Her laugh caught him off guard, but when he glanced at her, her eyes were shining and her color high, and despite himself, his lips twitched. Ah, the lady was a competitor, it seemed. They had that in common, then.
“You, a sore loser, Miss Thorne? No, I think not. A sore winner, perhaps.” She laughed again, and this time he made no effort to hide his smile. This game was costing him fifteen hundred pounds, so he may as well enjoy it. “I await your pleasure.”
She cast a critical eye over the table, and then without further ado she bent to her task, lining up her cue behind the plain white ball. With one practiced stroke she sent it rolling across the baize, where it hit the red ball with a smack, then dropped neatly into a side pocket. “Hazard.”
He jerked his gaze from her backside to her flushed face. Good Lord, but this game was shaping up to be worth every penny he intended to lose. “You have exceptional form, Miss Thorne.”
“I . . . thank you, Your Grace.” She looked away, another flood of color surging into her cheeks, and dear God, was there ever a lady who had a more charming, bashful blush than Miss Thorne laboring under a compliment?
“I have exceptional aim, as well.” She gave him a knowing little grin, as if she were laughing at some private amusement. “That’s three points to me, Your Grace.”
Any qualms he might have had about maneuvering her into a game vanished like a puff of smoke at the sight of that smile. He hadn’t truly understood how much the wager with her father had been plaguing his conscience until now, but it was oddly satisfying, putting everything back into its proper place again.
He took up his cue and with one quick strike his ball shot across the baize. It hit her ball, which disappeared into a corner pocket. “Hazard, Miss Thorne.”
“But alas, only worth two points.” She shook her head in mock sympathy. “Pity, Your Grace.”
“Don’t become too cocky, Miss Thorne. We’ve only just begun playing.”
But the game went on much as it had started, with Miss Thorne piling up points, every confident strike of her cue a cannon or a hazard. He was right on her heels, always only a point or two behind, but growing increasingly distracted by the glorious sight of Miss Thorne stretching and bending over the billiards table. It did wonderful things to her pert little backside, which he’d become a trifle obsessed with.
This, right here, was the reason ladies shouldn’t be encouraged to play billiards. It was hardly fair, when they had such an advantage over any gentleman who was suffering from the indignity of increasingly tight pantaloons.
On and on it went, with Miss Thorne growing ever more fetching as she forgot herself, the long locks of her hair escaping her chignon and brushing her shoulders, that damned gown rippling around her with her every twist and arch of her body, the firelight turning the silk a deep, seductive emerald green that perfectly matched her eyes.
By the time she was within three points of winning the game, he’d discarded his cravat and waistcoat and was obliged to mop at his forehead with his handkerchief after her every turn.
“It’s your turn, Your Grace.” She straightened from the table, her smile fading as her gaze landed on him. “Are you unwell? You look a bit warm.”
Oh, he was warm, alright. Warm, as hard as stone, and so light-headed from the inconvenient rush of blood to his nether regions he was beginning to feel a bit wild. “Yes, yes, I’m perfectly well, but I’d be grateful indeed, Miss Thorne, if you could manage to hold your tongue while I take my turn.”
Her brows shot up, but she retreated a few steps to give him room. “Why, of course, Your Grace.”
He bent over the table, blinking at the arrangement of the balls. He was one judicious stroke away from potting both her ball and the red ball, a winning hazard that would give him the game, and by God, it was tempting, as he wasn’t a man who enjoyed losing.
But in this case, a loss was a win.
He leaned over the table and lined up his shot, intending to pot his ball, but to hit it hard enough that it smacked into the red one before it fell into the pocket for a losing hazard, a three-point loss.
But that wasn’t what happened. Perhaps the pent-up lust racing through his veins threw him off, or perhaps he aimed correctly by mistake—he didn’t make a habit of intentionally losing at billiards, after all—but his ball rolled just a shade to the left of the red one and dropped into the pocket without touching it.
Damn it. They were tied now, at twenty points each. Still, all Miss Thorne had to do was sink her ball, and the game would be over, the debt hanging over her head gone, and her home restored to her.
A tidy night’s work, all told.
“It’s your turn, Miss Thorne.” He nodded at the table. “One shot finishes it.”
She cast a careful eye over the baize and leaned over the table, lining up her shot with her usual exquisite care, her form as perfect as ever, and with a graceful stroke of her cue, sent her ball spinning across the baize and heading straight for the pocket, just a little farther and it would—
Miss?Hell, and damnation! She’d missed the shot! Her ball struck the red one, then fell into the pocket with a final, hollow thud that marked the end of the game.
For an instant, neither of them said a word, but then she straightened up from the table, looking dazed. “I—I can’t believe it.”
He was still staring at the table in shock. “Neither can I.” It was the perfect shot! All the stars had been aligned, and all the angels weeping. How could it havemissed?
She remained still for some time, her gaze fixed on the red ball sitting atop the baize, her throat working, until at last she turned to him with a forced smile. “I . . . well, that’s it, then. Well done, Your Grace. You’re a worthy opponent.”
Well done?This was a bloody disaster. How was he going to come up with another scheme to return the fifteen hundred pounds to her without arousing her suspicions?
