. I think I’m done for, anyway. Do we know who won?”
“I hope I did,” Verena said, wondering why she’d eschewed port for so long. It was marvelous stuff. She lifted her glass, disappointed to find it empty but for two or three drops. “How sad.” She looked at Brandon, who sat so sternly at her side. For some reason, the sight of him warmed her and she smiled. “If I win the cut, do I get more port?”
“An entire bottle.”
She sighed happily. “That seems fair.”
He shuffled the cards and then placed them in front of her.
Verena looked at the cards and wet her lips. She was going to go home a winner tonight. She could feel the positive hum of luck pouring through her veins. She reached for a card, then stopped, meeting St. John’s gaze. “Wait. If you win the draw, what do you get?”
His gaze flickered over her, resting on the curve of her décolletage, her bared shoulders, her bottom lip. “If I win,” he said, “then I earn the right to see you home.”
She eyed him suspiciously. There was something wrong with this plan, she knew it. But for some reason, she couldn’t fathom what it was. “Anything else?”
His gaze flickered over her. “What else could there be?”
“Well, I get a whole bottle of port if I win, but you only get to ride home with me. That doesn’t seem even.”
“By Jove,” Jameson said. “She’s right! You should get more than that if she’s to win an entire bottle of port.”
“How about a kiss?” Mr. Cabot-Lewes said. He beamed, his round face damp with perspiration. “I won a kiss at cards once. Best kiss I ever had.”
“Seems fair to me,” Jameson said. “Well, Lady W? What do you say?”
Verena put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “I don’t think I can. Mr. Lansdowne brought me. It would be rude to leave with someone else. And it would be really rude to kiss someone else, not that I want to kiss Mr. Lansdowne.”
Brandon’s mouth curved into a smile. “You don’t?”
“Not at all. He’s not my cup of tea,” she confided easily.
Jameson chuckled. “The poor man!”
Cabot-Lewes nodded sadly. “And he sent us that lovely port, too. Shouldn’t kick a man who made such a dashing gesture.”
“I don’t think he’ll care,” Brand said coolly. “He’s busy at the faro table.”
Everyone turned to look. Verena blinked blurrily across the room. She could just make out the back of James’s head where he sat near Lady Farley. “I hope he had better luck than I’ve had this evening.” She leaned toward Brandon and said in a conspiratorial voice, “I usually win, you know. Only very carefully.”
Brandon thought he’d never seen a more adorably drunk woman in his life. Especially not after only three glasses. “You don’t drink often, do you?”
“Never. Inhibits your judgment, you know.”
“Inhibits? You don’t appear inhibited at the moment. Perhaps you meant to say that it impairs your judgment.”
“Meant what I said. Said what I meant.” She pointed a finger at him. “Do you know what my father believes?”
“What?”
“A good card player doesn’t drink.”
“And are you a good card player? Or a crooked one?”
“I don’t like your tone.” She tried to look offended but failed miserably.
He placed his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “Choose your card, Verena.”
She looked at the deck and wet her lips nervously. Brandon watched her tongue trace a line over her lips and his body tightened. Bloody hell, but she was a luscious bundle.
Finally, she reached out and flipped over a card. A jack of clubs beamed up. “Ha!” she said triumphantly. “Beat that!”
“Bloody good one, Lady W,” Jameson said, nodding sagely, his cravat askew.
Mr. Cabot-Lewes nodded enthusiastically. “Hard to beat that with one card.”
Brandon turned over his card. A king of hearts beamed up at them.
Verena blinked.
“The St. John luck,” Jameson crowed. “Warned you about that.”
Brand stood and placed a hand on Verena’s elbow. He wanted to get her out of here before Lansdowne realized she was gone. “Come, Lady Westforth. I will see you home.”
She looked up at him. “Now?”
“This instant.”
She sighed, then clambered to her feet, swaying a little.
Jameson and Cabot-Lewes stood as well and made effusive farewells. Brand didn’t give Verena time to respond. He said their good-b
yes and bundled her out of the gaming hell and into his carriage before she knew what had happened.
Chapter 8
Kissing is an art best left to the experts as it is far more dangerous than swordplay. One injudiciously welded pair of lips can cause more harm than the sharpest blade.
Sir Royce Pemberley to his new wife, Liza, while sitting in the Shelbourne box at the Theatre Royale
The carriage rumbled down the streets of London, the lights flickering through the windows to trace fleeting patterns. Verena settled back against the squabs, trying to ignore the fact that Brandon sat directly across from her, his knee hard against hers.
What was it about him that made her feel so nervous, as if she stood on a narrow ledge and one misstep could lead to something indecently dangerous? She clasped her damp hands together, aware that her heart thundered in her ears.
She would just look out the window and pretend she wasn’t aware of him, though it was difficult. He was so large, leaning in the corner of the coach with his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on her.
Verena supposed she should be thankful that he wasn’t taking advantage of their solitude by making improper advances. Although, to be honest, she’d welcome an improper advance or two. Especially now, the night air crisp on her bared shoulders, the motion of the carriage increasing her port-induced dizziness until she felt as if she were drifting on a cloud, free and as light as air.
There were other feelings, too. Feelings she hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. Feelings of restlessness. Of wanting.
She leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the man who sat across from her. But it did no good. She could see him through her eyelids. In fact, had she pen and paper, she could have drawn him, every last line—the way his eyes crinkled when he finally smiled, the way his mouth could tighten when he didn’t like something, the broad width of his shoulders, the powerful lines of his thighs…hmmm.
His thighs. She smiled to herself. How she’d like to see those thighs right now. Undressed. Right at mouth level where she could—
Confessions of a Scoundrel Page 9
