by Jane Feather
“Then let us play backgammon, ma’am. I haven’t played since my nursery days, so I fear you’ll have the edge.”
“Oh, we won’t play for serious stakes,” Octavia said reassuringly, ushering him across to a small table in the window where a backgammon board was set up.
“But I think we should play for something worth losing,” Philip said, seating himself before the board.
“Or for something worth winning, perhaps?” Octavia suggested, tossing the dice in her palms. “What would you wish to win, Lord Wyndham?”
“I believe you know that, ma’am,” he said softly, his eyes fixed upon her mouth. “But shall we start with a kiss?”
So now it was in the open. The game had begun. Perhaps if she could get close enough to him in a simple embrace, she could discover where he kept the ring. Perhaps she could remove it without getting any closer.
Octavia glanced down at her fingers, wondering if they’d lost any of their nimble deftness since she’d last had occasion to use them for such a purpose. She should practice. It would be easy enough to work any of the crowded ballrooms and salons she frequented. She wouldn’t keep her pickings, but it should be simple enough to drop them in strategic places where they would be found, and their owners would simply assume they’d somehow mislaid them.
She looked up at Lord Wyndham, an inviting smile on her lips. “An impudent wager, my lord. But one I daresay I could afford.”
“And what would you wish to win, ma’am?” He aligned the draftsmen with an extended forefinger, his eyes still fixed upon her mouth.
“Why, sir, you may take me to the play,” she said. “I hear Mr. Sheridan’s School for Scandal is wondrous entertaining, but my husband has no time for such frivolities.” She glanced over her shoulder at the faro table. “He seeks and finds other amusements, as we have remarked.”
“It seems, ma’am, that whether I win or lose, I gain only pleasure,” Philip said. “Shall we begin?”
At the faro table the atmosphere was more intense, the pile of gold at Rupert’s elbow growing steadily. “What did you mean, Warwick, about schemes to improve one’s circumstances?” Hector Lacross asked, draining his wineglass and leaning back as a footman refilled it.
“Oh, there are plans afoot in the City that could be turned to a pretty penny if a man can get in on the ground floor,” Rupert said carelessly. “It requires a small investment initially, but I’ve seen some fine returns in the last few months.”
“What kind of scheme?” This from Dirk Rigby, whose pale-brown eyes shifted away from Rupert’s clear-eyed gaze.
“Houses,” Rupert said. “Large houses being built on the south bank of the river. Prime land, perfect for the middle-class burghers. They’re flocking to lay down their blunt for a stake in a piece of property that they believe will enhance their new-found status among the wealthy merchants.”
He chuckled and laid three hundred guineas beside the knave of hearts. “Of course, the builder cuts a few corners here and there. Nothing that the buyers will notice. But it enables him—and, of course, his investors—to turn a handsome profit.”
“How wicked of you, Lord Rupert!” exclaimed Margaret Drayton, fanning herself vigorously. “To take advantage of those poor people.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
“Oh, they lay themselves open to it, with their own greed and self-consequence,” Rupert said, watching as the dealer turned over the knave of hearts. “Ah,” he said, smiling, drawing the pile of coins toward him. “I seem to be having the luck of the devil tonight.”
“I might be interested in investing a trifle myself,” Lacross said. “What about you, Rigby?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” his friend said heartily. “Who’s your contact, Warwick?”
Rupert leaned back in his chair, making a steeple of his fingers. “That’s a little difficult, gentlemen. The matter is a mite sensitive, as you can imagine. Things one wouldn’t wish to become generally known …” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t feel I could reveal my friend’s name without consulting him first. I’m sure he’d need some earnest of your intentions.”
“Oh, quite, quite.” The two sat forward eagerly. “No difficulty there. Perhaps we could talk more tomorrow.”
Rupert inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgment and pushed back his chair. “Ma’am, perhaps you’d care to try your luck with evens and odds.”
Margaret Drayton took his hand as she rose to her feet. “I’ve lost so much at faro, sir, I daren’t risk any more tonight.”
“Then you must permit me to be your banker,” Rupert said smoothly. He took her reticule from her, opened it, and dropped into it the pile of guineas he’d won so far.
Margaret laughed, but her eyes widened. “My lord, so generous.”
“Oh, I insist on a half share of your winnings,” he said, and escorted her to another table.
Octavia had heard none of the conversation over the general babble in the room, but she’d not missed the glint and chink of gold pouring into Margaret Drayton’s reticule, and indignation warred with disbelief that Rupert would give away their precious funds to a whore. Was it payment for services rendered? Or an advance on services to come?
Somehow she kept her seething fury off her face as she continued her game with Philip, presenting a front of sophisticated indifference to her husband’s conduct. However, when Rupert spoke laughingly over her shoulder, she couldn’t conceal the daggers in her eyes when she looked up at him.
“Backgammon in my house! My dear, I must protest.”
“A little tame for you, my lord?” she said sweetly. “Believe me, the stakes are far from tame. Are they, Lord Wyndham?”
“Far from it, ma’am.” He bowed and took out his snuffbox. “May I?” Reaching for her hand, he shook a pinch onto her upturned wrist, and carried it to his nose.
Octavia vividly remembered when Rupert had done the same, and she’d thought then that no lady would permit a gentleman such a familiarity. But they were not playing ladies and gentlemen here—at least, not the respectable version of that breed … the kind one might find in Northumberland.
Rupert cupped the nape of her neck in his warm palm. A casual gesture, yet one redolent of possession, and her skin leaped beneath the touch. Philip Wyndham’s eyes narrowed as he closed his snuffbox and replaced it in his pocket. Of course, Octavia reflected, that gesture of possession was designed to prod the Earl of Wyndham’s competitive spirit. Rupert had told her that the earl was a man who coveted the possessions of others and had little interest in acquiring anything that was available simply for the asking.
She resisted the inclination to arch her neck into the firm, warm grip and sat up straight, shaking her head. His hand dropped immediately, leaving a cold, lonely spot on her neck. On any other occasion the touch would have reminded her of what was to come, once this tedious evening had drawn to a close and they were alone. But she was now too angry to be stirred by that prospect.
Rupert strolled back to the gaming tables, concealing his own frown. The scorching anger in Octavia’s eyes had taken him aback.
It was almost dawn when the last guest left. Octavia looked around the littered salon with an expression of distaste. Rupert poured cognac into two glasses.
“Here. You’ve earned it.” He held one glass out to her as she stood in front of the fire, massaging the back of her neck.
“No, thank you.” She shook her head. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”
“Sit down, Octavia.” His voice was quiet and level.
She shot him a quick frown. “It’s five o’clock in the morning, Rupert. I’m going to bed.”
“Sit down Octavia”
What was it about him … about that tone … that ensured her obedience? Annoyed with herself for doing so, Octavia perched on the arm of a sofa. “What is it?”
“You tell me. Something’s troubling you about this evening. Is it Wyndham?” He rested one arm along the mantelpiece, his expression calm, although his eyes were warm
and concerned.
“No.”
Rupert sipped his cognac. “So why are you angry?”
“Well, why do you trunk?” Octavia demanded fiercely. “How am I supposed to feel when I see you pouring a small fortune into Margaret Drayton’s reticule? What were you paying her for?”
The concern in his eyes vanished, exasperation in its place. He put down his glass with a snap. “You are being very foolish. If you don’t understand something, then ask me before you jump to stupid conclusions.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.” Octavia jumped to her feet, her face pale, golden fires ablaze in her eyes. “I didn’t jump to conclusions. I saw you give the woman a mass of gold. Everyone saw you.”
“Precisely,” he said coldly. “Everyone saw me.”
Octavia stared at him, then said slowly, “You mean … you mean people were supposed to see you?”
“Precisely,” he repeated, folding his arms. He spoke with all the harshness of a man who didn’t suffer fools gladly. “If you had paused to think for one minute before leaping to conclusions that would insult the intelligence of a baby, it might have occurred to you that the presence of Dirk Rigby and Hector Lacross could have influenced my actions this evening. It is necessary that they see me with money to burn.”
Octavia began to feel very small. Jealousy, that most demeaning of emotions, had betrayed her into such a foolish attack. Did he guess that? She would infinitely prefer to be called stupid than to be accused of being jealous of Margaret Drayton. But then it struck her that she did have a defense, and one that would remove the attention from Lady Drayton.
“I fail to see how I could be expected to understand anything of the sort, since you’ve consistently refused to tell me anything about your plans,” she retorted. “You tell me I should ask you if something puzzles me, but when I do, you refuse to answer.”
Rupert picked up his neglected glass and stared into it for a minute. “I suppose you have a point,” he conceded. “I tend to play my cards close to my chest.”
“Then you can hardly blame me for drawing my own conclusions from what I see.”
He looked up at that, and there was a glimmer of comprehending amusement in his eyes. “Oh, yes, I can, sweeting, when it comes to jumping to conclusions about my dealings with Margaret Drayton. That was foolish beyond permission.”
Octavia pointed one toe and examined her satin slipper with a degree of interest such an ordinary article hardly warranted. “I don’t see why. I assume she has a price. She seems to have been possessed by every male member of the court at some time or another.”
“And you think I’m sufficiently undiscriminating to go panting into pastures so well grazed?” He raised a mocking eyebrow. “You insult me, Octavia. I really think … Yes, I’m afraid I really think that I’m entitled to demand penance.” He took a sip of cognac, and in the silence the charged atmosphere in the salon crackled. But no longer with anger.
Octavia swallowed and tried to think of some light response, but her lips wouldn’t form even the simplest words.
“The question is, just what kind of penance would be appropriate?” Rupert mused, gazing down into the fireplace where the dying embers glowed, throwing up an occasional spark. “Any ideas, Octavia?” He cast her a look of such sensual intensity she wondered if she would have the strength to walk out of the room on her own two legs.
“You would have me choose my own?” she managed to say, her voice thick with desire.
“I believe the lesson might have greater resonance if you do,” he observed judiciously. “I’m open to all suggestions, but I reserve the right to make the final decision.”
Octavia touched her tongue to her lips. Her mind was a riot of lustful fantasy, passion’s brilliant colors splashed across the gray canvas of fatigue and dismay, apprehension and resentment. It no longer mattered why they played this game, only that they did.
“Perhaps we should go upstairs, my lord,” she suggested with a demure curtsy.
“By all means. I imagine you’ll find it easier to apply yourself to the matter in your bedchamber.”
“I believe so, sir.” She curtsied again, holding the position for a long minute, gazing up at him over her unfurled fan, her eyes liquid with arousal, her lips slightly parted, promise in every line of her body.
Rupert gravely took her hand and raised her from her curtsy. “Come, madam.”
Chapter 12
“The Earl of Wyndham, my lady. Are you at home?” Griffin’s somewhat sententious accents intoned from the doorway to Oliver Morgan’s sitting room.
“Yes, Griffin. Show him into the drawing room. I’ll be down directly.” Octavia put down the newspaper she’d been reading to her father. “You’ll excuse me, Papa.”
“Yes, of course, my dear,” he said comfortably. “Go and do your duty. I must say the door knocker never ceases to fall these days. You seem to be a very popular couple, if I may say so.”
“Yes, we do,” Octavia agreed demurely, smoothing down the skirts of her pink muslin morning gown. “But I expect it’s because we’re new on the scene and society craves variety.” She stood on tiptoe to examine her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.
“Warwick maintains a lavish establishment, at all events,” Oliver remarked. “I daresay his hospitality reflects it.”
Octavia glanced at her father in the mirror as she combed her fingers through the cluster of ringlets on her shoulders. Was he probing? Surely not. It would be quite out of character.
“He’s a wealthy man, Papa,” she said, licking a finger and smoothing her eyebrows before turning back to the room. “Do you care to go for a drive this afternoon? It’s a beautiful day.”
“No, I think I’ll take my usual promenade, thank you, child,” Oliver said. “Your guest awaits. You’d better hurry.”
She kissed him and hastened from the room, frowning slightly. Her father had always been somewhat vague about the everyday world, and that vagueness had become insensibility after the catastrophe, but he was beginning to recover some of the awareness he’d had before Harrowgate. It would not be at all convenient if he started showing an interest in the intricate ramifications of their domestic life. It was going to be difficult enough as it was to find a satisfactory explanation for the end of her marriage, the return of his fortune, and their reinstatement at Hartridge Folly. But she’d been relying on his customary willingness to accept her statements at face value. If he was becoming skeptical now, when everything looked perfectly ordinary, there was no knowing how the fantastic future would strike him.
But it was still very much in the future, Octavia reminded herself as she sped down the stairs. And the present required all her wits.
She paused on the bottom step, steadying her breathing. If Philip Wyndham was alone, and she assumed he was, this would be the first tête-â-tête they’d had.
The footman on duty in the hall sprang to open the double doors to the drawing room. Octavia composed her expression and sailed into the room.
“Lord Wyndham, what a delightful surprise.” She curtsied in a delicate cloud of pale muslin.
Philip turned from his contemplation of the street outside the window. He raised his glass and subjected his hostess to a long assessment.
Unconsciously, Octavia put up her chin. There was something faintly insulting about such an appraisal in her own drawing room, without even a preliminary answer to her greeting.
The earl smiled and bowed. “Enchanting, ma’am. You have a flawless instinct with your dress.”
“You count yourself something of an expert on female attire, sir?” She stepped, toward him, a tinge of asperity to her tone.
“I know what I like,” he said, taking her hands in a warm clasp. “Forgive me if my lack of formality has offended you. The sight of you drove all conventional conduct from my mind. I could only gaze.”
“La, sir, I thought you above such outrageous sallies,” Octavia chided playfully. “We both know what value to
place on such compliments.” She made a move to withdraw her hands from his, but his clasp tightened.
“I assure you that was no empty compliment, my lady,” he said, his eyes fixed upon her face so that she found herself unable to look away from his gaze. Once again she had the uncanny sense of something familiar about him … familiar and yet completely wrong.
“Then I will accept it in the spirit it was intended, sir,” she returned, once again trying to withdraw her hands. “May I ring for some refreshment? You’ll take a glass of sherry with me?”
“By all means.” He released her hands and she pulled the bellrope by the fire. “I’ve come to collect my wager, Octavia … if I may call you that?” A lifted eyebrow punctuated the question.
“Of course,” Octavia said. “Griffin, bring sherry, please. Is his lordship in the house?”
“No, my lady. I believe he was visiting his tailor.” The butler bowed and withdrew.
Had Lord Wyndham known that? “So,” Octavia said. “Your wager, Lord Wyndham. I forget, did I lose the game?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” he assured her, taking snuff, regarding her with his unreadable gray eyes. “You lost two games out of three.”
“I have a shocking memory,” she said. “Just leave it on the table, Griffin. I’ll pour for Lord Wyndham.” She moved to the decanter as the door closed behind the butler and filled two glasses. “What shall we drink to, sir?”
“Wagers lost and won,” he replied, raising his glass. “And to further games.”
The man was not talking about backgammon. Octavia raised her glass with a little smile of mischievous suggestion and drank with him.
The earl placed his glass half-empty on a console table and turned back to her. “Will you renege on your wager, Lady Warwick?”
Octavia shook her head, putting her own glass down. Her fingers quivered, and she curled them into her palms. How did one kiss a man only with one’s mouth, keeping one’s mind and spirit on some other plane, unsullied by a loathsome contact?
She didn’t know. She’d kissed only one man in her life, and her mind and soul were inextricably bound up with her body whenever she touched Rupert Warwick.
