by Beverly Adam
Midway between his tiresome discourse on the size of a lady’s head, which was obviously much smaller than a man’s, and therefore meant only for thoughts concerning child-rearing, sweets, gowns, and music, she felt something inside her snap. Her notorious temper, which she’d managed by some small act of willpower to keep in check until then, bubbled up into almost volcanic proportions, forcing her into a hasty decision.
“Your Grace.” She breathed deeply, squelching the desire to say, Your extreme pompousness. “I gladly accept your invitation to play a few hands with you, sir.” She released her tightly held breath. “Shall we say this evening when the clock chimes eight?”
“With pleasure, ma’am. I look forward to it,” he replied, bowing to her as his fingers stroked the rough edges of his lucky gold coin.
* * *
Rain beat against the manor walls as the tenth Earl of Drennan and Lady Beatrice O’Brien, the Spinster of Brightwood, played in the yellow drawing room. The walls of the room were hung in yellow silk and with its ceiling of octagon compartments, it was considered to be one of the most agreeable rooms in the manor house.
A peat fire had been lit and a playing table set cozily beside it. A screen had been setup so that the couple might play in some privacy while those attending them stood beyond to be summoned at the slightest whim of the couple.
Dressed in full evening attire of black velvet breeches and a cut away black-swallowtail coat that stretched at his broad shoulders, the English lord looked, even in Beatrice’s critical eyes, quite dashing. She blinked at him for a moment as he held open a cedar box containing the pasteboard playing cards. She picked out a deck and began to shuffle.
He studied her, as with intense concentration she shuffled the cards. Her hands lifted and dropped the boards into place with the adroit expertise of a seasoned card player. The lady apparently was no stranger to the game.
“I see, ma’am, that you’ve had some experience.”
“Yes,” she nodded, intent on starting, “we’re not so unlike the ladies in England, my lord, who think nothing of putting their families into great debt with the turn of a hand. The only difference is that we Irish win or lose, do it with a bit more panache and a lot less money. Shall we begin?”
“Whenever you wish.” He flicked a hand eloquently as if the evening held little import to him. He adjusted his splintered leg more comfortably on the chair beside him. She asked him to cut the deck, and turning over the last card, she established the trump. They began.
Picking up her hand, she smiled at him, her pearly white teeth glistening as she smugly waited for him to discard his hand.
She waited and revealed her own. “Ecarté!”
“So it is,” he replied dryly, a hint of boredom lacing his words. “But do let us play another hand or two. I’m just beginning to warm to the cards.”
They played again, and yet again she won without half trying. It was as if she could never lose. It made no difference how bad her cards were, his were always worse, and the game would once again miraculously play in her favor.
“It appears lady luck favors you tonight,” he commented, gathering the deck for the fourth time.
“Aye, that it would seem, Your Grace,” she agreed, sorely tempted to add that any simpleton could memorize the table of correct plays. Faith, he ought to have won at least one hand by now. That is, if he didn’t discard his most important cards so foolishly in the first toss.
“Shall we play a different game?” she suggested, wondering if her good fortune, if indeed that was what it was, would hold out.
To lose so many times was almost unpardonable. Unless the gentleman was a complete dolt and had no head for keeping track of his cards. Perhaps the strong whiskey he drank as religiously as medicine now had begun to addle his brain?
He put his hand in his pocket and felt the rough edge of his lucky coin. It warmed the tips of his fingers. “Do you gamble, Lady Beatrice?”
“On occasion, I’ve been known to place a shilling or two on the table,” she answered cautiously. A dim spark of delight dancing in her eyes, she might just have found a way of ridding herself once and for all of this English nuisance her father thought to foist on her. Coyly, she added, “Mind, m’lord, I gamble only when doing so will be to my advantage.”
“But, of course, my dear. Why then I propose we wager for what our hearts truly desire.” He smiled, a soft edge of amusement in his voice. “I suspect in your case, my lady, you’d like to be well rid of my esteemed presence.”
She glowered at him. Of all the tactless, bumble-headed things for this impertinent make-bait to say. To think she’d helped drag him out of that muddy bog and brought him to the shelter of her own home. The ungrateful lout!
He frowned. “Perhaps I am wrong about your wanting to be rid of me?”
She tightened her mouth into an angry disapproving line. She glared back at him.
“By Saint George,” he continued, “I could’ve sworn your note this morning said you wanted me as good as gone. Did I misread it? In which case, I owe you an—”
“Aye, so I did,” she snapped, wishing she wasn’t so readable, or that he wasn’t looking so innocently perplexed.
“But do be after telling me what reward you’ll be seeking in this gamble, sir?”
“Why, I thought you’d have guessed by now.” For a moment he dropped his foppish facade and looked directly into her startled green eyes. “I want nothing more or less than your dear self, Lady O’Brien.”
“The devil you say!” she spat, giving a warning nod in the direction of the servants around them, including her own companion.
Druscilla, unaware of the danger her mistress was encountering with the earl, stood in a nearby corner shamelessly flirting with Davis.
The earl shrugged, as though he were talking of merely inviting her to tea.
“Of course, it would be at a suitable place of my choosing. As for the rest . . .” His gaze strayed from her startled emerald eyes down to the low décolletage of her gown. Creamy, white breasts rose with an indignant intake of breath from beneath the lace lining.
“The rest, I believe, will depend on how well we manage together, won’t it?” he finished with a suggestive wink.
“For certain, Your Grace,” she mocked, her tongue at last finding its habitual sharpness, carefully slicing the words out evenly. “And I’ll even clean out your castle, if you like.”
Aye, she told herself. The silver-tongued rake didn’t fool her not one wit by his so-called desire for her. Too many empty-pocketed, money hungry fops had paid her court. No doubt he was like the rest, sniffing out the silver, which clinked so thunderously around her purse strings.
This English dandy was no different. All she needed was for him to confess his true reason for courting her. Then she’d go directly to her loving father with the truth. And the revelation would put an end to all this foolishness.
She leaned across the table and whispered, “What be ye really after? You needn’t be afraid of telling me. I promise I’ll confide in no one the truth. Not even my father will know the real reason for your courting me.”
He threw back his head and laughed. His laughter rumbled merrily in her ears. “My lovely colleen, do distrust me. For in the end, I’ll have you!”
“You’ll what?” she asked, raising her voice. She dared him to repeat his audacious words.
“’Tis best I show your ladyship.” Swiftly, he breached the remaining space between them. Grasping her shoulders, he pulled her forward, half-lifting her out of her stiff-backed chair. Before she could utter a protest, his mouth descended on hers, sealing her surprised lips with his own ardently warm ones.
Stunned, she at first tried to draw away, but the heat of the kiss sparked the hidden embers she’d thought to have successfully doused. A hot, tingling sensation invaded her entire being, rekindling the burning desire she had felt in his bedchamber.
She unwittingly uttered a soft sigh. And upon hearing the sound, pu
lled back out of his arms as if she’d been slapped, her breath coming out in short pants.
“Do you need any further proof of how much I desire your company?” he asked, taking out a monogrammed handkerchief to give her.
“Nay,” she said, wiping angrily at her now swollen mouth, pretending that the kiss had been horridly bitter instead of alluringly sweet. Her hands were shaking and she could feel her cheeks were red hot.
“I see,” he said. “Then you believe in the old adage that the mouth that remains closed is a melodious one.”
“Aye, Your Grace. But there be another even better.” She nodded, her voice dripping with biting sarcasm. “That a man ties a knot with his tongue that his teeth can never unloosen.”
“Yes, the Celts do have a way with adages, don’t they? But perhaps, my sweet, my tongue would do better elsewhere?” He gave her a roguish smile and a flash of white gleaming teeth.
She would’ve retorted something equally pointed, but it suddenly struck her how silent the room had become. The normally soft murmurs of conversation between the servants standing discretely behind the screen had ceased. All in the room were straining to hear the words that passed between the Earl of Drennan and the mistress of the house.
Belatedly realizing that something was amiss, Druscilla hurried over to her. She stood at the ready, at the slightest nod from her mistress to administer to His Grace, the Earl of Drennan, a proper kick to the selfsame nobleman’s shins.
The couple might have received permission from Lord Patrick to court, but there were, until the day the banns were published, certain proprieties to be followed, even by an eccentric spinster and a handsome earl. And he had just now stepped over the boundaries defining discreet gentlemanly behavior.
“Do you wish me to ask His Grace to take his leave, my lady?” Druscilla whispered nervously into her ear.
“Nay, the uh—earl was only making a feeble point, Druscilla. A lesson, I assure you, he’ll not be repeating,” answered her mistress, a slight tremble in her voice betraying her normally calm facade.
She nodded in the direction of the earl’s man servant. “You may return to your conversation with Master Davis. There is no need for anyone to question what has passed here.”
“But, ma’am,” whispered the maid, reluctant to leave her mistress’s side. “He made an improper advance upon your person.”
Beatrice nervously swallowed, forcing the rest of her statement out in a faked lighthearted manner. “Really, Dru’, my father, as everyone well knows, gave the earl permission to court me. Therefore, nothing unseemly passed between us just now.”
“Well, then, my lady, I best fetch your shawl. I expect you and His Grace will be wanting to take a little walk in the garden.” The companion sniffed, properly shocked.
“That won’t be necessary. It’s rather cool outside. And we intend to play one more hand of cards.”
Beatrice sighed to herself. Oh, if only she could be rid of the knave. Then her life could continue on the calm steady course that she’d set for it. Waving her fan back and forth, she tried to calm her nerves as her acknowledged suitor picked up the strewn deck.
The cool manner in which he dealt the deck reminded her that she needed only to play out the next hand in order to gain back the slippery control of her once well-ordered, tranquil life. Squaring her shoulders, she claimed her own set of cards. A soft gasp escaped her lips. There lay in her hand a series of unmatched low numbers of no particular suit. They gleamed mockingly up at her.
She glanced back hopefully at the earl. His rugged face revealed nothing about his own hand. If he had any feelings about the game, he kept them well-hidden, letting nothing about his silent demeanor betray his thoughts about his own cards.
He discarded one last time.
The moment had come to reveal their hands. Slowly turning his over, he showed his points and uttered simply the single word of triumph in French, “Gagné.”
Hands shaking with frustration, she ungraciously slapped her own worthless cards down on the playing table. “Good-evening, sir,” she whispered and silently walked out, the soft rustle of her skirts the only noise in the room as servants retreated to their own quarters.
They left him with Davis to enjoy his victory alone. In the flickering light of the smoking peat fire, the earl spread his cards out, tapping the four winning points. He’d shrewdly gambled on her assumption that he was a foppish dolt who didn’t know an ace from a queen. He, of course, had won.
“If my luck holds,” he said aloud to the empty room as he flipped his lucky gold coin in the air, “I may win myself a bride, as well.”
Chapter 6
Lord Patrick moved uneasily from foot to foot as he stood among the bulbs his daughter dug around. His dog, a high-strung black and white border collie, sat at his feet anxiously wondering why his master had stopped in their usual walk about the manor.
“Have a spark of sense, Bea’. The earl’s not one gentleman we wish t’insult,” he pleaded. “We can’t afford to offend him. Your reputation has come down as it is.”
She gave her father a scathing green-eyed stare. “Pray tell, what exactly do you mean by that?”
“Bedad lass, the whole village has heard of your kissing him. They’ll be wondering why we’re not visiting there. Whether once again you’ve been jilted, or something or other.” He mopped his head in frustration. His daughter’s peccadilloes were working on seeing him buried.
“Faith, I can’t even pop m’head in The Boor’s Teeth for a tranquil pint without some jackanapes making some sort of witty jibe about m’daughter’s game-of-the-hen ways . . . demme, if they all don’t think you’ll burn in hell for not marrying.”
“You can attend, Father,” she said, lifting her chin in challenge. “But as for myself, I refuse to do His Grace’s bidding.”
“But, darlin’, the gentleman asked me if you’d be willing to be the hostess of his fine fête. And I told him that you’d make a grand one.”
“Then you shouldn’t have spoken for me. ’Twas unfair. I loathe him.”
“Aye, anyone can see that.” He sighed. “But he—’’
“Tell his lordship that I’m not coming,” she said with a final toss of her head.
Lord Patrick frowned down at her, his bushy, white eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead. “He’s out yonder, awaiting your answer.” He nodded in the direction of the garden, his voice rough with impatience. “You can hie yourself over there and tell him yourself that you’re not coming. I’ll not play messenger for ye, lass.”
“He’s outside waiting?” she whispered, almost dropping her trowel.
It had been almost three sets of Sundays since she last saw him. He’d packed his belongings the day after the card game and departed without so much as a by your leave. Now, as if he’d just paid a call but yesterday, he’d returned as coolly as water from a mountain spring to visit her.
“Well, are you going to see him?” asked her father, softening at the thought that his high-strung daughter had finally met her match.
“Aye,” she said, deciding to settle the matter with the English lord once and for all. She’d tell that arrogant son of Cromwell how to go about hanging himself! She snatched off her gardening gloves and tossed them in her basket.
Her father watched with parental affection as she marched off with a quick swish of her skirts to find the earl. Softly chuckling to himself, he remembered how for the past fortnight his usually indifferent lass had fair jumped out of her chair whenever a visitor came to call.
“Just like a cat, all spit and fire, she was. Hissing at everything and nothing, an’ a saying she didn’t care for the man.”
“Ha!” He laughed. “And I’m a blind old fool. Musha, ’tis a pleasure to see her come alive again.”
He nodded his graying head and pulled out his long dhudeen pipe. A rewarding cloud of fragrant smoke soon circled his head. Mayhap for the first time in five years he could finish carving that cradle he’d be
gun. He smiled dreamily, thinking of the grand babies he hoped to bounce on his knee one day. With a soft whistle to his dog, he went in search of his carving tools.
The earl stood by a white rose bush admiring its perfectly unfolded leaves. He turned at the sound of her approach and leaned casually on his walking stick. He was wearing a morning coat of superfine gray that stretched at his broad shoulders, his immaculately starched neck-cloth done in the complicated occidental, contrasted with the dark tan of his sun-kissed skin.
He raised his tall, beaver hat as she approached, looking directly into her wide green eyes. His blue ones sparkled down at her as if they’d just heard a splendid joke. “Ah, Lady O’Brien.” He bowed.
“Your Grace,” she replied stiffly, lowering her lashes as she made a proper curtsy of welcome. “My father tells me that you wished to speak with me, sir.”
“That I do,” he answered, his eyes taking in the green morning poplin she wore. The simple puffed sleeves encased her narrow shoulders and the tight square bodice tapered sharply into a v-line around her waist, billowing over the heavy folds of her stiff, white petticoats and clean apron. Stiff, just like her pale, tight face. Except her cold airs could not hide the contrary lushness of her youth, her rose-colored lips, and the bright color of her emerald eyes. Neither could she control the wanton long black tendrils that had escaped once again from her tight coiffeur, which now pleasingly framed her face.
He itched to put his hands around her tiny waist. But her cool, green eyes forewarned him that such a gesture would not be welcome.
“I’ve been considering our wager,” he said nonchalantly tugging at one of the pearl buttons of his leather riding gloves.
She looked up at him, his words at last having caught her attention.
“I thought perhaps it best for me to invite you to my home to act as my hostess,” he continued, clarifying the matter. “During the upcoming festivities to celebrate my new peerage, I shall have need of one. I’d hoped you’d accept to play the part.”