Beauty Tempts the Beast

by Lorraine Heath

  Oddly, all activity at the table had stopped, and she suspected it was more a result of Benedict’s presence than her own, that wherever he appeared, people went still until they determined what he wanted. Or perhaps it was simply that the “special dealer”—she had no idea what made him special—had been awaiting their arrival.

  She stopped just shy of the table, her gaze locked on the blue eyes that had until recently held hers so tenderly, made her feel precious. “Lord Chadbourne.”

  “Lady Alth—” He stopped, disgruntlement sweeping over features she’d once deemed incredibly handsome. Interesting how betrayal made him look far less attractive. “Althea, what the devil are you doing here?”

  “It’s Miss Stanwick to you, and I’m here to take all your money.”

  Chapter 16

  Bloody hell. She’d delivered that pronouncement with such confidence that a few mouths—including Chadbourne’s—had dropped open, and one gent was still blinking in wonder. A couple of them might have even fallen instantly in love with her. Not that he had. Not that his chest hadn’t swelled with pride because she wasn’t intimidated by this lordly buffoon.

  “You can’t . . . You can’t play here,” Chadbourne stuttered. He looked to the dealer, who was quietly shuffling the cards with slender hands that matched the rest of him. “Her father was a traitor to England. She shouldn’t be allowed in here.”

  “Mr. Trewlove’s only requirement for entry is that a person has money to lose.” He narrowed his dark eyes at the tray Thea held. “I’d say she has about a thousand quid in chips there, so she is welcome at this table.” He gave her a little nod.

  Beast touched the red-clad shoulder and the chap slipped away like smoke. He pulled the chair out farther, and she lowered herself into it with the elegance of a queen taking her place upon the throne.

  “I can’t play with the daughter of a treasonous bastard,” Chadbourne announced and began gathering up his chips, their clattering loud as he tossed them into his palm, no doubt expecting Danny to fall into line and oust Thea so the entitled lord could continue to play.

  “Embarrassed to lose to a woman?” Beast taunted, understanding fully the foolishness of men’s pride and how to take advantage of it.

  The earl gave him a long, thorough study, not bothering to disguise his detestation for someone he recognized as not being part of the aristocracy. “What concern is any of this of yours?”

  “She is my concern.” He wondered if he should have the words etched on his forehead so he wouldn’t have to keep repeating them to every idiotic aristocrat they happened upon.

  The clacking stopped, his hands went still, his eyes narrowed. “Who the devil are you?”

  “They call me Beast.” Turning slightly, he grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table, swung it around, set it between Thea and Danny so the back of it faced the table, dropped into it, and folded his arms across the top.

  “You intend to play?”

  “Watch.” He gave a careless shrug. “As well as offer advice to the lady when needed since she’s never before played.”

  “That sounds as though it has the potential for cheating.”

  “How can I cheat if my hands never go near the cards? Besides, I’ve heard that Lady Fortune has been smiling on you tonight. Would be foolish on your part to move to another table and risk that she wouldn’t follow. She certainly won’t follow if you walk out of here completely.”

  The man studied Beast as though he was striving to determine if he was being goaded into a trap. He knew the exact moment the earl decided Beast was no danger to him. Many a man had made the same mistake.

  “You make a good point.” Chadbourne began neatly restacking his chips. Dear God, but the arrogant were easily manipulated.

  “If the discussion is over,” Danny said, “we’ll get started.” He gave the cards one more shuffle, then straightened them. “The ante is ten quid.”

  “May I have your hand for a moment?” Beast asked Thea in a hushed tone that spoke of intimacy. He was fairly certain he heard Chadbourne’s spine snap when he straightened so quickly, with almost military precision. The earl no doubt had used the same tone a time or two and understood fully what it portended.

  She didn’t question him, simply held her hand out to him, and that gave him as much satisfaction as he would have had if, in fact, he had been pleasuring her. Well, not quite. But it meant she trusted him, and gratification surged through him with that knowledge. Very slowly, he peeled off her glove. It was the first time he’d touched her hand when it wasn’t covered in kidskin, and he wished he’d done this service for her when they were in the carriage, in the dark, and alone. When he could have pressed his lips to the heart of her palm, could have traced the lines that some claimed predicted one’s future. Her palm contained a slight roughness, one callus, all of which he suspected had been absent before the maggot sitting at this table had turned his back on her.

  And yet that palm told a far more interesting tale than it might have if it had been as smooth as silk, and he valued it more because it wasn’t.

  After folding the glove over his thigh, he loosened the three buttons on her cuff and began rolling up the fabric along her forearm. “We don’t want anyone to think you’re hiding a card up your sleeve and accuse you of cheating.”

  “Oh.” The single word came out on a breathy sigh, and he wondered if she was becoming as wet as he was becoming hard. He really should have done this elsewhere, where it might have led to a kiss . . . or more. Another mistake. A worse mistake.

  The silence at the table was nearly deafening, and he could sense the other men were absorbed in observing his ministrations, no doubt each of them experiencing at least a modicum of envy. Therefore, he went even slower when he removed her other glove and rolled up her sleeve. When he was done, he lifted his eyes to her face and discovered she was studying her hands as though they were suddenly foreign to her, as though she was striving to determine how they had come to be hers.

  Finally, she met his gaze, and he saw a woman dearly in want of ravishing, a woman he dearly wanted to ravish.

  A harsh clearing of a throat had her jerking slightly and turning her attention to the dealer.

  “As I said, everyone ante up.”

  Beast didn’t fail to notice that Danny’s voice was a little rough at the edges, slightly hoarse, and he wondered if he might be seeking a woman’s arms when he was done here.

  The five other players at the table—which included the dealer—tossed in their chip. Thea looked at him, and he saw an infinitesimal amount of doubt in her eyes. With a smile for encouragement, he gave her a nod. She carefully selected a chip as though the one chosen made a difference, and scooted it across the baize-covered table to join the others. He wasn’t the only one who watched the journey of that slender, elegant hand.

  Danny began dealing the cards. Beast signaled to a passing footman. When the young lad arrived, Beast said, “A sherry for Miss Stanwick and a scotch for me.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “You know what she likes to drink?” Chadbourne asked, surliness woven between the syllables.

  Beast held silent for all of a minute before bestowing upon him the grin that men had been displaying for centuries when they knew they possessed what another man coveted. “I know everything she likes.”

  Althea had the distinct impression two games were being played at this table.

  One involved cards and was being played between her and Chadbourne. The other involved . . . Well, to be honest, she thought it quite possibly involved her and was being played between Chadbourne and Benedict. Based on the frequency with which the muscles in the earl’s cheeks jumped, she was rather certain Benedict was winning. Especially as he appeared to be so frightfully relaxed and enjoying himself, rather like a panther that had just pounced upon a gazelle and feasted. It was an unfair match. The gazelle had never stood a chance.

  She wasn’t certain the odds of her winning when it came to Ben
edict were much better. Her plan had seemed so uncomplicated when it had taken shape in her mind, mostly because at the time she’d thought her heart dead, naught but ashes scattered on the wind. Her mind hadn’t been much better. Three months after the destruction of her world, her ability to handle complicated matters was nowhere to be found. She’d still been numb at ending up where she had, so far from where she’d envisioned life to take her. The numbness had been a blessing, stopped her from going stark raving mad.

  She’d reasoned that her absent heart and numbed mind would make it easier to do what needed to be done because her heart wasn’t there to make her long for things, and her mind had no desire to think about things. Except the winds had shifted and blown her heart back into her chest, and her mind was analyzing decisions made and calling her every sort of fool. All because of the man sitting beside her, who somehow had the power to not only make her feel again, but also to think again.

  The card game was incredibly easy to play, didn’t require a lot of concentration on her part. Still, she always experienced a sharp thrill when she won the hand. After a winner was revealed, the discarded cards were tucked against the bottom of the deck. The deck was only shuffled if one of the revealed hands had three cards of the same rank.

  Because concentration wasn’t required on her part, she found herself focusing on Chadbourne and noticed something about him she’d completely overlooked before: he had a weak chin. As though shy, it made a small appearance, the tiniest bit of a jut, and then disappeared behind his perfectly knotted neck cloth.

  Nothing about Benedict was weak. Although he wasn’t playing, he managed to give the impression that he owned the table. Perhaps it was because of the intensity with which he watched the card play. Even though the only cards revealed at the end of each session were those held by the final two players—because they went around the table as many times as necessary with players betting or folding until only two remained—she was left with the impression he knew what cards were being dealt during each turn.

  After deciding which card to discard, she would glance over at him. Usually, he would give a slight nod, and she would be pleased to have chosen correctly. But every now and then, he would give a subtle shake and when it was her turn to either toss money into the pot or fold, she would fold. And always, when the cards were revealed, she realized she would have lost no matter which card she tossed out.

  His arms never moved from the back of the chair upon which they were folded. Just one hand ever unclamped from his upper arm and it happened only when he wanted to enjoy a bit of scotch. He wasn’t manipulating the cards, but she was willing to wager all the tokens now stacked before her that somehow he was helping her cheat.

  And she didn’t care.

  It almost always came down to her and Chadbourne as the final two players, and she almost always bested him. It felt so deliciously sweet to watch the various emotions flicker over his face: disbelief, disappointment, anger, resolve. He would win the next hand.

  Only he rarely did. Sometimes his cards were so atrocious that even she, a novice, could have predicted he was bidding his chips farewell as he tossed them onto the heap in the center of the table.

  Over the course of the evening, their group of six players dwindled to three, so more frequently now she and the earl paired off. Her confidence was growing, and because the lord’s stack of chips had diminished to such a degree that he would not remain at the table for much longer, she determined it was time to add a third game to the night. She decided to call it, “Irritating the Devil out of Chadbourne.”

  “I crossed paths with Lady Jocelyn earlier today,” she said evenly as though the words no longer had the power to punch her in the gut.

  His gaze snapped up from his cards to land solidly on her, and she faintly recalled a time when his attention devoted to her had made her fairly light-headed with giddiness. What a silly chit she’d been. She’d considered him elegant, refined, polished. But he was neither gold nor silver, merely brass.

  “Where?” His delivery was curt. She suspected if he discovered the meeting had been intentional, he’d be having a sharp word with his betrothed.

  She smiled sweetly. “Quite by accident, I assure you. It seems we’re using the services of the same dressmaker, if you can believe it.”

  Based on the furrowing of his brow, it was likely he didn’t.

  “Or we were,” she amended. “She decided to take her business elsewhere, without paying the seamstress for the work she’d already done on her behalf. The cheek of her. I suppose it shall fall to you as her future husband to make matters right. Knowing her preference in clothing, I should think her trousseau’s value rests at somewhere near five hundred pounds. If you would like to give me the amount before you leave here tonight, I’ll be more than happy to deliver it to Beth—the seamstress—when I go in for my fitting on Friday.” She tossed two chips into the pile. She’d gotten good at flicking her wrist just so in order to make them land on top of the others, so they made that lovely little clacking.

  He was staring at her as though he didn’t know her any longer. And she realized with both a bit of satisfaction and sadness that he didn’t. “I’m certain her father will sort it.”

  His two disks clattered.

  “I do hope you’re correct. We wouldn’t want to see her cheated out of what she has rightfully earned.” She looked to Danny. One corner of his mouth quirked up slyly as he flicked his bet into the pile. As long as he stayed in the game, it would continue as would the new game she was playing. She picked up two wooden tokens and tapped them on the table. “When is the wedding to take place?”

  “January. St. George’s, naturally.”

  Naturally. The same church they’d chosen. The same month. It was surprising that the hurt had the same impact as the sting of a bee, which was hardly anything at all. Perhaps because while Benedict kept his hands locked around his upper arms so he couldn’t be accused of slipping her cards, he had slid his booted foot across the floor until it was nestled against hers, announcing secretly to her his solidarity and support as though they had been heralded with banners waving and trumpets blaring. Her knee knocked accidentally against his, and then returned to rest there, to absorb more fully the comfort he was offering. He fortified her with the simplest of gestures. “To be honest, I was surprised you went with her.”

  Toss.

  “I’ve always liked her.”

  Clatter.

  Danny’s tokens hit the pile.

  “You certainly didn’t waste any time in asking her.”

  Flick.

  “After having chosen poorly the first time, I decided it would behoove me to quickly move on so my misjudgment could be soon forgotten.”

  As the growl sounded, his hand froze in midair and his gaze shifted ever so slightly and ever so slowly to the man sitting beside her, whose hands had balled into fists. They still remained against his arms, but it was evident he was straining to keep them there. “You’d be wise to choose very carefully what you say next,” Benedict advised in a silky voice that she suspected resembled the one used by Satan when he welcomed someone into hell.

  She gave him a gentle smile. “He can say nothing that will hurt me. To be hurt, I would have to care what he thought, and I no longer do.”

  It was with a bit of wonder that she realized she’d spoken true. A weight she’d been carrying for months suddenly fell away. What did his opinion matter?

  “You’re different,” Chadbourne said.

  She turned her attention back to him, but for him she had no smile. “Yes, I quite imagine I am.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands outstretched. “Althea, where you are concerned, I had no choice but to do what I did. You can see that, surely. My family, our children, they would have been ostracized had we gone forward with our marriage.”

  Our children. The ones they would have created together—only now never would.

  “We always have a choice, even when it se
ems we don’t.” She had chosen to follow a path that would make her scandalous but would lessen her brothers’ worry over her and reduce their sense of responsibility toward her.

  “Fine.” He finally added his chips to the pile. “I chose to uphold my family honor.”

  “More like family dishonor.” Most people would have muttered the words under their breath, but then Benedict Trewlove was not like most people. In truth, he was unlike anyone else she’d ever met. He made no excuses for any of his decisions, his choices. Even though she suspected a good many people questioned his wisdom in being associated with a brothel.

  “I think I know who you are,” Chadbourne said, his eyes narrowed on Benedict in an attempt to appear threatening that only served to make his squinting look as though he was in want of spectacles in order to see properly.

  “Think? I told you who I am.”

  “You told me part of who you are. I recall now seeing you at a few weddings of late. You’re a Trewlove, which means you’re a bastard.”

  “You spit that word out as though it’s something of which to be ashamed.”

  “You’re unlawful. A nonperson. Nothing you do will change the circumstances of your birth.”

  “’Tis true. I am a bastard by birth. You, on the other hand, are a bastard by choice.”

  Chadbourne fairly quivered with indignation. “How dare you!”

  “Would you rather I call you an arse?”

  “I am an earl. You will give me the respect I deserve.”

  “I give no one respect unless he’s earned it, and you’ve not.”

  “I. Am. A. Lord.”

  “You’re not in Mayfair, mate,” Danny said cheerily as though he was accustomed to breaking up squabbles at the tables before they broke out into fisticuffs. “You’re in Whitechapel. Here the Trewloves are royalty. Ask anyone.” He tossed his chips onto the pile and looked at her. “Miss Stanwick, do you wish to bet or fold?”