Bedchamber Games

by Tracy Anne Warren

He fisted his hands at his sides, the anger and incredulity that had been simmering inside him these past few days boiling up again. Even now he couldn’t believe she’d fooled him—fooled them all!

  Every time he looked at her now, he saw a woman, marveling that he’d ever believed her to be anything else. In the full light of the truth, her femininity was so obvious as to be laughable. For despite the masculine clothing and short queue of hair, her features were softly drawn rather than boldly angled, her skin baby smooth and free of the rough grain caused by shaving, her movements lithe and graceful rather than heavy or loping.

  As for her gestures and reactions, he’d always known something essential about her didn’t add up. He’d had a hard time keeping the smirk off his face minutes ago as he watched her settle onto the bench and let her knees loll apart in a deliberate attempt to sit like a man.

  Only she wasn’t a man and now that he knew it, he couldn’t see her any other way. Nor could he stop his body’s intuitive attraction to her. At least he understood now why he’d always found her appealing despite his mind’s natural refusal to accept what his senses were telling him. An instinctual part of him had always recognized her true essence, like an animal sensing a potential mate.

  And duped though he might feel, both personally and professionally, he couldn’t deny his desire for her. Her sweet scent alone had been enough to drive him mad as he’d lounged next to her at the library table. It was one of the reasons he’d teased and baited her—enjoying their verbal games, yes, but needing the distraction as well—as thoughts of kissing and touching her flooded his mind, images of all the ways he wanted to take her racing past in a kaleidoscope of need.

  But seducing the cunning little minx would have to wait. First, he needed to expose her deception. He would see about exposing the rest of her later.

  As for her illegal practice of the law, he would have to put a stop to that as well. Although on that score he couldn’t fault her for her obvious wish to be a barrister. Clearly she had talent—more than most of the lawyers of his acquaintance—as well as the education to excel in the profession. The only barrier to her being an attorney was her sex, unfair as that might seem.

  But he couldn’t let himself get caught up in sympathy for her, not now. She’d played him for a fool, and if there was one thing he could not abide, it was a liar.

  “Ross Carrow” needed to be taught a very valuable lesson, and Lawrence had decided that he was exactly the man to do it.

  So let the games begin.

  Chapter 12

  The following evening, the hack rolled to a stop in front of Lord Lawrence’s Cavendish Square town house with precisely one minute to spare.

  Rosamund had had to race not to be late, the task of getting Bertram out of the house proving far more difficult than she’d ever envisioned. But after a great deal of subtle and not-so-subtle coaxing, he’d finally admitted that it might be a good idea to accept some of his friends’ frequent invitations and join them for a night out.

  And so he’d departed—leaving her, once she knew for certain he was gone, with barely enough time to hurry from the house, locate a hackney cab and make the trip across town.

  After stepping down from the vehicle and paying the driver, she took a moment to gaze up at Lawrence’s grand, three-story Palladian town house. The front door was painted a fine, glossy black with a polished brass knob and knocker that looked elegantly sophisticated against the building’s white-gray Portland stone.

  The door opened as she started up the steps, the butler waiting to receive her. “Mr. Carrow?”

  At her nod, he took her hat and gloves and laid them on an exquisite Louis XIV table that looked quite at home in the beautifully appointed entry hall with its black-and-white marble floor, fine white columns and wall niche. A grand staircase swept down one side with majestic grace.

  She tried not to make a show as she studied the elegant refinement of the place. Everything was done with a sense of taste and understated sophistication rather than a need for ostentation. This was old aristocratic money at its best, she mused, more aware than ever of her own middle-class upbringing.

  The butler gestured politely. “His Lordship is expecting you. If you would care to follow me.”

  “Of course.”

  He led her a short distance down the hall, then into a beautiful drawing room that, to her surprise, bore a decidedly feminine touch with gracefully turned furnishings and appointments done in cheerful hues of ecru and apricot. She loved everything about it, including the airy draperies, gilded mirror, large fireplace and tall Sèvres vase filled with an arrangement of fresh flowers whose sweet perfume filled the air.

  Still, the room made little sense, given that this was a bachelor’s establishment. Or at least she’d always assumed that Lord Lawrence was a bachelor. After all, he’d never mentioned a wife. Then again, considering the circumstances of their acquaintance, why would he?

  Her heart lurched strangely in her chest at the idea, and she realized she was far more troubled by the possibility than she cared to admit. Not that it mattered, she assured herself. Even if there were a Lady Lawrence lurking about, it changed nothing. Lawrence believed she was a man. They were colleagues and friends, nothing more.

  Yet even if he was unmarried and circumstances between them were entirely different—if she’d never disguised herself and he’d met her as a woman, and if by some improbable chance she’d caught his eye—there could still never be anything between them; their worlds were simply too far apart.

  Before she had time to consider further, the butler opened the door to another room, then stepped aside to admit her.

  “Mr. Carrow, my lord,” the servant announced in politely rounded tones.

  Lord Lawrence glanced up from where he sat in a comfortable-looking armchair, then set down the book he’d been reading and got to his feet. As he walked forward, he shot her a dazzling smile that sent her heart into a fresh ricochet. His gold-green eyes were brilliant in the late-evening sunlight, his dark golden hair gleaming in a nimbus that reminded her a bit of a crown. For God knew, he was certainly handsome enough to be a prince.

  “Good, Ross, you’ve arrived. And right on time.”

  She swallowed beneath the snug confines of her neck cloth and worked to keep the emotion off her face. “Yes, I didn’t want to be late again and give you the impression that I’m incapable of punctuality.”

  “I knew that already, since you’re never late to court. Then again, I don’t fine people for tardiness like some of the judges do.”

  “Or bellow at them, thank the heavens,” she said, returning his smile.

  Lawrence chuckled. “Old Judge Morely, do you mean?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, he is a terror. Half-deaf too, which only makes it worse. But don’t ever shout back at him, trying to be heard. He’ll call you out on it, ask why the hell you’re yelling, since he can hear you just fine, then roast you over hot coals for the rest of the testimony.” He crossed to a small bar. “Drink?”

  “No.” She shook her head, remembering vividly what had happened the last time she partook of alcohol in his company.

  He sent her an amused look out of the corner of his eye. “Perhaps you’re right. This way you can enjoy wine with dinner.”

  She wasn’t sure it would be wise to do that either, but she didn’t openly disagree.

  While he busied himself pouring his own drink from one of the finely cut crystal decanters, she took a moment to look around the room.

  Clearly it was his study. Everything exuded an unapologetic masculinity, from the massive mahogany desk that stood at the far end of the room to the spacious wooden table and deep armchairs situated in a comfortable arrangement near a set of tall windows. Bookshelves lined the dark-painted walls, every inch filled with leather-bound volumes whose scent bore traces of fine-quality paper, ink and age.
A pair of excellent horse paintings, by an artist she didn’t recognize, hung in positions of prominence over the fireplace mantel, while a large globe of the world sat suspended at a safe distance inside its wooden cradle.

  She resisted an urge to approach the globe and give it a testing spin.

  “I thought we would take dinner in here tonight.” Lawrence resumed his seat, drink in hand, motioning with the other for her to take the seat across from him. “It’s far more comfortable than the dining room.”

  She lowered herself into the chair. “So it will just be the two of us, then. Your wife won’t be joining us?”

  “My wife?” His eyebrows shot high. “Whatever gave you the notion that I’m married?”

  “Nothing I’ve heard. I only wondered after seeing the room your butler led me through on my way here.” She nodded in the direction of the drawing room. “Apricot and cream don’t strike me as your sort of colors, not to mention the huge vase full of fresh blooms.”

  He stared for an instant, then tossed back his head and laughed. “No, I don’t suppose they do. But you may put your mind at rest about my being married. I’m not—not yet anyway. The drawing room was decorated by my sister-in-law, Thalia. My twin brother and I own this town house together, and he and Thalia stay here when they’re in London. They departed yesterday for their country estate but left the flower arrangement behind.”

  A quick sense of relief shot through her before the rest of his words sank in. “You have a twin?”

  “I do.”

  “Identical?”

  He took a drink and inclined his head. “Enough to confuse people whenever we like. Although he and I tried that once on our mother. I think we were ten at the time. She gave us quite the hiding afterward, I’ll tell you.”

  She contemplated that small revelation. “I bet you were a pair of hellions.”

  “Worse.” He grinned. “Leo and I cut quite a swath in our day.”

  “And now?”

  “Now he’s married and leads a respectable life—or respectable for him at least. Nevertheless, he still claims that between the two of us, I’m the dull one.”

  “You? Dull? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Well, I suppose he is right up to a point. I do take far more enjoyment from the pursuit of dry, intellectual discourse and erudite legal inquiry than he ever will. And Lord knows I have no interest in penning lurid tales of mayhem and murder.”

  “What do you mean? Does he write novels?”

  Lawrence grimaced, looking like a small boy who’d just been caught out. “Oh no. I wasn’t supposed to let that slip. He’s trying to keep it private, don’t you know?” He gave a guilty little laugh, then grew serious again. “But you won’t tell, will you, Ross?”

  “No, I won’t tell. You can trust me.”

  “I can see that.” An odd, strangely enigmatic light shone in Lawrence’s eyes as he gazed deeply into her own. “You’re the sort who’s good at keeping secrets, aren’t you? The kind who can conceal things that others wouldn’t even dare to attempt.”

  Without warning, her pulse began to race, alarm suddenly prickling across her skin. “What do you mean?”

  How had the conversation taken such an unusual turn? Surely he couldn’t . . . doesn’t suspect me?

  Long seconds ticked past, their gazes locked. She tamped down her nerves, refusing to look away first.

  Abruptly he lowered his eyes, idly swirling the liquor in his glass. “Why, only that you’re a barrister, of course. It’s our duty to keep the confidences of our clients. Whatever else did you imagine I meant?”

  Her pulse began to slow again, her concern fading. “Nothing. What else could you mean but that?”

  He swirled the whiskey in his glass again, then swallowed what remained. He set the glass aside. “Are you hungry? It’s a bit early yet for dinner, but I suspect the kitchen can manage something if we let them know we’re ready.”

  “Yes. That sounds most agreeable.”

  “Good.” He rubbed his hands together, then sprang out of his chair.

  She relaxed back into her own as he went to ring for a servant, relieved that her fears had all been for naught.

  • • •

  I really am a devil toying with her like this, Lawrence thought nearly two hours later as one of the footmen cleared away the last of their dinner. Yet, cruel as it might seem, there was a kind of sweet satisfaction to the game as he watched her put on her act. Truthfully she could have trod the boards at Drury Lane. The role of Portia would have been a natural one for her, considering how adept she was at pretending to be not only a man but a lawyer as well. And as he’d acknowledged more than once, she was an excellent litigator, her mind as sharp and nimble as any man’s.

  Yet despite the red herring he’d used to lure her here tonight, he hadn’t actually intended to debate the law with her. When she’d brought up the subject over dinner, though, he decided to play along and tossed out a legal conundrum that he really had been contemplating in the course of his work.

  Her insights shouldn’t have surprised him, yet somehow they did, her clever maneuvering and rich understanding of the law making for a lively round of intellectual sparring that had proven more interesting and entertaining than any he’d enjoyed in recent memory.

  Or perhaps ever, come to that.

  Yet admire her brain though he might, he could not admire her deceit. She was a fraud, a charlatan who’d plied her tricks on him and others. She’d made him question himself. Worse, she’d made him question the very nature of his own sexual desires, and for that alone, he could not—would not—excuse her.

  The time of reckoning had arrived.

  With the servant gone and the study door closed, Lawrence picked up the decanter of after-dinner port. He leaned forward and moved to fill her glass.

  She shook her head and held out a hand to stop him. “No, thank you, I’ve had more than enough already.”

  “Surely you can tolerate a few sips of this. It’s sixty-year-old tawny from Portugal. Believe me, you won’t find better.”

  He’d been careful throughout the meal to serve her just enough wine to leave her mellow but not drunk—a fine art, considering her limited tolerance for spirits as well as her general unwillingness to imbibe.

  “Have a little,” he coaxed. “I promise my coachman will drive you home, so you’ve no need to worry on that score.”

  “Nevertheless—” She frowned.

  “Go on. You can nurse it slowly.” He filled his glass, then her own. After setting down the decanter, he raised his glass, silently encouraging a toast.

  Despite her obvious reluctance, she lifted her glass. “To what are we drinking?”

  “Hmm, let’s see,” he mused aloud. “To friendship, shall we say?” He locked his eyes with hers. “And honesty.”

  She blinked but didn’t look away. “To friendship and honesty.”

  He clinked his glass with hers, and together they drank.

  After refilling their glasses again despite her audible demur, he got to his feet and crossed to one of the bookshelves. From it, he retrieved an ornately carved rosewood box that he carried back to the table. He unlatched one side and laid it open to reveal a clever, multipurpose gaming board. “What shall we play? Chess, checkers or backgammon?”

  “What an exceptional piece.” She stroked her fingers against the wood admiringly. “Where did you get it?”

  “It was a gift from my brother Cade. He acquired it during some of his travels years ago when I was still a stripling. It’s portable, so I took it to school with me. By some miracle, I’ve managed not to lose any of the pieces—not yet anyway.”

  “I should hope not. It’s much too fine to ruin.”

  “So? Which game? Any particular favorite?” He waited.

  “I like them all. Backgammon maybe, since I need my wi
ts sharper than they are tonight for chess.”

  “Backgammon it is, although it is not without the necessity of skill as well.”

  With easy movements, he laid out the board and dice. Once done, he shrugged out of his coat, then reached up to tug loose his neck cloth. Unwinding the linen strip from around his throat, he tossed it aside atop his jacket. He looked back to find her eyes on him.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  He hid a smile. “Just getting comfortable. It’s a warm evening, do you not agree? Far too warm to stay trussed up in layers of clothing. It’s only us two men tonight, so why stand on formality when shirtsleeves will do? Join me. Otherwise I’ll feel underdressed.”

  To her credit, she managed to maintain her composure. “I’m comfortable as I am.” She made no effort to remove her coat.

  He arched a brow and pressed a little harder. “Now, that, my fine friend, is clearly a lie. I can see the sheen of perspiration along your hairline. Don’t tell me you’re still shy? I thought you’d gotten over that during our billiards game.”

  “I’m not shy,” she declared.

  “Well, then?”

  She paused, clearly wrestling with her decision. On a near-silent huff, she eased out of her jacket and, after another moment of hesitation, reached up to boldly untie her cravat and yank it free.

  He studied the contours of her chest beneath her waistcoat and the exposed line of her throat but couldn’t find any overt evidence of her femininity. Either she was extremely small-breasted or she kept her breasts bound. His hand clenched against his thigh as he thought about that—and the delicious idea of unwrapping them. As for her throat, it was long and smooth and pale. He imagined pressing his mouth to the spot at its base where her skin disappeared beneath her shirt. He wondered how sweet she would taste and smell as he nuzzled the cloth aside with his nose.

  “Lawrence?”

  He looked up and realized he’d been caught daydreaming. Regrouping quickly, he picked up the die, shook it noisily inside a dice cup, then let it spill out onto the board.