by Isobel Carr
Roland toasted her before drinking. “You really should have let me finish.”
She glared at him over the rim of her own glass. “Because it would have helped you along on the lust to love part of our dare?”
“That, and it would have kept you from a long night of wondering what I might have done next.”
CHAPTER 13
Livy choked on her wine and spit it inelegantly back into her glass. Devere gave a great bray of laughter in response before finishing his own glass in one long draught and getting up to wander back to the shallop’s bow, tugging on his glove as he went.
He was right, the devil. Her body thrummed with frustration. Ached with it. She could still feel his hand on her, inside her. Her skin was flushed. Her nipples were almost painfully tight, and she was sticky and damp where he’d stroked and teased her.
He glanced back at her, a wide grin splitting his face. He knew exactly what she was thinking, what she was feeling, and he was going to be insufferable. The wind whipped his hair about his face, tugging curls loose from his queue, making him again the pirate of his mother’s drawing room.
With a huff of annoyance, Livy poured the last of the wine into her glass and settled back against the padded bolster. The raucous cry of gulls overhead and the distant sight of them whirling against the sky made an impressive backdrop for Devere as he stood at the bow. It was like a scene out of a painting. A Canaletto or a Tillemans.
Devere’s gaze slid away from her as they caught up to a competitor with oarsmen decked out in the devil’s own gold-and-black livery. Shouting ensued between the two coxswains, a conversation composed of words she only half understood. They were cut off by a stout man wearing a bagwig and an embroidered coat more suited to an evening at St. James’s Palace than a day on the river.
“A hundred pounds, Mr. Devere,” the man shouted over the water. “A hundred pounds that I’m standing on dry land before you.”
Livy pushed herself up and stepped out from under the canopy. It wasn’t so much the outrageous sum as it was the man’s tone that set Livy’s back up.
The boats were close enough now for her to make out more than the ostentatious embroidery on the man’s coat. Lord Brownlow. A thoroughly unpleasant man in her thankfully limited experience. His wife and daughters always had a cowed air about them, always looking to him before answering even the most commonplace question, as though seeking permission to speak at all.
As a younger son, Devere didn’t have a fortune to throw around. A fact that Lord Brownlow clearly knew. He was enjoying the fact that Devere was caught between declining a bet he couldn’t afford to lose and accepting one he couldn’t afford to pay.
“My lord,” Livy shouted as she walked to join Devere in the bow. Her blood hummed with wine, frustrated desire, and the anticipation of a skirmish. “I think that in honor of my very first shallop race, we should make it more interesting than mere money.”
Both men watched her warily, but she could see that Devere was more than curious to hear what she was about to say. Lord Brownlow looked decidedly displeased to have been interrupted. Devere flicked a pitying glance at him, as though he knew the man was out of his depth.
“And what would be more interesting than money, my lady?” his lordship said as the Moubray shallop drew even with his own.
“Personal dignity?” Livy suggested with a patently false smile. Devere sucked in a sharp breath, clearly understanding where she was going. That ability to read her mind, to anticipate her actions, was one of the things she both liked and distrusted about him.
Lord Brownlow stared back at her, frowning, clearly waiting to hear her suggestion.
“I heard from Madame de Corbeville that there’s a tradition of dunking the winning coxswain in the river,” Livy said, watching him closely.
“Yes…” Lord Brownlow said, his expression darkening as he caught on.
Livy’s smile widened. Brownlow’s elaborate coat and wig would look all the more ridiculous sopping wet. “I propose the reverse,” she shouted. “First one of you there gets to knock the other into the Thames.”
“Is this your way of attempting to be shot of me?” Devere asked quietly. Livy met his gaze fleetingly, but didn’t answer. She hadn’t thought of that particular silver lining to losing.
“Very well,” Devere said more loudly. “What say you, Brownlow?”
The baron stared at them both with a disgusted expression. “Sims!” he shouted, his face starting to mottle with annoyance.
“Yes, my lord?” his coxswain responded.
“If I end up in the river, you’ll be looking for work without a reference. I shall see you at Ranelagh, Devere. Lady Olivia.” He nodded and retired to his own canopied haven. His coxswain shot them a dirty look and urged his crew on with a promise of his own share of the prize money.
“A one-pound bonus each,” Devere said to his oarsmen, “if we beat those bastards to the finish.” In response, they leaned into their oars, expressions hardening. Devere leaned casually against the railing. He’d lost his hair tie again, and his dark curls were loose and running riot in the wind. “What have you got me into?” Devere said with a bemused shake of his head.
“You won’t melt.”
The road from London to Ranelagh was choked with carriages of every description. Margo had been sad to begin the trip inside a closed carriage rather than being free to enjoy the air in a curricle or phaeton, but the swirls of dust blowing by the windows as the dry road was churned by hoof and wheel made her grateful that Arlington had chosen as he had.
The earl’s coach had been appointed to address every comfort or need. There was wine and an array of savories and sweets. He’d brought cards, books, and a traveling chess and backgammon set. There were pillows and traveling blankets and bricks that would be heated for the trip home if the night turned out to be unseasonably cold.
Margo was used to a more Spartan existence: cold rooms, drafty halls, fireplaces that did little more than smoke, and a husband who cared only for his own comfort, never for hers. Arlington seemed to care for little else and had prepared for their short excursion as though they were setting off for a grand tour.
The distinct sound of the coachman coughing from the box broke in upon them, and the coach momentarily darkened as a severe cloud of dust blocked out the light. Margo watched it swirl by like a brown fog. “How did you know?” she said as she returned to studying the backgammon board that lay between them on the small table that folded down from the door.
“That we should be eating dust all afternoon?” the earl said as he slid his pieces down the board and claimed two of hers. “Simple. It’s not raining, eliminating mud from the two options, and half the ton is off to Ranelagh today. Dust was inevitable.” He smiled as he said it, laugh lines crinkling from his eyes down across his cheeks.
Margo’s chest tightened, and she barely held herself back from reaching across the table that separated them to touch his face. It was ridiculous to be seduced by something as simple—as sweet—as a man’s sunny disposition, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Lord knew she’d been seduced by less on more than one occasion.
And for all that he’d become a devoted swain, the earl remained maddeningly respectful. Any other man would have thrown up her skirts and had his way with her before they’d reached the first turnpike.
Margo squirmed on her seat. If she couldn’t will him into action, could she provoke him into it? If she slid her foot between his legs would she find his cock straining for release? Would he thrust the table out of the way, sending the backgammon board and the ivory and ebony disks flying? Or would his expression change from admiration to disgust?
Margo rolled the dice and moved her pieces to capture one of Arlington’s. The earl raised one brow and shook his head, not looking at all as if ravishment was on his mind. “I fear you’re not paying attention, Madame. You could have had three.”
“I told you at the outset that games of strategy were not wher
e my talents lay,” Margo replied with a shaky laugh. She was wanton, and Arlington was a gentleman in every sense of the word. How on earth had she allowed her fancy to fall upon a man so unsuited to her purposes?
The earl collected the dice, his long-fingered hands brushing across the board in a way that made Margo’s pulse leap. He dropped them into the dice box with a rattle and gave her an appraising look as he shook them. “A gentleman should never call a lady a liar, so I’ll merely note that I believe you to be pandering to my vanity.”
Margo cocked her head and did her best to look innocent. “Why on earth would you think that, my lord?”
He shot her a look of pure disbelief before sending the dice rolling down the board. “I know what life at court is like,” he said, handing her the leather dice box, fingers sliding along her hand as he did so. Was his touch purposeful, or was it only wishful thinking on her part?
“Whether that court is at Versailles, St. James’s, or St. Petersburg makes no difference,” he continued. “And whether you call it intrigue or strategy, it amounts to the same thing. One is either good at it, or one isn’t.”
“So my ability to survive life at court—”
“Not just survive, Madame,” Arlington interjected as she turned the dice box in her fingers. “Be honest. You flourished by all accounts.”
Margo twisted uncomfortably on the seat, suddenly aware of every point where her clothing pinched or bound. Arlington was staring at her with clear, blue eyes. Not in an accusatory fashion but with uncomfortable penetration and insight all the same. He saw her. Knew her. And still he acted the gentleman.
His happy disposition didn’t diminish his intellect one iota. In fact, it made him dangerous in a way she’d never encountered before. It was hard to remember that behind that handsome face and ready smile was a mind every bit as devious as her own, or so gossip made out. Arlington was a power to be reckoned with in the Lords, according to her father. A man of presence and persuasion.
“My skill as a courtier somehow means I should be better at backgammon than I am?” she said, shaking the dice vigorously. He smiled again, and the tension between them dissipated like a soap bubble bursting.
“No,” he said settling back against the squabs and stretching out one leg so that his foot was braced on the bottom of her seat. “Your talent as a courtier means that if you actually applied yourself, you’d be giving me a much better game than you are. Hence my conclusion that being bad at backgammon is a sop to my vanity. I assure you, though, being bested by a woman won’t leave me bruised and battered. Shall we begin again?”
Margo nodded. She hadn’t been purposefully allowing him to win, but she hadn’t been invested in the outcome either. Backgammon was merely a way to distract herself from turning idle daydreams of seduction into action.
Arlington reset the board, and Margo found herself almost shaking with the desire to slide across the narrow space and climb into his lap. He glanced up from the board when he was done, his expression almost hungry before he schooled it into something milder. Margo swallowed hard, heat licking through her. That slight slip of control left her almost dizzy. She hadn’t been imagining the attraction that seemed to pull between them like a taut rope. It was right there below the surface, carefully leashed.
“If you really want to see me at my best,” she said, reveling in the feeling of being sure of herself once more, “we should play chess.”
CHAPTER 14
Lord Brownlow came sputtering to the surface of the Thames with a curse, and Livy bit back an unkind laugh. His wig was clutched in one hand, leaving his balding pate exposed to the full glare of the sun. With his slightly protruding eyes, he looked like a seal dismayed at finding itself so far up river.
The sound of the Moubray oarsmen cheering was almost loud enough to drown out the whistles and hoots from the shore. Devere leapt from the shallop to the steps and bent to help the baron from the water. Brownlow stared at Devere’s extended hand for one long, pregnant moment. He grabbed hold of Devere’s wrist and heaved, his legs kicking away from the short pier.
The unexpected attempt to drag him down caused Devere to lurch forward. He caught himself and hauled the baron up. Devere dangled the smaller man a foot or so above the ground before dropping him unceremoniously to his feet. “That’s ungentlemanly, my lord,” Devere said. “You made the bet, and you lost.”
The dripping baron pitched his ruined wig into the Thames with an angry growl. It sank swiftly, disappearing from sight like some monstrous sea creature startled into flight. “Call me ungentlemanly again and you’ll be naming your second,” the baron ground out.
Livy clapped her hand over her mouth, not quite catching the laugh before it escaped. Devere tossed her a repressive glance, and Livy grinned into her hand, daring him to remonstrate with her. The idea of a duel between the two men was ludicrous. Devere was half his age and twice his size. Win or lose, he’d be a laughingstock, but the scene unfolding between them was attracting a good deal of attention.
“Your estate’s not far, my lord. Change and dry off,” Devere said, far more kindly than Livy would have. “If you still feel the need to run me through after that, I’ll be dining with Lord Arlington under the rotunda.”
The baron shook as he attempted to get his temper under control. His face was mottled pink and puce. Making a desperate bid for dignity, he turned on one heel and clambered back into his shallop. The crowd renewed its riotous celebration and spilled down the steps until she and Devere were completely engulfed.
Livy shook her head and went to fetch her cloak from under the canopy. You’d think he’d won the race the way people were carrying on, but there were several shallops already tied up. They’d done no better than fourth at best.
By the time she’d shaken out her cloak and clasped it around her neck, Devere had cleared enough space on the quay for her to alight. One hand held firmly in his, the other clutching her skirts, Livy jumped across the small gap between boat and solid ground.
When she was clear of the boat, Devere nodded dismissal to the coxswain. “Buy the men some supper and a drink or two,” he said, tossing the man a small purse, “but keep them sober enough to row us back to town. I’ll send a footman to fetch you back when you’re needed.”
The man nodded, and the oarsmen immediately set about mooring up the boat. Devere wrapped an arm about Livy’s waist and drew her up the steps. The heat of the afternoon coalesced in his hand, burning through the layers of leather, silk, and linen between the skin of his hand and that of her back. Livy nearly stumbled on the stairs as a wave of indecent longing swept through her.
She should have clouted Devere over the head with a pillow—or better yet, the wine bottle—the moment she felt his hand on her knee. The last thing she needed was to be desperately, painfully, aware of what she was striving to resist.
At the top of the stairs, the stone gave way to a long oyster-shell walk that led to the imposing edifice of the Royal Hospital and then turned right toward the pleasure garden.
The crowd swelled as they made their way past the hospital and the entrance to Ranelagh came into view. On the lawn outside the Corinthian archway, tents and booths were set up as though a fair were taking place. Oarsmen in their colorful livery were scattered about, but most of them were under one large awning toasting the winning coxswain. The man was every bit as wet as Lord Brownlow, but he wore his dripping coat and wig like badges of honor.
At the gates, Devere showed the doorkeeper a small brass token and they were ushered inside with a bow. “Box five,” the doorkeeper said, sweeping his hand out dramatically toward the hive-like rotunda. A colorful swarm of guests moved in and out, rotating into the garden and returning from their perambulations in a constant flow.
“Shall we see if your father and Margo have arrived?” Devere said, straightening to his full height and surveying the milling guests. A shiver of attraction ran down Livy’s spine, making her hands and feet tingle. She’d never thought o
f height as a particularly attractive quality, but the feeling of daintiness Devere’s size gave her was an attraction all its own.
“I thought the entire point of the shallops was that they were faster?” Livy let her breath out in a sigh. If only he had some fatal flaw. Or rather one that showed on the surface, for he was—like all libertines—flawed at the core. His sins should have been branded on his cheek like those of a common criminal.
“Shallops are faster—plenty of races on the various betting books about town to prove it, but there’s no telling when they set out. We waited for the king for some time. They could have had a half an hour or more head start. At the very least we can find the supper box your father reserved and get a drink before exploring the gardens,” he said, a wicked grin sliding across his face. “Since someone drank nearly all my wine, I’m rather parched.”
Heat licked through Livy anew. “Well then, let’s see to your needs.” Devere’s smile grew at the double entrendre, and Livy batted her eyes as though unaware of what she’d said. He deserved a little teasing, a little frustration.
“Let’s,” Devere agreed as they wove their way toward the massive rotunda that was the main feature of the gardens. It was two stories tall, with boxes all the way around on both floors and a large center tower that was built to hold a fire. At the moment, the fireplace was merely stacked high with logs, ready to be lit when needed. All around it were tables and benches, which Livy knew would be cleared away after supper so the dancing could begin. She hadn’t been to Ranelagh since the year she’d made her come-out, but very little had changed.
The elegant steward who oversaw the rotunda showed them to one of the large boxes on the ground floor. “Lord Arlington bespoke a cold nuncheon upon your arrival,” the man said. “If you’ll please be seated, I’ll direct its delivery immediately. There’s claret, champagne, and shrub waiting in the wine cooler. If you desire anything else, you have merely to ask.”
