Joyce smiled tightly. “She didn’t.”
He let his lips ease. “Excellent. So why are you here?”
“Because Cathcart then made a lot of noise about losing to the house, but the house being unwilling to give him the chance to win his losses back.” Joyce met his gaze. “So we’ve come for advice.”
“And help,” Masters added, “if you have any you feel inclined to give.”
Roscoe leaned back in his chair and let his gaze grow distant while he considered his options; dealing with Cathcart needed a different approach than dealing with hotheads like Lord Treloar. Eventually, he refocused on Joyce, then glanced at Masters. “Lisette pricked Cathcart’s pride, clearly a vulnerability, so we’ll use his pride against him to shut him up. To make him take his losses like a man.”
Sitting up, he reached for a fresh sheet of paper, then his pen. “I’m going to offer to meet Lord Cathcart’s challenge and allow him to win back his losses. Against me. I, after all, am the ‘house’ in question.” He wrote while he spoke. “I will allow him to set the wager anywhere between five and ten thousand pounds a point, as he wishes. As with any challenge, should he accept it, it will be entered into the wagers’ book. The game will be played at the club, and he may bring two observers of his choice to ensure that all is aboveboard. The offer will remain open for . . . a month, shall we say?” He paused to read what he’d written, then, lips curving, he signed the missive and added a note. “And in case this letter of offer should go astray, I’ll leave a notarized copy with you at the club and retain one in my files.”
Masters laughed. Joyce grinned. Both knew that Cathcart would never dare accept the counter-challenge. No gambler in his right mind went up against Roscoe and expected to win.
Roscoe blotted the missive, then handed it to Masters. “Take it to Jordan when you leave—he’ll get the copies made and have the original delivered to Cathcart.” He held up a finger to keep both his visitors in their chairs. “However, as you’re both here”—he picked up the latest report from the club—“who the devil has been losing so heavily at your hazard table?”
Half an hour later, the siblings departed, and he settled down to wade through the other clubs’ reports, marking any point he wished to question, such as the unexpectedly large takings at the Keller Club’s hazard table. He’d long made it a point to know who was going to the dogs before they got too deeply indebted. Sometimes a quiet word in the right ear kept everyone healthy.
He’d just finished reviewing the clubs when Jordan entered with a sheaf of documents and a reminder that Roscoe was due at a meeting of the board of Argyle Investments, a charitable foundation in which he held a sizeable stake.
It was late afternoon before he returned. Leaving his greatcoat with Rundle, he strolled into the library. Crossing to the tantalus, he poured a glass of brandy, then sprawled in his favorite armchair. Raising the glass, he sipped, then held up the glass to observe the burnished amber liquor within . . . and finally allowed himself to focus on the question that had lurked at the back of his mind all day. The question his mother’s suggestion had raised.
He’d dismissed her notion on the grounds it wasn’t feasible and wouldn’t get him what he most wanted, yet the prospect had lingered, a seductive Why not? murmuring deep in his mind.
If he’d needed the reasons enumerated, the activities of the day—just this one day—had covered enough of them to make the answer crystal clear. He couldn’t go back to being Lord Julian Delbraith, because to do that he would have to cease being Neville Roscoe.
And too many people, far too many people, depended on Roscoe, regardless of whether they knew it or not.
Not just his employees, although they were now legion and reason enough on their own. There were no other gambling czars likely to follow his, to them peculiar and irrational, ways, such as protecting his employees from all external intimidation, employing so many women, especially in more responsible positions, and paying all his workers fairly and regularly, let alone insisting that no crime of any kind be committed on his premises.
If Neville Roscoe disappeared, there were many who would breathe a sigh of relief and instantly revert to the laws of the jungle. While he remained, his establishments set a standard that other houses had been forced to match and maintain. If he took himself out of the equation . . . there was no self-aggrandizement in admitting the obvious.
And while his family’s fortunes were now secure, and his personal fortune was nothing short of immense, the funds he currently poured into charities via the Philanthropy Guild, Argyle Investments, and various other funding bodies far exceeded the income he could raise from his private wealth.
He’d made the decision long ago that as so many of the ton were addicted to playing for high stakes, then it was entirely appropriate for him to accommodate them, take their money, and redirect it to those most in need. He’d come to terms with the likelihood that that stance had its genesis in his guilt over exploiting so many other gamblers’ addictions while rescuing his own family; he’d decided he and his conscience could live with that.
Raising the cut-crystal tumbler to his lips, he sipped the fiery old cognac and let his conclusion wash over and through him.
Lips twisting, he lowered the glass and leaned back in the chair. “Sorry, Mama, but Lord Julian Roscoe Neville Delbraith isn’t coming back. For all intents and purposes, Lord Julian is dead.”
“Good evening, Rundle.” Standing on Roscoe’s front step, Miranda raised a questioning brow. “Is your master in?”
“Indeed, miss.” Rundle stepped back, bowing her inside.
Walking into the hall, she halted by the central table and drew off her gloves, then let Rundle remove her cloak. Beneath it she wore an amber silk gown with a topaz silk shawl draped over her shoulders. “Is he in the library?”
“Yes, miss. If you’ll follow me?”
Inclining her head graciously, she followed Rundle down the corridor, strolling in his wake as if her visiting a gentleman in his house after ten o’clock at night was an unremarkable occurrence. She needed to speak with Roscoe, to learn what he felt and what was possible, and, she hoped, to continue their liaison. As he couldn’t come to her in Claverton Street, she had come to him.
Last night had fallen too soon, the evening too full of Gladys’s questions and the fuss of settling back into their home. She’d been tired after their two days on the road, yet she hadn’t slept well, restless and agitated in an unsettling way. She’d woken several times, her senses reaching for his warmth, only to encounter cold sheets and empty space.
While she felt certain a liaison of less than two weeks’ duration could not possibly cause an addiction, she’d still missed him, apparently at a level deeper than her conscious mind.
Reaching the end of the long corridor, Rundle opened the library door, announced, “Miss Clifford to see you, sir,” then held the door for her.
Crossing the threshold, it occurred to her that Rundle should have inquired if his master was willing to see her before admitting her to the library. Wondering why Rundle hadn’t, she nevertheless grasped the opportunity to assess Roscoe’s unprepared response to her arrival; walking deeper into the room, she smiled at him.
He sat in the armchair he’d occupied all those nights ago, when she’d come to plead for his help in finding Roderick. As then, he’d been reading a book; it lay open in his hands, forgotten as he watched her walk toward him.
Heat flared in the midnight depths of his eyes; she felt the lick of flame as his gaze swept over her, then returned to her face, her eyes. Without looking down, he shut the book and rose. “Miss Clifford.” His gaze went past her to Rundle, and impassivity reclaimed his expression. “That will be all, Rundle.”
“Indeed, sir.”
A snick told her Rundle had retreated and closed the door.
Roscoe’s gaze switched to her face, raced again over her features, then settled on her eyes. He hesitated, then asked, “What is it?”
> “I wanted to ask whether you’ve heard anything about Kirkwell.” She continued to walk toward him. Smile deepening, she halted only when her bodice brushed the front of his coat. “And I wanted to do this.” Placing a hand on his chest, she stretched up and pressed her lips to his.
He held back for an instant—a moment, she sensed, not of hesitation but calculation—then his lips moved on hers and he took control of the kiss, closed his arms about her and waltzed them into the familiar flames, held them there and let them burn.
For uncounted minutes, for long-drawn-out moments of simple pleasure, of shared warmth and delight. He let the caress spin out, but then he reined them in, both her and him.
When he raised his head, she was caught hard against him, eyes wide, senses fully engaged, wholly aware of the thrum of sensual, sexual attraction that held them both, trapped them both. Linked them both.
He looked into her eyes, then raising a hand brushed back an errant lock of hair from her cheek. “Why did you come?”
“To ask about Kirkwell, and . . .” With one finger, she traced the line of his lower lip. “Because of this.”
He caught the tip of her finger between his teeth, lightly nipped, then released it. “As to Kirkwell”—his voice was a gravelly rumble—“there’s little to tell. Mudd and Rawlins spoke to Kempsey’s uncle. The uncle had gone to the Hood and Gable to meet with Kirkwell as arranged, but Kirkwell never appeared. Mudd and Rawlins returned to the tavern and asked around again in case someone had seen him nearby, or knew anything more of him, but no.”
She studied his face. “So we’ve no way of tracking him?”
“Not directly. But if you recall, all the descriptions we’ve had of him mention a scar everyone’s taken to be a sword slash. These days that’s a common enough scar for most people to recognize correctly, so if Kirkwell is this man’s real name, I might be able to make inquiries via the army.”
She widened her eyes. “You can do that?”
“Let’s just say I have several acquaintances who owe me favors.”
“How long will that take?”
“Several days at least. But as long as Roderick remains at home, he’ll be safe enough, and with his broken foot . . .”
“For the moment, he’s stuck at home and therefore safe.”
She studied his face, and he studied hers. She waited.
After a long moment, his lips twisted; his gaze fell to her lips. “As for this . . .” He mirrored her earlier caress, drawing the pad of his thumb over the curve of her lower lip, sending a slow shiver of delicious anticipation slithering down her spine. He sensed it; his lips curved and she felt the spiraling tension in him. He drew a tighter breath. “What about it?”
She waited until his eyes rose and his gaze met hers. “I want to know what’s possible. What you want, what we might have should we both wish it.” She was quietly amazed at herself, that she’d had the courage to come there, to speak as she was and make a bid to seize what she wanted, yet if there was one thing the ladies of his family had taught her it was that she, too, could reach for her dreams, that regardless of her mother’s and sister’s experiences, such an act wouldn’t necessarily end in tragedy.
“Ah.” His eyes held hers, but she couldn’t read them.
Some emotion shifted behind the sapphire blue, but she couldn’t make it out. “I don’t know our options, but I presume you do.”
He hesitated. His arms still around her, he studied her eyes; he seemed to be having no greater success divining her thoughts than she was his. “I take it you wish to continue our liaison. Here, in town.”
“Yes.” She held his gaze. “Can we?”
No. Roscoe knew that was the correct answer, but he couldn’t get the word past his lips. The reason he’d never allowed any other to be his mistress applied even more to her. He drew breath into lungs suddenly constricted. “Miranda—”
She silenced him by laying a finger across his lips. “This might be the right time, but”—her gaze swept the chairs and hearth before returning to his face—“this definitely isn’t the right place.”
He hardened his resolve. “Mir—”
“We can discuss the details later.” Gripping his lapels, she stretched up on her toes. “For now, just kiss me.”
She pressed her lips to his, then parted hers, enticing and demanding and utterly irresistible. Before his mind had made any decision, his arms had tightened around her, he’d lowered his head, and he was doing exactly as she wished and kissing her. Voraciously.
He was hungry for her, and she was offering succor. He took, and she gave unstintingly. Her hands slid into his hair, clutched his skull, and held him to the kiss, held him so she could return the pleasure.
Tenfold. A hundredfold.
Effortlessly, they spun into desire’s dance.
He knew he had to tell her that this couldn’t be, that their liaison couldn’t go on, not in London, not in safety. But he’d assumed that she would keep her distance, knowing that here in London he was Roscoe and not a man remotely eligible for her to even dally with . . . but she hadn’t.
In coming to him tonight, in walking so confidently into his library and making her wish to continue their liaison so blatantly clear, she’d thrown him off-balance. Utterly and comprehensively. She’d reopened a debate he’d thought already resolved; she’d made him question the possibilities anew . . . yet even as he sank into the wonder of her mouth, as he felt her body cleave to his, felt her supple and vibrant in his arms, he knew in his soul that nothing had changed. She simply didn’t know enough to see matters as clearly as he.
He would have to explain, but even as he summoned wits and will enough to break the kiss and speak, she pressed provocatively against him, drew her lips from his and purred, sultry and low, “Take me to your bed.”
The words shattered his resolve, sent any thoughts he might have gathered winging—any thoughts beyond the image of her lying, sated and boneless, sprawled on his silk sheets.
Heat rose and engulfed him, desire a searing edge to the flames.
He didn’t answer, couldn’t get his throat to function, didn’t trust his voice. Instead, he stepped back; eyes locked with hers, he took her hand, then together they turned to the door. He remembered little of their trek up the stairs; she paused in the gallery and he took the lead. His hand wrapped around hers, he drew her on down the corridor to the double doors to his room.
Opening one, he drew her through, whirled her into his arms as he kicked the door shut. Bent his head and kissed her, and backed her toward the bed.
Last night. Last time. Never again.
His mind was no longer capable of forming words, yet he absorbed the meaning, and that understanding infused his touch, set a honed edge to his desire.
A desire she matched in every way. Halting at the foot of the bed, breaking the kiss, he nudged her head with his jaw and pressed his lips to the long arching line of her throat, and felt her shudder. She was particularly sensitive there; with his lips he traced hot kisses along the fine tendons, following them down to the hollow where throat met shoulder, while his hands uncoiled her hair, raining pins upon the floor until the silken mass descended, then he set his roving palms to her body, to her firm curves, tracing, assimilating, possessing anew. Laying claim to her bounty.
One hand clasping his nape, the other gripping his shoulder, she clung. Lashes low, lips parted, she tipped her head back, giving him better access to the fine skin exposed by the scooped neckline of her gown. With his lips he traced the tempting upper swells of her breasts, then straightened and captured her lips with his while his fingers sought and found the laces at her side, and swiftly undid them.
She didn’t seem inclined to rush, allowing him to slowly ease the gown down, savoring the firm mounds of her breasts as he released them from the tight confines of her bodice, as he took them in his hands and, with his lips still on hers, drank in her pleasure as he weighed, caressed, then kneaded. The fine film of her chemise,
the last insubstantial barrier between his palms and her skin, added another layer of tactile delight, shifting and sliding, tantalizing.
He pushed the folds of her gown lower, past the sculpted indentation of her waist, over the evocative flare of her hips. From the tops of her thighs, the gown fell with a soft sigh to puddle on the floor.
Drawing back from the kiss, she stepped free of the gown’s folds, kicked the silk aside, then, clad only in her translucent chemise, silk stockings gartered above her knees, and her heeled evening shoes, she stepped boldly closer; eyes locking with his, she lifted her hands to his cravat.
Her turn. She said nothing, but he understood and let her have her way. There was no reason not to draw each moment out, to savor each in turn, to hold back the inevitable desperate race for as long as they could. No reason they shouldn’t take as long as they wished for this, their very last time.
So he worked to keep their caresses slow, to string out each moment to the ultimate degree. She noticed, cast him a speculative glance, but he wasn’t surprised when she matched her sensual heartbeat to his, and together they moved forward into the slowest, most exquisite dance.
He hadn’t expected it to be so enthralling. So overwhelming.
Their previous engagements had opened his eyes, so now he could see and absorb the wonder. And fall hostage to the simple joy.
To the soul-shattering reality of what lay between them.
She held nothing back. As button by button, garment by garment, she stripped his clothes away, she let all she felt color her expression, flow through her touch; she put all she felt for him on display.
He couldn’t not honor her openness. Couldn’t do anything other than reciprocate. Dropping every screen, every shield, he let them come together in love and blazing passion.
Naked on his knees before her, he carefully removed her garters and shoes, rolled down her stockings, then rose and slowly drew away her chemise to reveal her fully, a goddess of pearlescent curves and seductive shadows.
Even as he let the fine silk slip from his fingers to the floor, she took the crucial step to set body to body, skin to naked skin.
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