Knave's Wager

She was examining every detail for the fifty-first time when a chill tickled her neck. She knew the marquess stood behind her, even before he spoke, though she had not heard him enter. Her body stiffened.

“The centre-piece wants to move a bit to the right,” he said.

She turned slowly to face him. “It is precisely where it belongs.”

“Unlike certain parties you could mention?” He moved a few steps closer.

“Now you have mentioned it, I would prefer you returned to the company, my lord. Your disappearance will be remarked, and I do think you have caused enough talk as it is.”

“But my hostess will not talk—to me, at any rate. I wonder why that is.”

Another step brought him a few inches from her, and Lilith, retreating, found herself backed up against the table.

“Now I wonder whether you mean to clamber over it,” he said gravely. “You cannot be comfortable as you are.”

“Will you please—”

She heard footsteps approaching. In the same instant, his hand clasped her arm, and in one smooth series of motions he’d drawn her away from the table and guided her through the opposite door into a small room adjoining.

The well-oiled door closed soundlessly behind them. Beyond it she heard two servants talking softly, then the sounds of chairs being moved. After two or three endless minutes, the footsteps and voices faded away.

“They are quiet and efficient,” said Lord Brandon as he folded his arms and lazily leaned back against the door. “Yet all servants are bound by some unwritten code to convey every tidbit they discover to every other servant with whom they are remotely acquainted. Thence the tidbit, enlarged to prodigious size, is conveyed for the delectation of their masters. Speaking of delectable, Mrs. Davenant—”

“I must insist you return to the company, my lord,” she said unsteadily.

“Your new coiffure,” he went on, “Is a delicious concoction. Is that an orchid—no, two—nestled among the curls? I rather fancy orchids. I have a gardener who works magic in a damp, dark hothouse. Still, I have never seen the species displayed to such advantage.”

“It appears they came to me by mistake. Since there was no card, it was impossible to return them. My abigail believed they looked well enough with the rosebuds.”

“They suit you better than rosebuds. You are not a common rose sort of beauty, but a rare and dangerous exotic. Dangerous to my peace of mind, at any rate,” he added, his voice very low. “You don’t want me, but I cannot keep away, you see.”

“I see that you are standing in my way. Still, there is another exit,” she said, clasping her hands to stop their trembling.

His glance caught the movement then the green eyes were piercing hers. “You are always wanting to run from me,” he said. “Do I frighten you?”

Certainly not,” she answered, nearly choking on the words. “I simply do not care to be made an object of speculation. I cannot believe you are so insensitive as to be unaware of that. Yet you seem—it seems at times as though you go out of your way—as though you have some game with me. I do not know what it is or why you should wish to distress me and annoy my fiancé. We have neither of us done you any ill.”

“It,” he said calmly, “is attraction, and the game is the oldest one in the world.”

Her face grew very warm. “I see. You are not done mocking me.”

“No, I am trying to court you.”

She barely suppressed the gasp. “This offensive joke has gone far enough, my lord. Court, indeed. I, engaged to be wed—even if I were not the very last woman in England a man of your sort would be attracted to. Your idea of humour is distasteful.”

He sighed. “I knew how it would be,” he said, coming away from the door. “Your brain has not yet recovered from years of being tortured by those cruel coils. I shall have to provide scientific proof.”

He crossed the small room. Panicked, Lilith retreated to the opposite door. Just as her shaking fingers touched the handle, his hand closed over them. His touch was an electric shock, succeeded by a wave of shocks as he gathered her into his arms and kissed her.

She had been married. She had been embraced before, and always her body had stiffened at Charles’s impatient intimacies. Always she had felt awkward and inadequate. Thus, she had simply frozen, praying he would be done and her mortification ended quickly. She froze now, tense and anxious within, rigidly unresponsive without, and endured, waiting for Lord Brandon to give up.

Or tried to wait. Because he seemed to have no inkling he was kissing a glacier.

His mouth moved slowly over hers, lazily tasting, while his fingers idly stroked the back of her neck. Under that light, almost negligible touch, the stiff muscles warmed and relaxed, and warmth trickled down her spine. She caught her breath in surprise, and his tongue flicked over her parted lips lightly, teasingly, before his mouth closed fully over hers once more. Tingling heat washed through her then, weakening muscles, swamping will, melting everything in its path, so that she scarcely knew she was answering his kiss until it stopped.

She opened shocked eyes to a heavy-lidded green gaze. His face was still very near.

“You appear skeptical yet,” he whispered. “I had better provide more evidence.”

“No!”

He did not move. She could discern the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and a minute scar over his left cheekbone. His breath lightly caressed her face, and the scent of sandalwood teased her nostrils. Her heart skittered wildly.

She looked the other way, and wished frantically he would move away, because she could not. His face was so cool and assured, while her own was hot—with shame, no doubt, because he had so bewitched her that she’d very nearly brought her lips closer again... for more. But there was no magic and therefore could be no bewitchery, and so she made her voice cold and steady as she spoke.

“I certainly need no further proof,” she said, “that you are despicable.”

“I was much goaded, Mrs. Davenant. Your perfume made me desperate.”

She was desperate in any event, because he still had not moved, and in the narrow space between them was a treacherous current. She had been drawn in once, all unwitting. She would not be so again.

She pushed him away and, on unsteady legs, quitted the room.

Lord Brandon discovered that the other door opened onto a hall that would take him out of the house unseen by any but a few servants. One of these, upon retrieving his lordship’s hat and stick and whispering a few words, received a generous vail.

It wanted two hours until the marquess’s appointment with an actress. He might have spent these at the theatre, but her onstage performance was not what entertained him. Therefore, he returned to his town house to change into less formal attire.

As he was unwrapping his neckcloth, his glance fell upon his left shirt cuff. He frowned.

“Hillard,” he called.

His valet hastened into the dressing room.

“M’lud.”

“Bring me a pistol.”

Mr. Hillard had been with his master twenty years.

“Yes, m’lud. What sort of pistol did you have in mind? Mr. Manton has made you several.”

“You cannot ask me to make such a decision at a time like this. I am a broken man. There is a thread,” Lord Brandon said in sepulchral tones, “hanging from my cuff.”

“M’lud, that is impossible. I beg your pardon for contradicting, but it is completely impossible.”

His lordship put out his hand and pointed to the offending cuff. “What do you call that?” he asked in the same hollow voice.

Hillard stepped closer and peered at the object. “M’lud, I call it a hair. A long, reddish one,” he added, his face immobile, “with a curl to it. I can’t think how it got there, but it isn’t a thread. Shall I remove it?”

“No, Hillard. You have suffered enough. I have grievously offended you. I hope you will come to forgive me one day, for there were extenuating cir

cumstances. The light is dim and my eyesight is failing me. That has been pointed out to me on more than one occasion.”