Shetut-tutted. “No, John. Your other option is whist. Lord Mortlake is a curmudgeon who refuses to play any kind of parlor game, and he’s looking for another pair.”
John’s body loosened a fraction. Whist was harmless enough. One could play it in complete silence, and that was the next best thing to leaving. It was a game that required no effort from him. That was the thing with a perfect memory—playing cards was as easy as breathing. He could keep track of every card that had been played and calculate what was likely to be played next.
“Whist it is then.”
Before he could stop her, Charlotte reached for his hand, expecting him to escort her as a gentleman would. Her fingers enclosed his, and he stifled a groan at the need that pulsed through him. Damn.
He let her guide him toward the table by the window looking out over the drive. The rain that had been threatening to spill for days had started at last. As raindrops passed the outdoor lamps, they created ripples in the puddle of light below.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Charlotte said, her gaze following his. “Sometimes I’ll have Swinton stop at the top of Grosvenor Street on the way home so I can watch the light change on the pavement as people pass. There’s nothing quite as lovely as the city at night.”
Her expression was all rapture and innocence as she put a hand on his arm, her fingers fairly burning through the fabric of his jacket. “Here come Lord and Lady Mortlake. We need to crush them.” And her expression was no longer innocent at all.
***
John and Charlotte quickly proved an unstoppable pair. Charlotte’s countenance was almost entirely inscrutable. But he quickly picked up on the slight changes in mannerisms that communicated the strength of her hand. The brief downcast of her eyes told him she didn’t have the cards needed to win the trick. A finger over the top edge of her card said she was poised to deliver a killing blow.
The quick flick of her tongue over her lips? He couldn’t match that to the cards she played. It was almost as though it formed a different conversation entirely, one that caused his cock to twitch as his stomach had earlier.
She made the game that he thought would take no effort at all considerably taxing. Keeping track of the cards was more difficult than it should have been when he kept forgetting to actually look at the hands played because his eyes were constantly drawn to his partner.
Nevertheless, within thirty minutes, the two of them had Lord and Lady Mortlake pinned down, and his lordship knew it. His expression became increasingly dour as the game continued, but he played long after a sensible man would have thrown in the towel, all because of Charlotte.
When Mortlake made a backhanded comment about the fifty quid Walter owed on his death, a muscle ticked along Charlotte’s jaw before she launched into a witty stream of conversation that fairly dazzled their hostess. The two women giggled and gossiped, and every time Lord Mortlake went to end the match, Charlotte teased him lightly in a way that might have seemed innocent and flirtatious to others. To John, it was clear she knew how much money they were winning and had no intention of letting her target go. She was out to take their hosts for everything.
It was terrifying how she managed her opponents—the way she beguiled them, blinding them to their own situation. If she ever turned those charms against him, he would be absolutely lost.
As the last trick was taken, Charlotte gathered the tokens and added them to the small hoard she had accumulated by her elbow. “Another hand?” she asked innocently.
Winning this hand had brought their night’s takings to exactly what Walter—John—owed. It was clear Charlotte wanted to keep playing, but John had enough problems without making new enemies. “It’s time to call it a night,” he said.
Mortlake rose from the table the moment the words were out of John’s mouth. Lady Mortlake huffed. “This wassodiverting,” she said, despite her obvious disappointment that the game was over. “We must do it again sometime. Soon.” She patted her husband’s arm.
“Perhaps.” Mortlake scowled at John. “Give me a minute. I’ll meet you in the hall.”
It was an implicit invitation to leave, and John was more than happy to accept. He’d stayed far longer than he’d intended already.
“Yes.” Charlotte stood and tugged at her gloves, smoothing the wrinkles to mask the fact that they’d just been involved in a massacre. “I must also be going. I’m so sorry that we didn’t have the opportunity to visit the ghost in your receiving room. I shall pay a call tomorrow and we will see if we can entice it to show itself.”
In the hall, John held Charlotte’s coat. As she slipped a hand through, she was suddenly within the circumference of his arms. The scent of her, an English summer garden, infiltrated his awareness, causing the back of his throat to tighten and the hairs on his neck to rise.
She was so close; he’d just have to tilt his head the slightest bit and his face would be buried in her midnight curls. He swallowed. Hard. Thank God she faced away from him.
She turned, and with only inches between them, a heat, an energy, pulsed. He clasped his hands behind his back because the alternative was to rest them on her hips or sink them into her hair.
“Thank you, my lord.” Her cheeks flushed prettily as she ducked her head and looked up at him through long lashes.
His throat closed completely, and his heart raced because this was exactly the situation he always tried to avoid—one where his chest and throat and tongue all seized and if he was forced to utter even a single sentence, his stutter would humiliate him completely.
She brushed a stray hair behind her ear. His gaze followed the movement, his lips yearning to trace it.
“Harrow.” Lord Mortlake’s voice was the ice water he needed. He stepped away from Charlotte and the hold that she had on his insides released.
Mortlake held out a folded piece of paper. John took it and flicked it open. There it was—a promissory note for fifty quid in Walter’s hand, signed several months before his death.
“Thank you,” John muttered. One debt down, only a hundred more to go.
Chapter 8
