But she didn’t believe he was just being polite for a minute. He wanted to put her in her place. She could see it in his eyes.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he said, raising a brow.
Clearly, he needed a lesson in humility. ‘Why don’t we start with a wager?’
He raised a brow. ‘Cards? Or do you prefer dice?’
‘Billiards,’ she said. ‘If you play?’
He nodded. ‘Billiards it is.’
The conversation passed on to more mundane topics and it was not long before Caroline was making her excuses, leaving Merry to deal with the fruits of her challenge.
The billiard room was, without a doubt, the most comfortable room Charlie had entered so far. Linen-fold panelled walls of oak provided a warm background for comfortably heavy wooden furniture dating back to the last century. An equally impressive green baize-covered slate table stood in the centre of a red-and-green-patterned rug.
Not a scrap of velvet or gilt in sight. A relief to his weary eyes. The only glitter beneath the overhead light was Miss Draycott herself. Merry. What an apt name for such an unusual female.
She eyed the balls, running her palm up and down her cue. Her fingers were long and fine and the action brought other images to mind. Sensual images.
The simmering arousal he’d been fighting all evening made itself known with a disgruntled jolt.
He’d never before felt such instant attraction for such a—how did one describe this woman? Statuesque, certainly. Gloriously so. She didn’t have to crane her neck to see his face. He’d thought he liked his women small and delicate. Until now.
He certainly wouldn’t worry about hurting her when romping around in a bed. His body stirred in approval. He tamped down his desire. The last thing he needed was a distraction like Merry Draycott.
For an unprotected woman, she was far too bold for her own good. Many men would have no qualms about taking advantage. He had to admit he found the prospect tempting.
Her behaviour had him thoroughly off kilter, too. On occasion, her manner of speech left much to be desired. At other times she seemed almost genteel. She confused him. And, unfortunately, intrigued him.
For an instant at dinner, he’d suspected the two women of being more than platonic friends, that they might worship at the altar of Sappho, but as the meal progressed he had not sensed anything warmer than friendship.
Not that he was averse to the special friendships some women preferred. It just put those particular women out of reach, and, in her case, he’d felt disappointed.
The truth was, he wanted her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so urgent about having a woman. He fought to control the impulse to seduce her. As her guest, good manners required he accommodate his hostess’s wishes. A part of him wished those desires included more than a high-stakes game of billiards. The undercurrents swirling around them suggested they might. And no matter what he thought, his baser male nature wanted to oblige.
A man about to become betrothed did not enter into an entanglement with another woman. Hell, he’d just got rid of his long-term mistress for that very reason.
Meeting this particular woman on the road was, without a doubt, a confounded nuisance.
She played a damned fine game of billiards, too. She’d won the first game, mostly because he had been focusing too much on her sweet little bottom when she’d leaned over the table. A quite deliberate ploy on her part, no doubt. Not unlike a Captain Sharp plying his mark with gin.
He watched her saunter around the table with a jaunty swing of her hips and clenched his jaw. She was deliberately tormenting him with a gown that skimmed her breasts and revealed every curve when she walked. While her gown wasn’t any more provocative than many respectable married ladies of the ton wore to a drum or a rout, on her, it seemed positively decadent.
The woman was a menace. Teasing a man came with consequences she might not like. Perhaps she needed a lesson in acceptable behaviour. A warning.
He covered his mouth and yawned widely. ‘Excuse me. It’s been a long day. I think I am ready to retire.’
She frowned. ‘Afraid you will lose again?’
‘Not at all,’ he drawled. ‘My interest is waning. I’m afraid I need more of a challenge.’
She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Fifty guineas a point and a hundred for a win is reasonably challenging.’
‘I’m not trying to fleece you, Merry, but I think both of us can lose a few hundred guineas in a night and not turn a hair.’
Her eyes widened a fraction. ‘Do you want to make it thousands?’
He grinned and leaned on his cue. ‘That is more of the same, isn’t it?’ Oh God, he was going to hell for this. ‘In this next game, how about for each point we lose, we remove an article of clothing?’
It was the kind of thing he would have proposed during his misspent youth, before his stint in the army. Before he became duller than ditchwater, more sedate than a spinster walking a pug. The sharp voice of his handsomely paid-off mistress rang in his head.
Merry was staring at him wide-eyed, shocked to her toes.
A rueful smile tugged at his lips as he waited for her to retreat in disarray and leave him to take his brandy to his empty bed.
‘An article of clothing per point?’ she said, a little breathlessly, her cheeks flushing pink, but her shoulders straightening.
A breath caught in his throat. By thunder, she wasn’t going to back down. The naughty minx. Someone ought to put her over their knee. He drew on every ounce of control, the kind a man needed going into battle.
Clearly there was only one way to teach this young woman not to play with fire. Singe her eyebrows.
‘Anything on your person,’ he said as if the whole topic bored him.
‘Including jewellery? Because it seems to me I have far less clothing than you do.’
‘Certainly.’
She boldly ran her gaze down his body as if considering whether seeing him disrobed would be worth the risk. He pretended not to notice the heat of desire flaring in the depths of her summer-blue eyes and let her look her fill.
She parted her lips and his body hardened to granite. He forced himself not to shift to find ease for his confined flesh.
Some women found him too large, too overpowering physically, when the fashion was for lisping mincing dandies. In her case the thought of doing a bit of overpowering made the prospect all the sweeter.
If she dared take his challenge.
She drew in a deep breath. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Fifty guineas and an article of clothing per point to twelve points. The hundred guineas for the win remains unchanged.’
She expected to win. It was writ large on her face. He took a slow inward breath, controlling the surge of heat at the thought of seeing her naked. ‘That sounds fair,’ he said coolly.
And then she laughed. A low chuckle in the back of her throat. ‘Perhaps I should ask Gribble to have the fire stoked before we start. So no one catches a chill.’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Our blushes will keep us warm.’
Her shoulders tensed. ‘Your blushes, you mean.’
What a surprise, this woman—the first who had dared challenge him for years. They usually simpered and flattered. If he was any kind of gentleman he would stop this right now, but he wouldn’t. Not if his life depended on it. He was having too much fun. He smiled at her, a sweet, but slightly devilish grin. ‘It seems you are first, my dear Merry.’
She missed her first shot. Nerves. Not as blase as she pretended.
‘Bad luck,’ he said. ‘A one-point penalty.’
She removed the pearls at her throat and placed them on a side table with a little toss of her head. ‘You will not be so lucky in future.’
He eyed the board, and played his shot carefully. His ball missed hers and came to rest temptingly close to the pocket.
‘You missed. One point for me,’ she said.
He bowed and removed his coa
t and draped it over a chair back, while she walked around the table, looking at the balls from all angles.
He waited, leaning nonchalantly on his cue.
With a small smile of triumph she lay across the table and eyed the balls. An easy shot. Just as he’d planned. He and Robert had actually orchestrated one of these games with a couple of the village tarts at Durn. It was all coming back.
The sweet curve of her bottom as she stretched over the table tempted unbearably. From this angle, the draping fabric left little to the imagination and put her at just the right angle to receive his attentions. Two steps closer and he could slide his hands over the soft flesh and press his groin against the full roundness of her buttocks.
He drew in a swift breath. Brought his body under control. Passion, strong passions, led to nowhere but disaster. And even if she was wriggling that little posterior on purpose, she was doing it as a distraction, a way of putting him off his own shot.
She knocked the white ball with a swift jerk of her elbow. It caromed off the red and hit his ball with a crack, sending it into the corner pocket.
He smiled. ‘Good shot.’
She lowered her feet gracefully to the floor. She cast him a glance over her shoulder. ‘I know.’
He grinned.
She raised her brows.
He removed the diamond pin from his cravat, adding it to her pearls, then unknotted and slowly unwound his cravat. She looked highly pleased with herself, but he couldn’t help wondering if it was because she wanted to see more of him, or because she’d won. The former, he evilly hoped. He had no qualms about removing his clothes before a woman, despite the scar.
He draped the long strip of cloth over his coat. He glanced down at himself. ‘What next, do you think? Ah, yes.’ He toed off his shoes and, standing first on one leg, then the other, divested himself of his stockings. He did not miss her sidelong glance at his feet and bare calves, or the quick swipe of her lips with her tongue.
Heat flowed to his groin.
Ignoring his burgeoning arousal, he sauntered around the table, replacing the balls, while he felt the touch of sparkling eyes on his body.
‘How many pieces of clothing do you think you are wearing?’ she asked.
‘Less than the number of points required to finish the game,’ he said, instantly guessing the direction of her thoughts.
‘Good,’ she said, but there was an undercurrent of nervousness behind her bold front. An unease. Unless he wanted her to be better than she appeared? Surely not?
‘You didn’t tell me you were an expert at this game,’ he said, rubbing the end of his cue with chalk.
Her gaze flew from the cue tip to his face. ‘I used to play with my grandfather all the time. It passed the long winter evenings and while we played he taught me about the mill.’
‘He sounds like a grand old gentleman.’
‘He was. A darling.’ Her face brightened. It was as if she’d lit a candle inside, she became so dazzling. The brightness wasn’t true, he realised. It flickered and wavered as if a sharp gust of wind would blow it out. But why would he care? He had enough baggage to shoulder of his own without delving into hers. She’d made it quite clear from the beginning of the evening that she was interested in a dalliance. The idea became more attractive as the evening wore on. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt quite so enlivened.
Her ball was easily accessible. His guarded the red. She played her next shot with consummate skill, knocking his aside and giving her access to the red ball.
He leaned in for his shot. A flick of the wrist and he struck the red and white in quick succession. They fired off into the centre pockets. ‘Seven points,’ he said calmly, straightening.
Her mouth dropped open. Her blue eyes were wide with shock, staring at the table. ‘You cheated.’
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Oh?’ He raised a brow and stared down his nose. His ducal-heir-look, Robert always called it.
She flushed. ‘I mean, you pretended you were not very good at this game. Only an expert can make a shot like that.’
‘Are you wishing to forfeit the game?’
She stiffened, her gaze meeting his with blue sparks of anger. ‘Certainly not.’
As he’d suspected, Merry Draycott did not back down from a fight. The small qualm of contrition for goading her wasn’t strong enough to make him concede. ‘Seven items, then, Merry.’
She tugged three hair ornaments from her artfully arranged curls. Long black silky tresses fell to her exquisite sloping white shoulders. She placed the ornaments on the table with her pearls. Her bracelet followed. Her wince said that was the last of her jewellery.
She sent him a resentful glance and he tipped his head on one side as if completely unaware of her concern.
She glanced at his bare feet, sat down on a chair and started untying the ribbons around her ankles. Her hair fell forwards as black as a raven’s wing, hiding her face.
‘Do you need any help?’ he asked.
Chapter Three
Merry felt a blush crawl up her face. ‘I can manage.’ She ducked her head, untied the bow at the back of her ankle and slipped the shoe off.
Oh Lord, seven points, he only needed four to win. And what would she have left to remove if he won another seven points? She should never have let him convince her to play such a shocking game. He had cheated. He had let her think he was a hopeless player.
And then, when he’d offered her a chance to forfeit, she’d let her pride speak instead of common sense. But a Draycott never backed down, be it in a bargain or a game.
The ribbon snagged. She tugged at it. The knot drew tighter.
His bare toes appeared within her vision, which was restricted to her feet, the hem of her gown and the carpet. He dropped to his knees. ‘May I help?’ he asked again.
The sound of his voice was like a taste of hot chocolate, warm and rich and wickedly tempting.
‘I can manage.’
He sat back on his heels. Sweeping her hair back, she glanced up at his face. His gaze remained fixed on her foot, on the knot. She let go a huff of impatience. ‘Very well. See if you can untie it.’
She couldn’t breathe. She had a huge fluttery lump stuck in her throat. Her mouth dried.
The wretch grasped her ankle and lifted her foot to rest on one knee. The heat of his hand, the feel of those long strong fingers taking the weight of her leg, sent ripples of pleasure through her body. She swallowed a gasp.
‘Such a pretty ankle,’ he murmured as he worked at the rib bon.
A melting sensation weakened her limbs. Oh, dear. If he made her feel this way with a touch on her extremity, how would she feel if he wanted to help her with her garter? She could not, nay, would not let him undo her like this. ‘La, thank you, sir,’ she said and was infuriated by the breathy note in her voice.
He glanced up at her face with a smile. ‘No need to thank me. I speak only the truth.’
The man was impossibly handsome when he smiled like that. A dark inscrutable devil with the expression of an angel. In her heart she knew it for what it was, an act, a flirtation, but he played his part so well he almost had her convinced.
She pointed at her foot. ‘The slipper, my lord.’
He bent his dark head to the task. His dark brown hair fell in thick luxurious chocolate-brown waves. She had the urge to touch it, to feel its texture. She gripped the chair arm instead.
He untied the ribbon around her ankle and slid the shoe from her foot, his palm caressing the arch. Delicious. Intoxicating. She wanted to wriggle her toes. She kept a bright smile fixed on her face. Bright and teasing, when inside she wanted to weep at the tenderness in his touch.
Gently he placed her foot on the ground. She wished she had a fan close at hand instead of a cue. She was glowing from the inside out. How could this be? She wasn’t some innocent schoolgirl to have her head turned by a handsome man. Particularly not one with a title. And yet she wanted to melt into this man’s
arms. Feel that broad chest pressed against her breasts. Run her fingers through his hair and feel his strength beneath her fingers. Utter foolishness.
‘I don’t need your help with the garter.’ Her voice sounded strangled.
His head snapped up. ‘You disappoint me.’
She managed a quick calming breath and a light laugh. ‘Intentionally, sir. To allow such familiarity would be more reward than you have earned. Turn around.’
He stood. His rueful gaze made her heart beat just a little too fast. ‘Saving your life is worth so little, then?’
‘Unfair,’ she cried, laughing a little herself at the neat way he’d tried make her feel guilty. Oh, this man was a rake indeed and she was a fool to continue their game. ‘Am I not feeding you and giving you lodging as well as helping you wile away the hours before bed?’
His lips twitched, but he bowed and turned his back.
The clock on the mantel struck midnight. She glanced at it to make sure. She could not believe so much time had passed so quickly.
She leaped out of her chair, turned her back, in case he should decide to peek, and untied her garter, a pretty thing made of the finest lace from Nottingham she’d bought on a visit to look at their mills. She walked to the chair and laid it on top of his cravat. The rug felt odd under her stockinged feet, the silk no barrier to the rougher nap of the woollen tufts.
‘Let us finish our game,’ she said, trying to sound as if it didn’t matter that one of her stockings was slowly sliding down her calf, or that the heat inside her seemed to have reached the temperature of a furnace. He’d been right when he said their blushes would keep them warm.
Or her, anyway. He seemed remarkably unaffected.
‘It is my turn.’
He bowed and gestured for her to continue.
She inhaled a deep breath, forcing her unruly thoughts back in control. She needed seven points to have any hope of winning this game. She had done it in the past. Not often. And not for a very long time. She looked at the table, the balls back in position. It would not be an easy shot.
More Than A Mistress Page 3
