by Lavinia Kent
She closed her eyes to collect herself—then opened them to find her spot. She wanted high stakes, but not desperation.
There under the window—Struthers, Lord Burham, and Jackson, all men of sizable means and discretion. It took only a moment to determine they were driven by competition, not a need for funds. Male competition, that was something Violet knew how to work with.
She watched them for a moment, picking up the game and the pace of their play. Then she sidled over to the table. “Do you mind if I join you, gentlemen?”
Jackson looked up first. She’d flirted with him after the death of her first husband. His eyes gleamed as they traced the lines of her figure, settling on the deep cleft between her breasts. “Why, Lady Carrington, I can’t recall ever seeing you here before. I thought you only indulged in cards after dinner in much more respectable locations.”
“When have I ever been held by respectability? Although you are right, this is my first time.” Violet purred the words. She might only have played cards among friends, but she knew well that distraction was always key.
“I doubt that. I’ve heard you know how to play very well,” Lord Burham spoke up. “Your friend Lady Westington has joined us on occasion, and she speaks most highly of your play. Do you play the way she does?”
Struthers leaned back in his chair and watched.
“Yes, my dear Violet, what brings you into our company? And do you enjoy the same games as Clara Westington?” Jackson asked. “I’d heard you were more exclusive in your tastes.”
Violet did not miss how quickly she had moved from being Lady Carrington. She leaned forward over the table, granting the men a better view. “I don’t know about Clara and her games, but perhaps I’ve tired of being exclusive. Would you like to show me what I’ve been missing?”
Burham choked on the whiskey he’d been swallowing.
“Take a seat,” Struthers finally spoke. He picked up the deck and shuffled the cards between long, elegant fingers. “I’ve heard much about you, my lady. I’ll enjoy learning what’s true.”
Violet could not keep her eyes off how those fingers manipulated the cards—easily, deftly. She tried to recall what she knew about Struthers. Not much. He’d inherited a fortune from an uncle who’d gone off to India. He never attempted to pretend to be more than what he was, the younger son of a younger son. But still he held respect and position.
He watched her with half-closed blue eyes as she edged around the table to the one empty seat. When she was settled his lips curved up—a cat granted a dish of cream.
He was the man to watch.
“You do remember how to play, don’t you? Or do you need lessons? I am always happy to help,” Jackson said as he leaned far too close. Their thighs were almost brushing.
Violet slid the other way on her chair, only to brush against Burham, who clearly thought this was a signal.
“Gentlemen,” Violet began, “the cards haven’t been dealt and already you’re trying to sneak a look. A lady needs some space and privacy to plan her bets. Please grant me some room—unless you’re already planning to cheat. I should warn you I only deal with those who play fair.”
“A wise strategy. But how do you enforce it?” Struthers asked, as his speedy fingers tossed the cards around the table.
Violet sat up straight. “A woman quickly learns how to remove herself from trouble or she doesn’t manage to play for long. Would you like me to demonstrate?” It took only the slightest indication that she would rise for all three gentlemen to assure her they would never dream of cheating. A further glance at Burham and Jackson had them moving a proper distance.
She picked up her cards and considered.
“What do you wager…Lady Carrington?” Struthers hesitated before addressing her. His eyes lingered as he let her name glide between his lips. It might have been seductive if it wasn’t so practiced.
“What are the stakes?” She was not fool enough to venture in first.
“On the last hand, Jackson here relieved Burham of a rather spectacular matched pair. I myself am out a rather hefty amount of coin,” Struthers answered.
“Oh dear,” Violet cooed—God, she’d always hated women who cooed—“I am not sure I am ready to match that. Do you think we could start out slowly and then bring me up to speed? Fifty guineas, perhaps?”
That met with quick agreement and they were off. The men played at blistering speed, and Violet was amused to see they cared as much about scoring off each other as trying to impress her. She did have to push Burham away a further time or two, but Jackson became so involved in the cards that she wasn’t sure he remembered her.
Struthers played a quiet, but deadly game, and it took all of Violet’s wits to keep her losses to a minimum.
It should have been fun. Gambling was fun. She’d always enjoyed it. And male attention. Who could complain about being at the center of three attractive males? And they were attractive; even Burham’s undistinguished chin did not detract from his height and strength. Jackson glowed with the easy charm he always had, and Struthers—Struthers shone with masculine allure and danger. Each time the stakes rose, so did the edge of his attraction.
Flirting and double entendre were her specialties. She leaned forward in her chair again and let the barest hint of a smile cross her lips as she stared across the table at Struthers. She looked at her cards, glanced at him, touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip. He swallowed hard before concentrating on his own cards.
Beside her, Burham actually dropped his cards and had to move quickly to gather them up.
Yes, it should have been a prime moment of her life.
But it wasn’t.
She didn’t know why, but the whole evening felt flat and tarnished. One more hand and then she’d go.
She’d look for a new…friend another night. Any of the men at the table would be a likely prospect, and yet none appealed. It would be a waste of her time and theirs to continue.
“You’re out of coin, my dearest Violet? Do you have more?” Struthers leaned forward as he asked the question. “Or perhaps you’d like to wager something else?”
“I didn’t bring anything else. I do want to play one more hand. Perhaps I could give you a vowel?” Violet answered.
“Unfortunately, we only play for what we can see.” Struthers leaned across the table and let his hand brush over the top of hers. His meaning was unmistakable.
Jackson looked up from his cards, his interest caught. “I’ll put it all in for an offer like that.”
“I am in too,” Burham added.
“Well.” Struthers pushed forward his full pile of winnings. “Are you with us?”
Violet lifted her hand and brought it to her lips. Struthers’s touch lingered, and not in a particularly pleasant way. She watched as all three gentlemen focused on her hand. She blew on it gently, then trailed it down her chin, her neck, and paused at the lace-edged top to her dress. She fluttered her fingers and almost laughed at the fixed quality of the three male gazes.
“You like what you see?” She lowered her voice and added a rasp. “This is what you want in return for all of that?” She waved her hand over the pile of notes and coin that spread across the table. Their eyes followed her gesture. “Are you sure, Burham? That matched pair you’ve tossed in are worth a pretty penny.”
Three heads nodded in agreement.
“Well, if you’re sure. I wouldn’t want to disappoint three such fine gentlemen.” She pulled the large sapphire ring off her finger and dropped it on top of the pile. It landed with a clink.
He had danced with five marriageable children and brought lemonade to three more. The more he tried to speak with them, the more he felt he had nothing to say.
“How did you enjoy last season?” he would begin.
“Can you believe that hemlines are coming down again?” was the reply.
“The weather has been very favorable this season,” he tried again.
“Oh, I think not. I�
�ve got three freckles on my nose. Oh dear, I am not supposed to speak of appearances. You’ll think me awfully fresh.” And then the titter. There was always a titter.
This finding-a-wife thing was not as easy as he had imagined. He’d thought he’d show up at the proper engagements. The mamas would send their daughters to parade before him. He’d choose one and call on her family. An announcement in the papers. A ceremony at St. George’s, and within the year there would be an addition to the family Bible.
That was how it was supposed to work.
He’d never considered that he’d actually have to talk to the girl. He’d imagined the bedding part a thousand times before Violet, but never this blasted need for conversation.
“Well, my dear chap, you seem to have found the cream of the crop, every one sweet and beautiful.” Henry had found him again. “Summerton does throw a good bash—even without the brandy. I keep hearing rumors there will be champagne soon to cool us down.”
Peter had a sudden overwhelming urge for a very large whiskey. “That sounds lovely.”
“You must have been talking to Foxworthy. He keeps staring at young bosoms and saying, ‘Lovely, lovely.’”
“I’ve actually managed to avoid the old coot, but he may have a point. This whole evening is just lovely.”
“If a fellow didn’t know better he’d think you were being sarcastic—maybe even being a bit of an ass.” Henry was smiling again, but his gaze was sharp as it swept the room.
“Why ever would one think that? Don’t I look like I am having a wonderful time?” Peter answered.
“You keep choosing the sweet ones. I tried to warn you, you need a bit of a bite.” Henry’s glance settled across the room. “There, that’s the one for you. Miss Isabella Masters. She doesn’t have much of a portion, but you don’t need one. She’s clever and pretty and only a little bit sweet once you get to know her—don’t be put off in the first five minutes. They all think they have to drip with honey to catch us, but they can only keep it up for so long.”
Honey. Violet’s skin. Keep it up for so long. Oh, he’d keep it up all right. Peter’s mind wandered along familiar paths.
“I say. You don’t seem to be listening. Isabella Masters is the perfect one for you, although from what I hear Langdon is playing the bee to her flower, so you may have some competition. And I shouldn’t forget Foxworthy. He looks at her with ownership glinting in his glance.” Henry sounded most insistent.
Peter glanced around. Miss Isabella Masters—it sank into his soul. Violet’s sister. He could only stare. What on earth was the chit doing here? Shouldn’t she be safe in London?
Almost as if reading his mind, Henry answered. “Her brother decided to put her on the market more obviously. I am not sure if he’s going for the highest price or has something more particular in mind. It was strange of him to wait until August to bring her to Town, but maybe he wanted to get her some dresses before bringing her here. That’s a very fine one she’s wearing. It certainly shows off her…complexion.”
“I am sure that’s what you were about to say, Mr. Edwards.” Lady Summerton joined them. “I do hope you’re not foxed. I can’t abide a drunken gentleman. I had considered having the champagne brought in, but now I must reconsider. It’s clear you gentlemen have been tippling on your own.”
Lady Summerton sailed off again, having said her piece.
“No champagne. I may have to develop stomach troubles that demand an immediate return to Town. I am not sure I could handle this without some recourse.” Henry had lost his smile.
Peter was only half focused on him anyway. He continued to stare at Violet’s sister, trying to see the similarities between them, trying to decide if her presence there was a curse or if he could turn it to his own advantage.
Maybe if he did pay court to her it would bring Violet around. She certainly wouldn’t want him to marry her sister. She might say that he should marry somebody fresh and young, but how would she react if confronted with the reality?
It might be worth a try.
Besides, Violet’s sister couldn’t possibly be as full of titter as his previous companions had been.
He turned back to Henry. “I’d appreciate it if you’d introduce me to Miss Masters. I’ve decided to take your advice.”
She’d almost lost her ring. Violet stood in the doorway waiting for her carriage to be brought round. Peter had given her that ring. It was the only gift of any value she’d ever allowed him to give her, and she’d tossed it in a pile of coins without a thought. She’d even felt a moment of victory as the men had looked up at her in confusion and then understanding. She’d played them well.
Only she’d almost lost her ring. She understood for the first time how insidious gambling could be. She’d been so busy looking at the prize, she hadn’t even noticed the risk.
Damn. She shouldn’t care anyway. She had much nicer rings. Her third husband, Carrington, had loved giving her pretty things. Why should it frighten her so that she’d almost lost it?
And it was almost. She had come out the winner. She shook her heavy reticule, hoping the seams would hold. She could probably bring down an elephant—should she ever happen to meet one—with it.
“Can I help you with that? It looks like you may end up with one arm longer than the other if you’re not careful,” a hesitant voice spoke up.
Violet turned and beheld a most beautiful young boy. He had the haunted perfection of a Renaissance saint combined with the barest hint of mischief. He looked barely old enough to shave, much less frequent a place like this.
“Forgive me. Do I know you?” Violet answered.
“Oh, do pardon me. Yes, I met you at one of my brother, Lord Chandler’s, soirees. I am Ian Winchester. My brother is a close acquaintance of Lord Peter St. Johns. I had the pleasure of a country dance.”
“You are quite correct, sir. Please, do forgive my forgetfulness. I’ve had a long evening.”
“Would you be interested in making it a longer one? My brother mentioned that you and Lord Peter were no longer—”
“And what on earth makes you think that Lord Peter and I were ever—” Violet was almost speechless; not only was it clear that her relationship with Peter was much less secret than she had imagined, now she was being propositioned by schoolboys.
“This is about to become a conversation full of apologies.” Ian—it was impossible to think of the boy as Mr. Winchester—blushed furiously. “I was going to say that my brother mentioned you were without an escort with Lord Peter out of Town. I only sought to offer my services.”
Violet was not convinced of the innocence of the remark. “And the later night?”
“It is merely that it is such a warm and beautiful evening that I thought to invite you for a late ride.” Ian gestured out the open door. “My barouche is open so there would be no impropriety. The moon is full, the air is warm, and the city is empty. After a night in such a smoke-filled—I believe the word is hell—I thought you might enjoy a bit of fresh air. I know it’s not conventional, but I am afraid I am not a conventional type of fellow.”
She should say no. Any woman with a whit of common sense would say no. Still, he was harmless and she had always been partial to young, malleable men.
She lowered her chin and met his eyes for a second. His gaze did not even dart to her breasts. She handed him the heavy bag. “It sounds lovely.”
Chapter 6
It was the dream of every girl during her first season—flowers from each man she’d met the night before. Violet glanced at the four perfect bouquets of fresh spring violets that lay on the tea table—expensive in late summer, if not original.
Ian’s were white with purple edges.
Struthers’s contribution was the grandest. The florist must have emptied a hothouse.
Jackson and Burham had both sent small dainty offerings—it would have been hard to distinguish between them.
There was only one problem. She detested violets. She loved roses,
lilies, even lavender. She wanted vibrancy and color, lush scent and sensuality. Violets offered none of that. They were demure and sweet.
She was not sweet and never had been.
Even at seventeen, before she started on the road that had led to her present position, she had not been sweet.
So why did men always send violets?
Oh, she knew why—but still she wished for some true thought and deliberation.
Peter had never sent her violets.
He’d favored peonies—huge, rich peonies of a pink so deep it put a baby’s lips to shame.
She could close her eyes and smell them now.
But of course she wouldn’t.
That was the past. This was now.
She picked up Ian’s flowers. White was different. She didn’t remember ever being sent white blossoms before.
She placed them back on the table.
Struthers’s arrangement was too large to lift. It was not dainty and demure.
She tapped a finger on the table between the two.
Struthers wanted to ride in the park.
Ian wished her company on a walk.
She tapped again.
If she couldn’t decide, why should she? Let them compete.
She wasn’t in the mood for either a walk or a ride. Perhaps a little culture. It had been some time since she’d visited the British Museum. Isabella had wanted to go, but Isabella was out of Town.
She wondered whether either of the men would even pretend an interest in art or history.
With a smile she moved to her desk and picked up a quill. Should she acknowledge it would be a group endeavor? No, it would be more telling to take them by surprise.
Isabella Masters was an entertaining girl. From the first time Peter had drawn her into a dance she never failed to entertain, and she never, not even once, simpered.
If it hadn’t been for Violet, Peter might have sustained an interest.
But no matter how desperately he tried to pretend there was no Violet, she never left his thoughts for long.
“I’ve heard that Summerton has a Rembrandt,” Isabella cooed as she led him down a candlelit corridor.