Rules to Catch a Devilish Duke

by Suzanne Enoch

  She was amenable, he was definitely amenable, and he wasn’t entirely certain why he didn’t immediately put her back on Copper and return them to the manor house. God knew he’d had lovers before, and ones he’d felt less attracted to than he did to Sophia. But at the same time and for lack of a better word, this was … different.

  For one thing, neither of them had any immediate escape if an intimate relationship went poorly. For another, she’d already mentioned that she valued the freedom The Tantalus Club allowed her. Saying the word “mistress” would, therefore, be quite unwise.

  Aside from all that, in his mind a mistress was for sex. And he’d already discovered that he enjoyed chatting with Sophia White. He might even go so far as to say that he enjoyed her company. It was all exceedingly odd, and he wasn’t ready to put any kind of place card on whatever this was.

  She stopped, her fingers tightening on the arm he’d offered her. “Hanlith?”

  Adam turned his gaze forward. At the edge of the frozen river Aire, and tucked into a shallow hollow between two low hills, lay a cluster of half a hundred shops, houses, inns, a church, and two large public stables. “Hanlith.”

  “It’s so lovely!” she exclaimed, an already familiar grin touching her mouth and lighting her green eyes. “Someone should paint it.”

  “Blake did, actually,” he replied. “In summer, though. The painting’s at Baswich House in London.”

  “I’d love to see it. I can’t imagine the scene could possibly be prettier than this. Snowy roofs, smoke rising from the chimneys, light shining from the church windows. It’s … perfect.”

  At the last second he refrained from pointing out that the snow at least covered the horse shit on the streets. It was pretty, he supposed, in a way he hadn’t before considered. Previously his first thought about Hanlith had been that it lay on the northwest edge of his property, and therefore belonged to him. He was the landlord, and all the citizens his tenants.

  “Milliner, cobbler, or dressmaker?” he asked aloud, turning them back to collect the horses and the rollicking dogs.

  “Cobbler,” she returned, refusing to be swayed from her decision that a pair of walking shoes would be eminently more practical than a new gown. “And Mrs. Simmons, if you have time. I would very much like to thank her for the loan of that lovely gown.”

  Damnation. He might have considered that of course generous-hearted Sophia would wish to thank her benefactor—even if she didn’t actually know who that might be. “I don’t know her address, but we can inquire.”

  “Thank you.”

  Taking her waist in his hands again, Adam lifted her back into the sidesaddle. Those trousers she wore continued to fascinate him, as did the notion of stripping her out of them. Thank Lucifer they were so close to the village, because the remainder of the ride was going to be damned uncomfortable.

  Luckily the cobbler had a large wooden boot hung outside his shop, or Adam would have had no idea where to find him. Perhaps he needed to begin spending more time in Hanlith. The tall, narrow man who emerged from the back of the shop and immediately began dipping in an oddly birdlike combination of a bow and a curtsy had likely resided in Hanlith for his entire life, and Adam didn’t even know his name. It was an odd, uncomfortable sensation, to not know all the facts of the situation at hand.

  “Oh, Your Grace,” the cobbler was warbling. “You honor me. I—my wife is at the butcher’s, but—do you wish a cup of tea? Or—no, we ate all the eggs for breakfast, but I can go to the bakery and fetch some biscuits, if you’d like. Or—”

  “If everyone in Hanlith is so kind,” Sophia interrupted with a warm smile, “I shall never wish to leave. I would welcome a hot cup of tea. Adam?”

  Tea with a cobbler. Him. “That would be grand.”

  Sophia glanced sideways at him, then stepped forward to offer her hand to the cobbler. “How should I address you, sir?”

  “Oh. Jenkins, my lady. Robert Jenkins.”

  So she’d realized he had no idea to whom they were speaking. Taking a breath, Adam joined her. “Mr. Jenkins, this is Miss White, a dear friend of mine. She was in the mail coach yesterday, and lost her shoes in the river.”

  “And you’ve come to me,” the cobbler breathed. “I am doubly honored.” For the first time Jenkins seemed to notice Sophia’s very unusual attire. “Lost all your luggage, did you, miss? My wife’s a bit—quite a bit—larger than you, but she’s a good hand with a needle and thread. If you n—”

  She took both of the cobbler’s hands in hers. “I am very grateful, Mr. Jenkins, but that isn’t necessary. The people of Greaves Park and Hanlith are so generous, my heart can’t quite believe it.”

  Because Adam watched so closely, he saw the rapid blink of her eyes, the color flushing her cheeks. Not only was she utterly sincere in her gratitude, but she was near genuine tears. The realization of just how … unfriendly life had truly been to Sophia White struck him like a punch to the gut. Her only sin had been to be born to a maid and a duke. And she’d paid for that mistake, someone else’s mistake, for the ensuing twenty-three years of her life.

  “Perhaps we could have that cup of tea?” Adam suggested.

  “Oh, aye, Your Grace. My pleasure.” With that the tall fellow practically jumped over the shop’s counter and disappeared in the direction of the back stairs.

  As soon as the cobbler left, Sophia walked toward the near wall and stood there with her back to him, ostensibly to examine a shelf of shoe sizers. Adam stayed where he was, giving her a moment to compose herself. Instead he turned his attention to the pairs of shoes tucked into wooden display boxes tacked to the nearest wall. And scowled. “Yorkshire residents evidently have very practical taste in shoes,” he said in a low voice, moving closer to her.

  Though she kept her back to him, she nodded. “They look very solid,” she agreed, in the same quiet murmur. “And somewhat furry.”

  “I imagine most of his customers don’t spend much time in London.”

  She faced him. “Oh, I hope they don’t.”

  He understood what she meant. She hoped none of the other residents of Hanlith had any more idea who she was than Mr. Jenkins did. “Do you see anything you like?”

  Her gaze remained steadily on him. “Yes, I believe I do.”

  By the time they left Mr. Jenkins’s cobbler shop, Sophia had a very sturdy pair of walking shoes and had been measured for an additional pair of what the cobbler had termed “shoes more appropriate for such a lovely, gracious lady.” Adam keenly wanted to see what such a miraculous pair of shoes would look like.

  “I’m sorry that took so long,” Sophia said, as he tied the shoes to his saddle. “I know you must have better things to do than watch someone measure my feet.”

  That had actually been a rather … invigorating experience, considering that she’d had to remove her borrowed groom’s boots. For a moment Adam had wished he’d become a cobbler, so he could have been the one wrapping the measuring tape about her bare ankle and across her absurdly dainty foot.

  Luckily logic broke in before he could tell her that he would happily spend the remainder of the day following her into shops. If he said that he had no other plans, their next stop would be Mrs. Simmons’s house, and his gift of her green dress would be discovered.

  “It was … interesting,” he said aloud. “I do need to see to some things at home, however. I apologize for cutting your trip short. We can return tomorrow, if you’d l—”

  “You don’t need to grant my every wish and whim, you know,” she broke in, stopping beside Copper.

  “I’m a duke, Sophia; as I believe I’ve already mentioned, I generally do as I please.” He finished tying off the sack and joined her. “Would you like to return tomorrow?”

  “I would like to visit Mrs. Simmons and the bakery tomorrow. That bread smells heavenly.”

  “Very well, then.” Adam slid his hands around her waist, pausing for a long moment before he lifted her into the sidesaddle once more. If they
hadn’t been standing in the street with a dozen windows facing them, he would have kissed her again.

  “If you’re not busy this evening,” she said as she gathered the reins in her hands, “I hereby challenge you to a game of piquet.” She regarded him for a moment. “The same wager as before.”

  She was thinking of another kiss as well, then. He grinned. “You haven’t a chance.” And more than likely, neither did he.

  * * *

  “I can understand why you would learn to play faro or vingt-et-un,” Adam said, dealing them each twelve cards and setting the other eight into a pile beside the discarded ones. “Those games require a dealer or a banker. But no one plays piquet against a bank. It’s two opponents. And I’ve played it a great many times.”

  “Is this where you attempt to rattle me, to force me to lose my concentration?” Sophia arranged her cards by suit to take a look at them.

  “It’s a fair warning. I rarely give those.”

  “Before the Tantalus opened, Lord Haybury taught us the rules and play of nearly every card or dice game imaginable.”

  She thought his jaw tightened at the mention of the Marquis of Haybury’s name, but she couldn’t be certain. Everyone at the club knew the rumors of a falling-out between the two men, but it had evidently happened better than five years ago—well before the club opened. But if he was attempting to rattle her, it was only fair that she do the same to him.

  “So you know the rules,” he said after a moment, glancing at her over the fan of his cards. “That doesn’t mean you can play.”

  “Well, I’ve played it nearly every morning and on my days off for a year. As you know, there aren’t many places outside The Tantalus Club where I’m welcome. I therefore stay inside. And my friend Emily Portsman is an inveterate gambler.” They played for pennies, but he didn’t need to know that. Nor did he need to know that Emily Portsman wasn’t even her friend’s true name. No one at the club knew who she might actually be, but she was pretty, well educated, and had been in desperate need of employment. That was all that had mattered.

  His mouth curved in that rare, attractive smile of his. “Please don’t tell me what you chits do when you aren’t working. You’ll destroy my imaginings of you all walking about upstairs naked and hitting each other with pillows.”

  Sophia snorted. “That’s only on Thursdays.”

  He laughed, a low rumble that tickled through her like fine champagne. “My new favorite day of the week.”

  “What would you be doing tonight if Greaves Park were packed to the rafters with guests?” she asked, selecting five cards from her hand and setting them aside in exchange for five of the cards in the talon.

  “Likely roasting chestnuts and singing carols.” Casting aside three of his own cards, he collected the talon’s remaining trio.

  “Truly?”

  Adam lifted an eyebrow. “Why? Does it sound too dull and domestic?”

  “It sounds rather wonderful. But I can’t quite imagine you singing ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.’” Lowering her gaze to her cards, she pursed her lips. “Point of six.”

  “Good.”

  Silently she wrote down her score of six. “What else do you do for your holiday gatherings?”

  “First of all, I sound very grand singing ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.’ Second of all, are you bored with playing cards and billiards?”

  His tone seemed a bit … hard, as if she’d offended him. Drat. Sophia met the steel gray of his eyes. “I think the merits of domesticity aren’t appreciated enough by those who are accustomed to it. This is the best Christmas holiday I’ve ever spent.” And she was very glad of that, since the memories would have to last her a lifetime.

  “Are you including the bit where you nearly drowned and lost all your luggage?”

  “I put that in a separate category, which also makes this my most harrowing holiday.” Freeing one of her hands from her cards, she leaned across the table and tapped him on one knuckle. “I don’t want this to be your worst holiday ever.”

  For a moment he gazed at her. “You may rest assured that this is not my worst holiday ever. Far from it, though that may change when the remainder of my guests arrive. Now. Are you going to continue trouncing me, or was that end of your attack?”

  Well, he hadn’t directly answered her question, but what he had said was rather nice. “Ha. Prepare to be devastated. Sixième.”

  “What? Damnation. Good.”

  Chuckling, she added sixteen points to her total. “Oh, and tierce.” Still grinning, she added in three more points.

  “Mm-hm.”

  She shifted the three jacks in her hand. This was the point where he was likely to best her, but she did have quite a good lead at the moment. “Trio.”

  “Equal.”

  “Blast it. Jacks.”

  “Not good.”

  Sophia sighed. “Fine. What do you have?”

  “Kings. Oh, and queens.” As she watched, he gave himself six points. Then he looked up at her again. “Finished declaring?”

  “Yes, damn it all.”

  “Quatorze,” he said.

  “Take your blasted points.”

  By the time they’d played the tricks and totaled the score, he was behind her by only two points. “What score are we playing to?” he asked, shuffling the cards for the next hand. “Or should we settle our wager hand by hand?”

  She glanced toward the closed door of the drawing room. However little use she had for propriety, she did know that an unmarried woman did not spend any time unchaperoned in a man’s company without an extreme risk of ruination. Adam Baswich knew that, too. And neither of them had so much as batted an eye over playing billiards together or going riding together or playing cards together with only his two great dogs in the room with them, sleeping in front of the fire.

  “Do you think I’m being absurd, refusing to allow you to purchase me things and yet sitting here alone with you?” she asked.

  “I think you have found that there’s a difference between being seduced and being … kept,” he returned promptly. “I don’t think it’s about propriety, but I do recognize that it’s important to you. And no, I don’t find it—or you—absurd in the least.”

  She watched the graceful flick of his long-fingered hands for a moment. Hands she’d occasionally daydreamed about back in London, and hands that she very much wanted touching her now. “I suggest a new wager.”

  “I’m all atingle.”

  So was she. “The loser of each hand removes an article of clothing.” She gestured from his very fine gray and black suit of clothes to her own footman’s attire. “We are dressed in a nearly identical fashion, after all.”

  Setting the deck of thirty-two cards aside, he reached up and briskly unknotted his cravat. Then he slid it slowly from around his neck and dropped it to the floor. “Agreed.”

  * * *

  An hour later, she wondered if the Duke of Greaves knew what he’d agreed to. She sat, a small, delicious shiver of excitement running down her spine, as Adam took his shirt by the bottom hem and pulled it off over his head. Oh, my.

  As he’d lifted her in and out of the saddle and, even more tellingly, hauled her out of the river, she’d known he was strong and fit. He had the body of a born athlete, lean and muscular and just … perfect. A dark dusting of hair across his chest narrowed as it traveled downward to vanish beneath the waistband of his buckskin trousers, which she found at least as intriguing as the parts of him that she could see.

  Once he’d discarded his white superfine shirt, he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. In response, Sophia stifled a scowl. She wasn’t finished with gazing at him, yet. As she returned her attention to his face, he was contemplating her coolly.

  “Are you cheating?” he asked.

  “I am not cheating. I warned you that I’ve played nearly daily for a year.”

  “Yes, but I’ve played piquet since I was sixteen. That’s nearly fourteen years.�
� Momentarily straightening one arm, he brushed a finger across the paper he’d been using to tally his points. “You haven’t lost a single hand.”

  Deciding it would be both poor form and dangerous to laugh, Sophia settled for nodding. “You’ve come quite close several times.”

  “Don’t placate me, chit.”

  She stifled a reluctant sigh. “Well, I suppose we can end the game, if you wish.”

  “So you can call me a poor loser?”

  “I’m not the one complaining.” She stacked the cards and cut them. “It’s your deal. I certainly don’t wish to cause an argument. That wasn’t the point of … this.” In fact, she was quite happy with the way events had unfolded, so to speak, but evidently he’d expected to see her removing clothes. Another thrill stirred through her.

  “You suggested the wager,” he said, sitting forward to take the deck.

  “I did.”

  “You have no objection to being naked, then.”

  Heat touched her cheeks as she realized that once again, this was not a conversation a gentleman had with a proper lady. At the moment, however, she didn’t care. “Your argument has a logical bent to it.”

  For a moment he gazed at her. “Then I propose we change the game.”

  Her breath quickened. “To what?”

  Eyes still on her, he reached over to the edge of the table for the twenty cards they’d discarded before the beginning of the game. Without looking down, he shuffled them into the deck. “We cut the cards. High card wins.”

  “There’s no skill at all in that,” she protested.

  “I’ve been suffering here for a damned hour.” He slammed the deck onto the table between them. “Cut the cards.”

  Even the Duke of Greaves could run out of patience, apparently. Fingers not quite steady, she reached out, lifted a section of the cards, and turned them faceup. Finally she glanced down. “Queen of spades,” she declared, utterly unable to help the twitch of her mouth.

  He cursed. “Bloody hell.” The moment she set the cards back, he leaned in to grab the top card and flip it over. “Seven of clubs. For God’s sake.”

  A laugh escaped her lips before she could pull it back. “Oh, dear. Perhaps we should try a diff—”