Passion for the Game (Georgian 2)

“I cannot think of the future beyond finding Amelia.”

“You could. It will not make you weak to wish for better things.”

The glance she shot him was narrowed and cool enough to discourage most. Simon, however, simply laughed. He had once shared her bed, and with it, the inevitable domestic discord that came with the role of resident lover.

Maria sighed, her gaze moving to the portrait of her first husband that hung on the wall from a length of thick ribbon. The swirls of paint created an image of a portly man with ruddy cheeks and bright green eyes.

“I miss Dayton,” she confessed, her restless stride slowing, “and the support he provided.”

The Earl of Dayton had saved her from total ruin. Seeing through Welton’s exterior, the kind widower had rescued her, paying a high price to take a girl young enough to be his granddaughter as his second wife. Under his tutelage she learned everything she needed to know to survive. Weaponry and the consummate use of it were only two of the many lessons learned.

“We will see to it that he is avenged,” Simon murmured. “I promise you that.”

Rolling her shoulders in a vain attempt to alleviate the tension there, Maria moved to the desk and sank wearily into the seat. “What about St. John? Can he be of any use to me?”

“Of course. With what the man knows, he could be of use to anyone. But there must be something to be gained for him. He is not a man known for his charitable tendencies.”

She curled her fingers around the carved ends of the chair. “It would not be sex. A man who looks like he does would have women aplenty.”

“Very true. He is a man known for living to excess.”

Moving to the sideboard, Simon poured his own libation and rested a lean hip against the edge. While he managed the appearance of nonchalance, he never lowered his guard for a moment. She knew this and appreciated it.

“I can only assume it is the death of your husbands and their relation to the agency that has sparked his interest.”

She nodded, expecting as much. The only motivation she could find for St. John’s approach was his desire to use her as Welton did—for a distasteful task where feminine wiles were required. But surely he had women closer to him who could do the job with similar efficiency? “How was he caught? After all these years, I cannot help but wonder what error he made.”

“From what I can discern, he made none. An informant was found who was willing to speak out against him.”

“A bona fide informant?” she asked softly, her mind’s eye remembering the brief moments she’d spent with the criminal. He was supremely confident as only a man with no fears could be. He was also a man one would be foolish to cross. “Or simply one who bent to coercion?”

“Most likely the latter. I shall look into it.”

“Yes, do.” Maria fingered the corner of a piece of parchment on her desk. Her gaze rested on the sparkling amber liquid in Simon’s hand and then moved higher, noting his broad shoulders and powerful arms.

“I wish I were of more help to you.” The sincerity in his voice could not be mistaken.

“Do you know of a woman we could trust to align herself with Welton?”

He paused with his snifter lifted halfway to his mouth, a slow smile transforming his features. “By God, you are a wonder. Dayton taught you well.”

“One can hope, yes? Welton has a preference for blondes.”

If only her mother had known that.

“I shall find a suitable female posthaste.”

Maria leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

“Mhuirnín?”

“Yes?” She heard his glass settle on the surface of the sideboard and then the steady sound of Simon’s confident stride. It made her sigh, flooding her with a sense of comfort she struggled to deny herself.

“Time for bed.” His large hand covered hers where it curved around the chair arm, and the rich scent of his skin filled her nostrils. Sandalwood. Pure Simon.

“There is too much to be considered,” she protested, her eyes opening just enough to look up at him.

“Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.” He tugged her up and when she stumbled, he caught her close, embracing her in warmth. “You know I will not be swayed until you do as I say.”

Her body attempted to melt against his, and Maria squeezed her eyes shut to fight off the urge.

She could not help but remember the feel of him moving over and inside her, an association she had put an end to over a year ago. When his touch had come to mean more to her than mere physical comfort, Maria had concluded the affair. She could not afford to become complacent or feel contentment. Still, Simon remained in her household. She refused to love him, but she could not send him away either. She adored him and appreciated his friendship and his knowledge of the underbelly of society.

“I know your rules.” His hands cradled her spine.

He did not like them, she knew. His carnal interest had not waned. She felt it even now, pressing hard against her stomach. A younger man’s appetite.

“If I were a better woman, I would make you go.”

Simon sighed into her hair and pulled her closer. “Have you learned nothing about me in the years we have been together? You could not make me leave. I owe you my life.”

“You exaggerate,” she admonished, recollecting when she first saw him in an alleyway, standing alone against a dozen opponents. He held his own with a ferocity that frightened and aroused her. She almost continued on, her aim that dark night to follow a lead on Amelia that seemed more promising than most. But her conscience would not allow her to ignore the imbalanced battle.

Brandishing sword and pistol, and flanked by several men, she managed to be sufficiently intimidating and the attackers had been frightened away. Left weakened and bloody, Simon had still chastised her roundly. He did not need rescuing, he said.

Then he collapsed at her feet.

Her original intent had been merely to clean him up and ease her conscience. Then he had emerged from a bath, a virile and breathtaking creature. And she had kept him.

Simon stepped back, his mouth curving in a wry smile as if he knew her thoughts. “I would face a dozen men again, hundreds, if it led me back to your bed.”

Maria shook her head. “You are incorrigible, and overly randy.”

“It is impossible to be too randy,” he said with laughter in his voice, leading her toward the door with his hand at the small of her back. “You will not distract me from ushering you into bed. You need rest and sweet dreams.”

“Ah, have you learned nothing about me?” she queried as they stepped out to the hallway and took the stairs. “I prefer not to dream. It makes waking so depressing.”

“One day all will be well,” he promised in a low, assured tone. “I promise you.”

She yawned and then gasped as she was swung up into powerful arms. Within moments she was tucked into bed with a quick good-night kiss pressed to her forehead. As Simon retired, the soft click of the adjoining door made relaxation possible.

But it was a different set of blue eyes that followed her into sleep.

“Good evening, sir.”

Christopher nodded at his butler. From his drawing room on the left, raucous laughter spilled out of the open double doors to fill the entryway where he stood.

“Send Philip to me directly,” he ordered softly, handing over his hat and gloves.

“Yes, sir.”

Crossing to the stairs, he passed the boisterous group of his men and their companions. They called out to him, and he paused a moment on the threshold, his gaze moving over the assembled crowd he considered his family. They were celebrating his release—the luck of the devil, they said—but work awaited him. There was much he needed to ascertain and accomplish if he wished to ensure his present state of freedom.

“Enjoy yourselves,” he urged before taking the stairs with shouted protests following him to the second floor.

He reached his rooms and, with the help of his valet began to undress. He was shrugging free of his waistcoat when the young man he had requested rapped lightly on the door and then entered at his behest.

“What have you learned?” Christopher asked without preliminaries.

“About as much as one could expect to learn in the space of a day.” Philip tugged at his cravat and started pacing, his pale green coat and breeches a stark contrast to the stamped leather that lined the walls.

“How many times must I warn you about your fidgeting?” Christopher admonished. “It betrays a weakness that begs to be exploited.”

“My apologies.” The youth adjusted his spectacles and coughed.