Bedchamber Games

by Tracy Anne Warren

  She followed suit with her own die, winning the opening turn. She bent her head to consider her move.

  They played for a few minutes, back and forth in an easy rhythm while both of them paused occasionally to sip from their respective glasses of port—he twice as often as her.

  “Cheroot?” he asked after taking the first point.

  “What?”

  “Do you care for a cheroot?”

  Without waiting for her answer, he got up and retrieved a narrow box containing the cigars along with a flint and tinder, and a small dish for the ashes.

  He knew he really oughtn’t spin things out too much longer, but an impish streak tempted him to see exactly how far he could push her. Would she rise to the challenge or break under its pressure?

  Silently he held the open box out to her, displaying the fragrant, tightly rolled cigars. “These came all the way from the West Indies. You do smoke, I presume?”

  “Oh, of course. On occasion.”

  Another lie.

  He watched as she reached out and gingerly selected one of the blunt-tipped cheroots, holding it between her fingertips as if expecting it to ignite right then and there.

  Or explode, perhaps.

  Hiding another smile as he turned away, he chose his own, then closed the box with an audible snap.

  Visibly, she startled.

  This time he couldn’t keep from grinning.

  He returned to his chair, then reached for the flint and tinder. After conjuring a flame, he held it up to the cheroot and drew in a few quick, deep puffs in a way that made the end flare red. Tipping back his head, he blew a stream of smoke into the air.

  Across from him, her nose wrinkled with clear distaste at the pungent scent.

  “Your turn.” He held out the still-burning tinder and waited to see whether she would balk.

  For a moment, he thought she was going to do exactly that, but with a bravado he could only admire, she stuck the cheroot in her mouth and leaned forward. He touched the hot tip to the end of her cigar and waited, nearly warning her to go easy as she took a trio of fast, deep puffs in an exact imitation of himself.

  The cheroot caught, the tip briefly flaring red as she pulled in one more hearty inhalation. Smoke curled out of her mouth and nostrils, and her eyes popped wide. She yanked the cheroot free of her mouth as she began to gasp and sputter. A series of racking coughs burst from her lungs, the sound penetrating as a cannon shot.

  Hurriedly he snuffed out the tinder flame, then crushed his cheroot tip-first into the china dish before coming around to her side. While she continued coughing with the agony of a consumptive, he took the cigar from her hand, squashed it out in the dish next to his, then reached out to pull her to her feet.

  With his arm around her waist, he half dragged, half carried her to the nearest window. She continued her fitful coughing as he flung up the sash to let in drafts of warm night air. He moved so that she stood in front of him, his hands clasped supportively around her upper arms as she fought to regain her breath.

  She leaned back against him, little shivers of distress running through her as her coughing finally began to subside. He rubbed her arms, up and down in slow, soothing strokes. She coughed once, twice, then fell still, only the quiet sounds of nocturnal insects and the distant clop-clop of horses’ hooves intruding into the silence.

  “Better?” he asked, hands continuing their up and down slide.

  She nodded, the soft hair at the top of her head brushing against his jaw. He leaned closer and took a moment to breathe her in. Then he slid his arms around her.

  He felt the instant her body turned stiff against his. “Lawrence?”

  “Hmm?” He rubbed his chin against her temple.

  “What are you doing?” Her usually deep voice ended on a high note.

  “What do you think I’m doing?”

  She swallowed. “Whatever it is, it is most irregular. You can release me.”

  “I know I can.” He traced his fingers along the buttons of her waistcoat. “I know something else as well.” He put his mouth next to her ear. “Want me to tell you what it is?”

  “No. Now, enough of whatever this is you’re playing at.” She tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold instead.

  “Not until I tell you about the secret.” He slipped one of her waistcoat buttons free, then a second.

  “What secret?”

  “Why, yours, of course.”

  He slid his hand beneath her waistcoat and laid it flat against the thin material of her shirt right where her left breast would be. A warm rush of satisfaction went through him when he discovered a thick, incriminating banding of cloth underneath. “Or do you finally want to share?”

  “Share what?” she blustered, unable to suppress the shudder that moved through her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, don’t you, now?” Abruptly he spun her around and looked into her eyes, finding her pupils so dilated they all but obscured the gray. “Remember earlier how we toasted to honesty? Why don’t you be honest for a change and tell me the truth?”

  “About what?” She lifted her chin, even now refusing to admit defeat.

  “Stubborn to the end, I see.” He caught her chin between his fingers. “Aren’t you, Miss Carrow?”

  Chapter 13

  Rosamund wrenched herself away from him, her heart thundering frantically in her ears.

  He knows. God help me, he knows!

  But how? And why this elaborate charade? She realized in a sudden rush that he must have been toying with her the entire evening like a cat with a mouse.

  And now what? What was she to do? Come right out and admit her deception or try to bluff one last time and hope by some miracle he believed her?

  But she could see from the fierce gleam in his gold-green eyes that it was too late for tricks.

  “It’s not what you think,” she said, holding out a hand as if to ward him off.

  “Isn’t it, now, you impudent bit of baggage? Passing yourself off as a man. Not to mention pretending to be a barrister. Whose idea was it anyway? Yours or Carrow’s?”

  She didn’t answer, instead darting a glance toward her discarded coat and neck cloth. Maybe if she ran fast enough, she could grab them and somehow manage to escape the house before he caught up.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said, clearly aware of her desperate intentions. Before she even had a chance to react, he went to the door and twisted the key in the lock. Turning back with a menacing smile, he slipped the key into his pocket. “Now, where were we? I believe I asked you a question.”

  She looked toward the open window and wondered fleetingly what her chances would be trying to escape through it. But she discarded the idea before it had even fully formed, knowing Lawrence would be on her the second she moved. And considering her rubbish luck tonight, she’d probably just end up breaking something—like her ankle.

  Or her neck.

  Crossing her arms, she took up a defiant stance. “I am afraid you’ll have to refresh my memory, Counselor. I don’t recall what it is you wanted to know.”

  He stared at her, then barked out a laugh. “You really are bold as brass. I’ll give you that. Then again, if you weren’t, we wouldn’t be standing here tonight, would we? Very well, I will ask you again. Exactly whose idea was—this?” He moved his hand in a way that encompassed the whole of her. “Before you tell me, though, why don’t we start with a few basics, such as your name? Somehow I don’t think it’s Ross.”

  Briefly she considered refusing to tell him. But what was the point? He knew the worst, so what did the rest matter now?

  “Rosamund,” she admitted, abruptly reverting to her natural speaking voice.

  He stared for a moment as he absorbed the change but recovered just as quickly. “Rosamund, is it?” He rol
led her name on his tongue as if savoring a sweetmeat. “Far more lyrical than Ross, I must say. It suits you. And your surname? Is that something else as well?”

  She frowned. “No, it’s Carrow.”

  “So you really are Carrow’s cousin, then? You’re not . . .”

  “Not what?”

  “Something more?”

  “More? Well, I suppose you could put it that way.”

  His eyes darkened. “So the two of you are lovers. You’re not married to him, are you?”

  “Married! Good God, no.”

  “Well, that provides some reassurance at least. It’s one thing to steal another man’s lover, quite another to take his wife. Though in your case, I might have made an exception.”

  Her arms dropped to her sides, air squeezing from her chest. “What?” she said, sputtering. “How could you think that he . . . that I . . . that we—” She shuddered. “Ugh! For heaven’s sake, Bertram is my brother.”

  Lawrence was the one to look shocked this time. “Your brother?”

  “Yes. My younger brother. Why would you think . . . well, whatever it is you were thinking?”

  “Because you live together, for one. And though you both share similar coloring and perhaps a faint resemblance around the eyes, that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re related. As for your being cousins, cousins marry, sometimes even first cousins, though I personally find that rather too close a relationship for comfort. So the idea that you and he might be cousins didn’t preclude the two of you being . . . more. I have to say, though, that I’m happy he’s your brother. It’ll make everything so much simpler.”

  Her scowl deepened. “Make what simpler?”

  What was he talking about? And what exactly had he meant about being willing to make an exception and steal her away? She thought about how he’d held her a few minutes ago. The way he’d caressed her temple and whispered into her ear. But surely he’d just been taunting her, aware she was a woman when she’d still thought that he thought she was a man. Which reminded her . . .

  “How long have you known?” she said.

  “About you?”

  She gave a sharp nod.

  “A while. A little over a week.”

  “A week? But if you’ve known, why didn’t you say something? Why go to all this trouble tonight rather than simply confronting me? Or else reporting me to the Inn and the court.”

  “Believe me, I thought about doing both. I was furious when I first realized and wanted nothing more than to throw you to the wolves.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, leaving it disheveled in the most attractive way. “But it seemed far too easy and curiously unsatisfying, considering all the unanswered questions I have. Then too, I guess I wanted the pleasure of unmasking you. Though technically I have yet to see absolute proof of your femininity.” His gaze lowered to her chest where her waistcoat still hung partially open. “I presume you do have a pair of breasts concealed under that binding around your chest? You could always remove it and let me see. Just so I can make certain.”

  Warmth burst like fire into her cheeks, turning them what she was sure must be the color of ripe cherries. She reached for the buttons on her vest and with shaking fingers quickly fastened them.

  Lawrence laughed. “I’ll take that as confirmation of the existence of said breasts. I reserve the right, however, to see physical proof of them at a later time.”

  “And I reserve the right to refuse any such requests.”

  He flashed her a wicked grin, the look in his eyes sending tingles radiating over her skin. “You can always try.”

  “If I’d had my wits about me,” she said, “I would have told you my chest is bound because I cracked a rib. Is that why you’ve been plying me with liquor all evening? So I wouldn’t have time to think up a reasonable excuse?”

  “That and the fact that it’s rather amusing watching you get tipsy on a thimbleful of alcohol.”

  “I’m not tipsy tonight. Just relaxed. Or rather I was relaxed before you started this whole inquisition.”

  “It’s not much of an inquisition yet.” He motioned for her to take a seat again. “You’ve barely told me any of it, such as why the hell you decided to play pretend barrister.”

  Suddenly realizing just how shaky her legs were, she went to the chair and sank down. “It’s a long story.”

  “I have time.” He settled into the chair across from her. “Pray, enlighten me.”

  • • •

  Lawrence listened, letting her tell her story with far more directness than he had any right to expect. He watched her as she spoke, allowing her gestures and unstudied way of expressing herself speak for her every bit as much as her words. Her eyes shone with bright forthrightness and quiet determination, yet beneath it all he glimpsed the haunted shadows of guilt and regret.

  She didn’t plead or attempt to cajole; she just explained, concise and straightforward, laying everything out as she would one of her legal cases. It was that, more than anything, that gave him the most pause.

  When she finished, a shroud of silence fell over the room.

  Lawrence studied her where she sat, her eyes cast down and shoulders set as she awaited her sentence, whatever he might deem it to be.

  He didn’t know why, but he found himself believing her, though he certainly had no reason to. Yet in spite of her former pretense and the intricate web of lies she’d woven, he thought he understood why she’d done what she’d done. Now all that remained was how he was going to respond.

  She sighed. “I suppose the only ethical thing for you to do is to expose my deceit to everyone. I am prepared to accept the consequences.”

  “Are you?” he asked without inflection.

  She drew in a breath, then nodded. “Yes, only . . .”

  “Only what?”

  “Would you be willing to wait a few days?” She raised her eyes to his. “I wouldn’t ask for myself. But my brother, I’d like to give him a short while to get his affairs in order.”

  “A chance to leave the city, you mean.”

  Her face turned blank—a sure tell that she was prevaricating, he now realized. “No, I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t need to.” He waited as his meaning sank in. “We both know if I give you away, I give him away as well. After all, he’s the one who vouched for you at Lincoln’s Inn and saw to the certification of your credentials with the court, not to mention serving as your cocounsel at trial. No, the pair of you are inextricably bound together in this whether you wish it or not.”

  “Please, don’t do this to him.” She leaned forward in her chair, pleading for the first time since she’d begun her confession. “Bertram is a good man and doesn’t deserve to have his entire life ruined. He was in a state of grief over our father’s death and wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. Really this is all my fault. I should be the one to pay, not him.”

  “You were grieving too,” he said, his voice rising sharply. “And why not him when, if I understood you correctly, it was his idea from the start?”

  She wrung her hands. “Yes, but I am the one who agreed to do it. I should have refused and let the worst he faced be a loss to his pride. But he just needed a chance, the time to transition into work more suited to his nature. He’s a smart man, a capable lawyer. It is only that our father could never see how much Bertram hated litigation, how being a barrister tormented him because of his speech difficulties. Difficulties he barely has except when he is under stress or scrutiny.”

  “Have you always mothered him?”

  She scowled. “It’s not a question of that. I just look after him as any caring sister would.”

  He arched a knowing brow but decided not to press further. “So, for your brother’s sake, you would let him flee and leave you to take the brunt of whatever might come?”

  “Of course. Assuming he
would go, that is. I rather doubt he will agree, but I’ll try to persuade him nevertheless.”

  “If he is any kind of man at all, I would hope that he wouldn’t turn tail and abandon you. Luckily in this instance, we won’t have to find out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He steepled his fingers together. “I mean that I’ve decided not to say anything. I am going to keep your secret.”

  Her lips parted on an astonished gasp. “But why?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. Let me just say that I don’t like the idea of your falling on your sword to save the person responsible for getting you into this fix, even if he is your little brother. Which reminds me, just how old are you really? Given the fact that you’ve admitted to being the elder sibling, I rather doubt you’re four and twenty.”

  Her lips pursed together briefly. “I am twenty-eight.”

  He lowered his hands. “Really? Then we’re of an age. I am twenty-eight as well, though not for long, since I’ve a birthday next month.” His eyes met and held hers again. “Any more fibs you need to reveal? If I’m to keep your confidences, then I want no further secrets between us. Is that understood?”

  “Completely. And there’s nothing else, not that I can think of at present.”

  The corners of his mouth turned up. “I trust you’ll tell me if anything comes to mind.”

  She nodded. “I will. My lord . . . Lawrence, I don’t know how to thank you. It is beyond generous of you not to reveal what you’ve learned, especially considering the ethical implications involved. I certainly wouldn’t wish any of this to cause you difficulty.”

  “I don’t see how it could.” He gave a dismissive shrug. “All I need say is that I had no more idea of your deceit than any of my fellows. Plausible deniability and all that. Besides, you’re not planning to carry on with this charade indefinitely, or at least that’s what you led me to believe earlier when you were explaining things.”

  “That’s right. Once I close the last of my father’s cases and Bertram is satisfactorily established in his new practice, Ross Carrow will go back north and I shall resume my old life. After all, it’s not as if I can live the rest of my life as a man.”