by Mia Marlowe
“Yes, sir. I’m ever so sorry, sir. No harm done. There it is.” Hollis placed the paper on the bed as instructed. Then he smoothed down the brocade waistcoat that was spread out on the bed for Blackwood to wear that evening. “Lovely workmanship, this.”
“I should hope so. The entire ensemble is the creation of one of the finest bespoke tailors in London. Brummell himself used to frequent the shop. Now get me that whisky!”
Hollis skidded out of the chamber as if his trousers were afire. Blackwood took a last look at the IOU on the foot of the bed. It was his ticket to the heaven between Miss Kearsey’s legs…and any place else on her delectable body he cared to claim.
She does have the loveliest little pink mouth.
With that delightful thought in mind, he decided to see if he could imagine defiling her mouth hard enough to spend before Hollis returned or the bathwater got cold.
* * *
“Oh, you look even better than I’d hoped in that gown.” Freddie adjusted the clever little headdress for Rebecca and smiled at her in the dressing table mirror. “There. If only I weren’t an earl’s daughter, I’d have a real future as a lady’s maid.”
Rebecca laughed. “Being an earl’s daughter is a real future.”
“I suppose, but it hasn’t availed me much this fortnight. Lord Hartley only has eyes for one lady it seems.”
“Oh, yes. Lady Chloe.” Rebecca cast her gaze downward, lest Freddie see her duplicity. She felt terrible keeping things from her friend, but the fewer people who knew of John’s plans, the better.
“It won’t answer, you know,” Freddie said. “I collect you’re up to something. And you and I both know perfectly well that the lady Lord Hartley favors is you.”
Her gaze jerked back to Freddie’s reflection. “What? How can you say that?”
Freddie rolled her eyes. “Because he’s a veritable mooncalf. He covers it well, to be sure, but no matter how much time he spends in the company of that merry widow, it can’t trump the way he looks at you in unguarded moments.”
This didn’t bode well. John was adamant about keeping their secret until the right time. “Does everyone know?”
“Of course not. How many of the ton have my powers of observation and keen reasoning skills? Not many,” she answered her own query. “Even the book at White’s has Lady Chloe leading the pack of future marchioness hopefuls.”
“How on earth can you know what the White’s wager book says?”
“Believe me, I have my sources. But that’s of no consequence since we know who the real front-runner is.” Freddie gave her a quick hug. “I’m so happy for you, my dear, but also curious as to why the need for subterfuge?”
Even though Freddie was dearer to her than any sister could be, she couldn’t share the terrible situation in which her father had placed her with Lord Blackwood. Instead, Rebecca settled for telling Freddie about a complication she would understand. “The dowager is set on John marrying no less than an earl’s daughter. Lady Chloe meets that standard, but is wholly unacceptable to her ladyship in other regards.”
“I should think so.”
“No, don’t say that. Chloe has proved to be a friend.” Rebecca rose and paced the room. “In any case, John thinks his grandmother will be so relieved when he tells her that he won’t be offering for Lady Chloe, she’ll be much more accepting when he proposes to me.”
“That is probably a good plan. Well, if you decide to accept him, he’ll be an extremely lucky gentleman. Hold a moment.” Freddie stooped to spread the short train of Rebecca’s gown so that it swept behind her as lightly as faery dust. Then she straightened and gave an approving nod. “Now, is your father coming to escort you to the ballroom?”
Rebecca shook her head. Her father had scrupulously avoided her since the night he all but shoved her into Blackwood’s arms.
“Mine isn’t either. I do believe they’re all plotting to disappear to their wicked little poque game again at some point in the evening, instead of supporting the dancing.” Freddie linked arms with her. “Let’s go down together then. I hear the string quartet warming up.”
Rebecca called her courage and headed toward the ballroom with her friend. So much more was riding on this night’s work than putting the right foot forward before the ton. Though John had promised he’d settled everything in one stroke, Polite Society expected him to marry extremely well, and she still didn’t signify in that case. Her father was still deeply in debt.
And Blackwood still expected her to pay.
* * *
The first dance called by the dancing master was the minuet, the most correct and elegant dance with which to begin any ball. Since not every couple dared attempt the intricate steps and figures, it was more a display piece. Once the reels and quadrilles began, the entire assembly would line up to be included, but now only a handful of dancers glided to the center of the floor to take their positions.
Rebecca and Freddie had settled in to watch as the quartet continued to torture their instruments into tune with each other. She nearly toppled out of her chair when John appeared before her and asked most correctly for the honor of this dance.
“I didn’t know you could dance the minuet,” she stammered as she rose and made the obligatory curtsy.
“There are many things you don’t know about me yet.” His eyes glinted with promise. “But trust me enough to lead you through a few figures, will you?”
“Yes, my lord, of course. The honor is mine.”
As he lead her out, he whispered, “That’s better. You know you’re always supposed to say yes to the marquess, don’t you?”
She turned to make her first pose and pulled a quick face at him. “You’re not the marquess yet.”
He grinned. “Consider it practice for the future.”
“And what about saying yes to the marchioness?” She had to play as if her heart weren’t pounding like a coach-and-six, as if nothing was more important than whether she missed a dance step. If she let herself think about Blackwood coming to her at midnight, she’d melt into a terrified puddle in the middle of the floor.
“Oh, a yes to the marchioness is a given. It comes standard with the coronet and jewels.”
He brought her in close for the first figure, which allowed them to look adoringly at each other as a matter of course. To her surprise, his lead was sure and correct, if not the most refined. That was fine with her. One of the things she loved most about John was his rough edges.
“Besides,” he whispered, “I could never say no to you.”
“Then tell me, is everything in train for your plan this evening?”
He hadn’t confided the whole plan to her. In fact, he claimed not to have told anyone all of it. If everyone did their part, it would all come together. Nothing would be helped by worrying about the bits for which others were responsible, John had said. She desperately wanted to hear him say yes now, that everything was going to work out exactly as they hoped.
But John didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze swept over the room, as if he were looking for someone. She followed the direction of his gaze until he finally settled on a footman moving smoothly around the room offering a tray of canapés to the matrons who were seated along the walls to observe the dancing. The footman never glanced toward John.
“Does that footman have something to do with our plans?” she asked.
John pulled his gaze away and smiled down at her. “If he does, he strikes me as a handy fellow at whatever he’s tasked to do. Don’t fret. Please, Rebecca. I need you to trust me tonight. Do you?”
They drew together for the stylized kiss required by the dance. Even though it couldn’t be the kiss she wished for, John’s mouth was firm and warm on hers. It settled the unruly flutters in her stomach and gave her a small measure of peace.
“Yes, John,” she whispered. “I’ll always trust you
.”
Thirty
Losing at cards doesn’t build character. It reveals character.
—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset
Blackwood was mightily put out that there was no waltz on the program. He considered the minuet a throwback to the previous generation and had no interest in moves designed merely to showcase a lady’s charms. All the other dances were country reels or formations with other couples, which precluded any private speech with his partner. He’d so looked forward to waltzing with Miss Kearsey, so he could whisper under his breath all the deliciously wicked things he intended to do to her later. Watching her flush and go short of breath as she tried to maintain her composure would have been the high point of his public evening.
But he couldn’t get near enough to menace her with more than a few glances, which she refused to meet.
No matter. There’d be time enough to bedevil Rebecca Kearsey later. He’d make sure she couldn’t look away then if he had to tie her to the bedpost, which, now that he thought about it, was an idea with real appeal.
He chanced to see Lord Arbuthnot and Lord Kearsey slipping out of the ballroom door between sets. Even without their host, Lord Hartley, who couldn’t be spared from the dancing, a card game was clearly in the offing. Kearsey had nothing to buy into the pot with except his cuff links, so Blackwood couldn’t figure why the gentleman was even bothering to sit in for a hand. But Arbuthnot had yet to be skinned for more than a quid or two.
Fresh meat.
It would do Blackwood’s heart good to make the old curmudgeon bleed freely. Lord knew Arbuthnot had the chinks, right enough. He’d hardly miss the blunt Blackwood intended to win from him. If the cards didn’t fall Blackwood’s way naturally, he had a special deck in his jacket pocket that would ensure a win. He made his way toward the exit but was stopped shy of it by a feminine hand on his forearm.
“Where do you think you’re going in such an all-fired hurry?” Lady Chloe said. “We’re already short of eligible gentlemen. Never say you’d leave a ballroom full of debutantes to dance with the graybeards.”
“If all the little darlings want to do is dance, yes, I’m content to let the dotards have them.” He offered her his arm because it made him feel pleasurably male for Chloe to snug against him. Her breast was soft against his elbow as she sidled up to him. “If the angelic young ladies want some carnal adventures, I’ll be happy to oblige them, but what I have in mind cannot be accomplished on a dance floor.”
Lady Chloe laughed, the full-throated laugh of a woman who understood and enjoyed pleasure. “I’m guessing it could be accomplished on the dance floor at one of your Daemon Club parties.” She slid a hand from his chest to his waist, stopping their progress toward the door. “I’ve heard clothing was not required for a full sennight at one of them.”
He grinned wickedly. “You should come to the next party.”
“You know my rules. I must remain chaste…well, relatively chaste,” she amended and turned so they could continue walking on, “until I’ve found my next husband. And after our nuptials, I’ll stay true to him until he’s demonstrated an inability to remain faithful to me.”
Blackwood led her on to the door but didn’t pass through it. “People like you and me shouldn’t be bound by rules.”
“Never fear. I have only one or two, but I do adhere to those few religiously. Not that I think there’s one chance in a hundred that I’ll ever discover a faithful husband, but it’s only sporting to give a gentleman the chance to keep me at his side by remaining by mine. Now, tell me. Where are you off to in such a clandestine fashion?”
He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “There’s a poque game in the second-floor parlor.”
“Oh, good. I’m ever so tired of playing loo.”
“The table has rather high stakes.”
“All the better. It’ll be more interesting that way. Lead on, Blackwood.” She cocked her head fetchingly at him. “Or don’t you think the other gentlemen will welcome me at the table?”
The way the neckline of her gown was cut, if Lady Chloe leaned forward to collect her winnings just so, there wouldn’t be a man at the table who’d begrudge her the pot.
“No, I’m certain you’ll be a most welcome addition,” he said and led her away from the foolish crowd tripping the light fantastic in the ballroom.
* * *
Two hours later, Kearsey was still hanging on in the game, staying fairly even with each hand. Arbuthnot had dropped a small fortune and was determined to win it back. Another couple of players had escaped with their teeth still intact, but little else. They quit the game, claiming the coming midnight supper was calling them, leaving only four players around the lacquered table. The chips had been transferred to a new owner in a decidedly lopsided fashion all evening.
However, the largest pile of winnings wasn’t sitting in front of Blackwood. It was stacked up before Lady Chloe so high it almost obscured her magnificent bosom. And a good many of those chips had belonged to Blackwood when the game first started.
“This deck is grown cold,” he muttered. “Let us start with a fresh one.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, only to find it empty.
“What an excellent idea,” Lady Chloe said, opening her beaded reticule and pulling out a deck of cards which looked suspiciously similar to Blackwood’s special one.
When had she managed to lift it from him? Oh, yes. When she snuggled close to him in the ballroom. He remembered that her hand had surreptitiously brushed his form. He’d enjoyed it at the time. Now he narrowed his eyes at her, the conniving minx. She was as nimble-fingered as a Whitechapel lightskirt.
“Would you care to cut, Lord Kearsey?” she asked sweetly, as if she weren’t guilty of purloining Blackwood’s stacked deck.
Kearsey merely rapped his knuckles on the cards and Chloe began to deal.
Blackwood’s mind churned furiously. How could he accuse a lady of cheating with a deck he knew to be tainted because it was his? Instead, he concentrated on the cards being dealt. He knew without a doubt what cards each player held. Yes, there was the third jack to him. It was being played out exactly as it should except that Chloe, as the dealer, would receive the winning hand.
The longcase clock chimed a quarter to midnight. The game was expected to break up for the supper following the ball soon, and Miss Kearsey would be waiting for him in her chamber while the rest of the party ate their après-dancing repast. It was time he made his exit from this game in any case.
“I believe I will call it a night.” Blackwood laid his hand facedown and stood.
“Oh, where’s the fun in that?” Chloe said. “At least finish this hand. What will you wager?”
“On these cards, nothing.”
“Well, I’m willing to hazard everything I have on mine. Come, Blackwood. If you won’t bet a chip, at least wager whatever’s in your waistcoat pocket.”
Since there was nothing in his waistcoat pocket, he shrugged and sat back down. Arbuthnot and Kearsey made their bets. This pot dwarfed all the others, so no one wanted to be left out.
Chloe turned her cards over.
She had three tens. It was good, but it wasn’t the winning hand Blackwood had expected. The foolish girl had mixed up the cards somehow. He revealed his trio of jacks with mounting excitement. Arbuthnot was holding the anticipated pair of aces, which he tossed down with disgust.
Blackwood could scarcely breathe. He was going to take everything—all of Chloe’s winnings in a single lucky stroke.
Kearsey continued to stare stupidly at his cards.
“Throw down, sir. We haven’t all night,” Blackwood said.
Hands trembling, Lord Kearsey laid down four threes in a crooked row. “I…I guess…I win.”
“So you do, my lord,” Lady Chloe said with no evidence of envy or displeasure. She pushed
her pile of chips in his direction. “Now you, Blackwood. Empty your pocket.”
“There’s nothing in—” But there was something in his pocket after all. He’d meant to turn the satin lining inside out to demonstrate its emptiness, but his fingers brushed against a piece of folded paper. He drew it out, unbelievingly.
“What’s this?” Lady Chloe snatched it from him, unfolded it, and ran her gaze over it. “My word, Lord Kearsey. It appears double congratulations are in order. These are your own vowels. You just won back a considerable IOU to Lord Blackwood.”
“No, that’s not possible,” Blackwood said. But it certainly looked like Kearsey’s IOU. It was the same spidery script. “It can’t be.”
With no scruples for propriety, Blackwood unbuttoned one side of his drop-front knee britches to fumble with the slit opening in his smalls.
“It’s here. I know it is.” He rummaged in his drawers for the slip of paper that had to be there. Hollis had left it on the end of the bed. While the valet helped him dress, Blackwood had tucked the precious IOU into its usual place himself. “It must be here somewhere.”
“Now see here, Blackwood,” Lord Arbuthnot said. “There’s a lady present.”
“I pray you, don’t fret on my account, Lord Arbuthnot. I’m a widow, remember. The male of the species holds no mystery for me.” Lady Chloe laughed and turned her attention to Blackwood. “My dear viscount, you’re not the first to feel himself unmanned by a loss at the poque table, but I assure you, the equipment is still there. It may just take a while for it to work properly again.”
Blackwood glared at her, but then his fingers brushed a piece of paper tucked into the cinched waist of his smalls. He pulled it out and threw it onto the table.
“There! See for yourself.”
Lady Chloe blinked at the folded paper and then said with sugary sweetness, “Considering where it’s been, you surely don’t expect me to touch that.”
“Dash it all! This will prove the IOU in Kearsey’s hand is a forgery.” Blackwood unfolded his paper and found…a blank page staring up at him. “How the devil…”
