Mia appreciated the sentiment behind her words but Livia did not know her marriage to Adam was merely a business union.
Livia stood. “Oh look, Danforth and Exley are playing servant and dispensing more champagne. Let us go have some.” She grabbed Mia’s hand and pulled her toward the group.
Adam had a slightly questioning look as he refilled Mia’s glass. “Has Livia been raking you over the coals?”
“Only a gentle raking, my lord.”
“No bruises or abrasions?”
Livia broke in, “I never leave any trace of my interrogations. You should know that, Adam.”
Octavia joined their group. “Is this our serious Lord Exley, actually smiling?”
“It’s either laugh or cry where your sister is concerned, and I didn’t want to cry in front of my new wife, at least not yet,” he added drily.
Livia tapped him with her fan. “I cannot bear to watch a grown man weep, Adam. Between you and Gaius, there is scarcely a dry cloth in the house some nights.” She turned to Mia. “You must know that your husband and my brother aspire to become the greatest card sharps in the history of gaming?”
“Are they succeeding?”
“Gad no,” Octavia answered. “I shudder to think how much they have lost to Livia and myself—hence all the manly weeping we must endure.”
“They fear us,” Livia added.
“Indeed, they refuse to bring us with them on their evening jaunts to the various hells they frequent.” Octavia added in a stage whisper, “They are afraid we would show them up.”
“Or get us killed,” the marquess said, giving the women a pained look before turning to Mia. “They cheat at cards, my lady. Openly, incontestably, and shamelessly.” His last words were drowned out by the women’s loud denials.
The conversation devolved into an argument regarding the finer points of whist, a card game Mia did not know. The three friends tossed phrases like “schoolboy rules,” and “Hoyle-obsessed harridans,” back and forth at one another.
“Do you play cards, my lady?” Octavia drew her off to one side as Livia and the marquess bickered about their last game.
“My brother has been teaching me cribbage and piquet, but I am slow at learning the subtleties.”
“And where you lived before, what did one do for amusement?”
Mia smiled at her not-very-subtle attempt to pry out the details of her past. Her first impulse was to spin the usual tale. But she looked at Octavia’s kind face and realized she didn’t want to begin a friendship with lies. Besides, Adam had said she should do as she pleased.
“I lived on the outskirts of a city called Oran, in the palace of a sultan who ruled that area. As to what we did for amusement?” Mia stopped. While it felt good to speak the truth, she wasn’t sure how much of it she should share with a gently bred lady.
“Will you sit with me?” Octavia asked. “We have a little time before we must pretend to watch the remainder of this wretched play. Let us go away from Adam and Livia; they are liable to commence hair-pulling soon and it would be better to be at a safe distance.”
Mia laughed at the mental picture her words evoked and followed the older woman back to the same spot she’d occupied with Livia.
“I know I am bad, but I really must hear more about your life. You may take my word of silence to the bank.” Octavia placed her hand solemnly over her heart.
“You asked what we did for amusement? We did not have to manage a household in the same way women do here. The sultan maintained factors for such matters. We spent our time with the palace children, playing games or teaching them; we had a rather large indoor garden in which we grew herbs and flowers; and there were those who wove or painted or played music. There were also those of us who could read and we would entertain the others whenever we had something to share. I spent much of my time gardening and painting.” And keeping my son alive.
“When you say a ‘sultan’s palace,’ do mean you lived in a seraglio?” Octavia’s voice dropped to a whisper on the last word.
“Yes, it belonged to the Sultan Babba Hassan. There were more than sixty of us when he died and his son Assad seized control—which was why I had to leave. Most of the wives with children did not survive Assad’s purge unless they escaped.” Mia realized what she’d said a moment too late.
“This Assad, why was he a danger to you if you had no children?”
Mia twisted her large emerald wedding ring as she carefully considered her words. “Even though I was part of Babba Hassan’s household for almost seventeen years, I was still viewed as an outsider by many. When a new sultan takes power, it is only wise that he clear away any who might create trouble or cause others to question his power. Like his father before him, Assad was only acting in a manner designed to secure his power.”
Octavia’s eyes were almost comically round. “There has been much written of the Barbary corsairs these past ten years. It is shocking how many people they have abducted. I understand it is not unusual for them to—”
“I am so glad to finally meet you, Lady Exley,” a low, sultry voice purred.
Mia looked up to find Susannah St. Martin smiling down at her, her full, shapely lips curved in a welcoming smile that didn’t extend to her blue eyes, which were as hard as the sapphires she wore around her neck.
“Susannah.” Octavia stood up and so did Mia. Even standing she had to look up at the Junoesque blonde woman. Would she always be the shortest person in any room?
“Octavia, my dear, I’m having such a wonderful time. I just wanted to meet the new bride.” Susannah draped her plump arms around Octavia, who received her embrace rather woodenly.
“What a surprise to see you here tonight, Susannah.” Octavia’s normally warm smile was fixed.
The blonde woman did not appear to notice. “I am always at wit’s end between shows.” She spoke to Octavia but her eyes roamed up and down Mia’s body. A look designed to convey her open disdain. “I have heard so much about you, Lady Exley.” Her sly smile suggested most of it had been learned while naked in bed with Mia’s husband. “I suppose you have not heard nearly as much about me?”
“No. Not much,” Mia agreed. “But I do know you were once my husband’s mistress.” She spoke so softly the other woman’s brow furrowed, as if she must have misheard. “I also know he is finished with you but too well-mannered to tell you in a way you will understand.” The woman’s smile had frozen into a rictus of surprise. “As you may have heard, I have been away from England for a very long time. I’m afraid I’ve picked up some rather savage habits and lack my husband’s lovely manners.” Mia allowed the built-up anger of the last few months to settle in her gaze. “If you approach me or my husband again, I will see to it that you are no longer able to conduct business—of any kind—in London, ever again.” Mia held out her hand. “I understand you are an actress?”
The woman nodded, her mouth ajar.
“Consider this an opportunity to exhibit your talents. Smile, take my hand, and act as if you are finished congratulating me on my marriage. You will then approach your friend and act as though you have a headache and wish to leave.”
Maybe the beautiful blonde saw something in Mia’s eyes to back up her threat. Or maybe she believed a marchioness really did have the power to end her theater career. Either way, she smiled, dropped Mia a curtsy, and left.
Mia turned to Octavia, who stared for a long moment before laughing. “My dear Lady Exley, you will never know how much I enjoyed that.” She took Mia’s arm and squeezed it, her eyes shining with admiration. “Don’t look now, but Adam is watching and appears more than a little concerned.”
Chapter Fourteen
The ride back to Exley house was uneventful. Adam wondered if Mia might confront him about Susannah and then realized that was a ridiculous concern. Their marriage was a business arrangement; his wife would hardly be jealous of his ex-lover.
As it was, she’d been very pleasant, chatting about the people she’d m
et and the quality of the play, which Adam had found unusually poor. The night was still early when they arrived home. Far too early to drag his wife up to bed and roger her silly, no matter how much he might want to.
“Would you care to join me for a drink in the library?” he asked after they’d divested themselves of cloaks, hats, and gloves.
“That would be nice.”
Adam crossed to the large silver tray that held an assortment of decanters. “Shall I ring for tea or do you prefer something a bit stronger?” He opened one of the decanters and recoiled at the sugary smell that assaulted his nostrils.
“I’ll have whatever you are having—as long as it is not that.” She moved away to look at the books on the nearest wall while he located a dry, pleasing Madeira and poured two glasses.
“I hope this will suit.”
She took the glass and sipped, smiling at him before turning back to the shelves.
“I am enjoying Gulliver’s Travels. I read several chapters this afternoon and recall quite a bit of it.”
Her inadvertent confession as to how she’d spent her afternoon sent ripples of guilt through him. While he was off pursuing his own pleasure, his wife was living a lonely existence, isolated and friendless in her new home—this cold pile of stone.
“My brother has been teaching me piquet. Do you know it?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts.
Adam raised his glass to hide his smile. “I am familiar with piquet. Would you care for a rubber or two?”
“I should like to play very much. Although . . .” A small line formed between her brows.
“Yes?”
“I would prefer not to wager too much as I am not a very good player.”
It was only with a Herculean effort that Adam was able to keep a straight face. “We needn’t wager at all, if you’d rather not.”
“I believe wagering makes the play more interesting. Cian and I always played for penny stakes. Shall I go to my room and fetch my purse?”
“I shall trust you to honor your debts,” he said, seriously.
Adam rang for a servant to fetch a pack of cards while two footmen set up a card table. He watched as Mia prowled the room, pausing near the chess table and running her finger over the delicate ivory pieces. “Would you prefer a game of chess to cards?” he asked.
“No, we can play chess some other time. I am eager to learn cards.”
“The table is ready, my lord.” The footman spoke before Adam could ask her why she was so interested in learning to play cards. Was it to play with him? He dismissed the foolish thought and picked up the deck of cards, breaking them open while she took her seat. He shuffled, his fingers working without any help from his distracted mind.
She stared with open delight at his hands and his smooth shuffling stuttered. A few cards escaped and fluttered to the floor and Mia moved to pick them up but he put his hand on hers. “I’ll get them, my lady.”
Adam reassembled his wits while he collected the fallen cards. Was he so besotted that a sliver of admiration gave him a case of youthful jitters?
When he sat up he was in control.
He began to deal the cards. “A penny a point, is it?”
“Mmm.”
She picked up her cards as they hit the table, studying them intently while chewing her lower lip. Adam forced himself to look at his own hand.
The first rubber showed him her mind was very keen, although her skills were only rudimentary. He offered gentle observations on her discards and was impressed when she incorporated his suggestions during the next hand, parlaying cards that were merely decent into a very close game. After Mia scored a repique against him in the third game, the play became competitive.
Adam had to remind himself more than once to curb his predatory instincts. Judging by the intensity of her stare and rapt concentration she, too, hated to lose.
* * *
Mia was still lamenting her last trade—a poor one—when the ormolu clock on the mantel chimed. They’d been playing for almost two hours and it seemed like only minutes. She bent over the tally sheet, which he’d insisted she keep to help her learn, brushing her chin with the quill as she added up the final damage. She frowned and handed him the sheet. “I owe you.”
He barely glanced at the total as he scraped up the cards and returned them to their case, somehow managing to make even such a small movement appear elegant and enticing.
“Considering you only learned recently, you are quite a good player. Much better than many of the men I’ve had the misfortune to sit across from over the years.”
Mia did not believe him. “I do not like to lose. Next time we should play chess. Perhaps we can wager on that, as well.”
He looked amused. “You believe you will be luckier with chess?”
“Not luck, my lord, skill.”
“Ah, the gauntlet has been thrown. I look forward to taking up the challenge. But not tonight, I think. I believe it is time to retire.” His voice was mild but his eyes were dark and direct. “I will come to you in a half hour.”
LaValle was awake when she entered her room, even though Mia had told her not to wait up.
“I shall wear the white lawn tonight.”
LaValle took an inordinate amount of time undressing, dressing, and fussing with her clothing, until Mia began to fret. Would she still be half-clothed when her husband arrived? Why did that thought cause her so much anxiety? Was she worried he’d turn around and leave if she wasn’t ready? Really, she’d become pathetic.
Her nightgown was simple but the matching dressing gown had a short, closely fitted bodice with a skirt made of yards and yards of diaphanous white fabric. It also had more buttons than a garment meant to be immediately removed should have.
LaValle was loosening her hair when the connecting door opened and the marquess entered. Mia met his gaze in the mirror. The now familiar heat flared in her stomach as he crossed the room toward her, clad only in a dark blue silk banyan.
He stopped behind her. “I will play hairdresser to Lady Exley, er . . . ?” He pulled his eyes away from Mia’s reflection just long enough to glance at the Frenchwoman.
“LaValle, my lord.” She dropped a deep curtsy.
Mia said, “You may go, LaValle. I will not need you again tonight.”
The door closed and her husband set his glass on the dressing table and commenced to search out the pins in her hair, removing them one by one as he watched her face in the mirror.
The feel of his light, deft fingers on her scalp left trails of fire. When he’d unbound the last of the fiery red curls, he admired his work before lowering his hands to her shoulders.
“You are very lovely.” His eyes remained fixed to hers, his face unsmiling.
Mia deliberately leaned back against him. The thin layers between them did nothing to hide his arousal. His eyelids fluttered and his hands tightened as he pulled her against his body. He glanced toward the branch of candles beside her dressing table.
“Do you want me to extinguish the candles?”
Mia shook her head. “I would like you to light more.”
Humor glinted in his darkening eyes. She covered his hands with hers and brought them lower, shuddering as his fingers came to rest over her breasts. His stroked a finger lightly across one nipple and Mia inhaled sharply.
His hand came beneath her elbow and he raised her to her feet, his clever fingers quickly undoing the row of buttons LaValle had fastened only moments before. Mia tried not to think about how many women’s garments he’d removed to become so skilled.
When he peeled back the robe, his eyes darkened as they rested on the tips of her breasts beneath the almost transparent fabric. He traced the outline of her body through the sheer shift as he watched their reflection in the mirror. He ran a finger down her belly, over her mound, his eyelids lowering and his heart thudding against her back.
Mia reached behind her while his hand teased and maddened and slid her own hand between the flaps of his robe.
His entire body went rigid as she slowly ran her hand down his silky hardness, drinking in his reflection in the glass.
“Naughty,” he said softly, one of his hands teasing the tip of her breast while the other slowly inched the fabric of her nightgown up her thighs.
She stroked back up his length but he pulled out of her grasp.
“No.”
“But—”
Their eyes locked in the glass. “No.”
He spoke with an arrogant assurance that made her tighten with expectation. She dropped her hands to her sides. She would obey him . . . for the time being.
He lifted the hem above her waist and held the fabric bunched in one hand while his other slid over her hip into the springy red curls. Sensitive fingers surrounded her mound and imprisoned her, cupping her possessively while his middle finger stroked, stopping agonizingly short of her aching bud.
A slight, mocking smile flickered across his face. “You make me wish I had more hands.” He stroked her again, this time giving the source of her pleasure an almost careless flick. Mia gasped and pushed her bottom against him.
A low, satisfied laugh vibrated against her back. “Part your thighs for me, darling.”
The muscles in her legs twitched and jumped as she slid her feet apart.
He stroked her again, this time deeper. Mia jerked in his hands, her vision blurring with frustrated desire as his slick finger began to move in firm, languid circles. Her entire body stiffened with expectation as the pleasure built, tenuously at first and then—
And then he stopped.
She opened her eyes and met his in the glass.
His lips curved as he took in the flushed, mottled skin of her face. “I think you are wicked.”
Mia blinked. Wicked? The insistent, relentless pulsing between her legs was making it impossible to think. She pushed against him and he moved away.
“Are you wicked?” His finger circled her lightly, suggestively, maddeningly.
Mia squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the urge to yell. What did he want from her?
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