Gambling on a Scoundrel

by Sheridan Jeane

  For a moment, Tempy simply looked at his proffered arm. The memory of that night in the casino when she'd taken Lucien's arm and had gazed up into his eyes engulfed her, and she remembered how the jolt of emotion she'd felt had startled her. Now she tucked her hand around his arm and noticed, again, that it felt much more substantial than Ernest's arm had ever felt. More solid and muscular. Her hand tightened slightly, and she felt his muscles flex under the fabric in response to her pressure.

  He glanced down at her, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. She knew better. He was too attractive, and she couldn't risk a repeat of that kiss they'd shared. "I can hear running water over there," she said, pointing with her free hand. "I'd love to investigate."

  He said nothing, but turned and escorted her in the direction she'd indicated.

  "Tell me what it was like when you'd visit the village as a boy," she asked, hoping the question would distract them both.

  He made that dismissive shrug again, and she knew she had blundered into something important to him. She no longer interpreted his shrug as indicating a lack of interest, as he intended it to. Rather, she now saw it as a cue that she'd somehow stumbled upon a delicate subject area. And that made her curious.

  "It was easy there," he said. "Not the work, of course, but the way people treated me. Us," he corrected. "Here at the estate, we were in the way. My grandfather didn't want us here. But in the village, everyone seemed happy to see us."

  Tempy's heel slid to one side as a piece of gravel under it shifted, and she clutched a little more tightly to Lucien's arm as she caught her balance. "Millicent told me you didn't want the title. Is that why? Because your grandfather was such a..." Tempy couldn't figure out how to finish that sentence. Such a cold monster? Such a short-sighted man? Such an imbecile? But it didn't seem to matter, because Lucien already understood.

  "I suppose so," he said, holding her hand more securely against his side.

  Tempy felt a surge of protection at his movement, and hated herself for it. She pulled away slightly.

  "I would have loved throwing the title back in his face just to see his expression, but since he's dead, that's really not an option."

  He tilted his head to one side to avoid a low-lying branch, but his head still grazed it, and to Tempy's surprise, drops of water splashed down on both of them. Had the gardeners recently watered everything? Lucien glanced down at her and brushed a droplet of water from her cheek with the side of his thumb. The gesture was completely natural, but the heat of his hand left an imprint on her cheek that lingered.

  She touched her face as she tried to ignore the way her heart beat faster than normal. "Formsworth seems to have a vendetta against you."

  "It isn't just me. He always took my grandfather's side against my father, too, and I never understood why."

  "Really? That's curious. Perhaps there was some personal animosity between them." One of the water droplets from the branch must have landed on her head, because she could feel it sliding along her scalp. She rubbed at the spot.

  "I've wondered that myself." He took a deep breath and released it slowly, shaking his head. "It's hard to accept the role of Earl of Cavendish when people like Formsworth come with it. He'll stop at nothing to turn the people here against me."

  "Could there be some reason other than personal animosity that makes him want to make life here in Porlock difficult for you?" she asked. "As I see it, the only way driving you away would benefit him would be if you were to sell off sections of your land."

  The gravel crunched as Lucien came to a sudden stop. He looked down at Tempy. "I'd never sell to Formsworth."

  "Perhaps not." She shrugged. "But you'd no longer have control of the property once you sold it. Formsworth might decide to purchase a piece of it, or even all of it, from whomever you'd sold it to just to spite you."

  Lucien glanced away and stared at the small fountain ahead of them. Following his gaze, Tempy noticed that the path ended here, and a bed of white gravel encircled the fountain. The fountain was low and round, with a scalloped edge and a jet of water in the center. "I hadn't thought of that," he said. The fresh citrus scent of orange blossoms was strong in this section of the conservatory. His expression changed as he shifted his gaze to look up at the flower-laden branches above their heads and then at the stream meandering alongside the gravel walkway. It was almost as though he were weighing and measuring. Or was he simply trying to imagine Formsworth in here?

  Tempy stared at Lucien, trying to understand him. What drove this man? Or more to the point, what motivated him? Apparently it wasn't money or a title, or they wouldn't be having this conversation. So, what mattered to him?

  "Hmm," he said, speaking more to himself than to her. "I'm fairly certain he'd even purchase this estate, if only to spite me."

  "But that would only cause you pain if you actually cared about this place," she said, keeping her gaze fixed on his. "And I suspect that you care more than you like to admit."

  He looked away and started to shrug, but halfway through the gesture, his shoulders froze and then slumped, as if he were acknowledging the truth of her words. After a moment, he slowly raised his gaze to hers and stared into her eyes. Seconds ticked by, stretching the moment like an elastic band, and then he spoke. "You see a great deal, don't you, Miss Bliss? You are extraordinarily perceptive. Is that what makes you a good journalist? I've read some of your articles, and you have keen insight."

  Startled by his observation, Tempy glanced away. It was her turn to stare at the fountain. He'd turned the tables on her. She wasn't used to being the focus of someone else's scrutiny. Recreating herself under Mme Le Clair's tutelage and responding to her criticism had been different. All of those changes had been external. But Lucien's comment struck straight at the most important part of her. It was as though he could actually see her. All the way into her soul. The thought left Tempy feeling exposed, but also truly known, and this shook her. She wavered between fear and exhilaration.

  So Tempy shrugged, mimicking Lucien's telltale movement. She tried to ignore the unfamiliar sensation of being seen when she'd thought herself safely hidden. Then, in a flash of self-awareness, the movement of her shoulders registered with her, and she smiled at her unintentional communion with him.

  When she glanced at Lucien, a smile teased the corners of his mouth. Had he recognized her shrug? Yes. She could read it in his face, and that turned her smile into a grin.

  "I think some of my habits might be rubbing off on you," he said. "I'm not certain that's such a good thing. If we keep this up, soon you'll be habitually drinking whiskey and engaging in fisticuffs."

  Grinning, she rounded on him and jabbed playfully at his ribs.

  Her sudden movement must have taken him by surprise, because he lifted his arm and brushed her blow to one side.

  "Ow!" she cried, more in surprise than in pain.

  Lucien's lighthearted mood fell away. "Did I hurt you? I'm sorry. I didn't even think." He reached out to take her forearm and gently lifted it to examine the spot where his hand had connected with it.

  "It's fine. Really. You just startled me."

  He looked doubtfully at the faint red mark on her pale skin. His thumb brushed across it, but his touch didn't hurt. "I don't feel a welt," he murmured, leaning over to examine it more closely.

  She could feel his breath against her skin, and the warmth from his hands began to spread through her body.

  Or perhaps that was her embarrassment.

  She pulled her arm away, but she regretted it as soon as they broke contact. "I'm fine," she insisted. "Really." She turned around to retrace their steps, moving swiftly away from the fountain, and Lucien kept pace with her.

  "I regret causing you any pain," he said. He took her hand and slid it back around his arm. "If it helps, you can hit me again. I promise not to move."

  Tempy slowed her pace and lowered her brows at him in mock reproach. "I don't think so. Where's the challenge in that? It would be like punchin
g a cow."

  "Done a lot of cow punching, have you?"

  She pushed at his arm, feeling his muscles bunch under his jacket. "Don't tease. You know what I mean."

  They rounded a bend in the path, and Tempy realized they were back in the clearing where they'd eaten dinner. The dishes had been cleared away while they were gone, and the candles guttered.

  "I hadn't realized it was so late," Tempy said. "I should check on Millicent." But she didn't want to leave. Not yet.

  He wore a contemplative expression as he let his gaze wander over the conservatory.

  Tempy took a step closer to him. "If it means anything, I think you made the right decision when you accepted your inheritance. This place suits you. You might not consider yourself the Earl of Cavendish yet, but I think that it won't be long before you find that you're quite comfortable in the role."

  "Perhaps. This should help me adjust," he said, his gesture encompassing the conservatory. "But I don't think I'll ever get used to being addressed as 'my lord.' That seems worlds away from who I am. The upper circles of London society won't readily accept a former casino owner in their midst. Especially since some of them have frequented my establishment for years."

  "Perhaps with the right wife..." She didn't want to continue that thought. She didn't like thinking of him with a perfect young bride on his arm. Would she be an English version of Clarisse?

  "Perhaps." He looked thoughtful.

  She gasped slightly. Had she planted the idea of searching for an appropriate bride in his mind? Someone respectable and from a family that could trace its lineage back generation after generation? Someone who could bring him the connections he needed? And why not? After all, that was the type of wife he needed. "I need to go," she said. "Thank you again."

  She turned and hurried away without giving him a chance to say anything more.

  22 - A Trip Back In Time

  The skies were clear when Lucien trotted downstairs the following morning. Pleasant aromas met him as he entered the breakfast room, enticing him to lift the lids of the silver serving trays and sample their contents. He chose ham, toast, and an interesting-looking concoction of egg, mushroom, and cheese and then turned toward the breakfast table.

  The table was large enough to accommodate many house guests, but Lucien had never sat at it before. After only a brief pause, he took a seat at its head.

  Upon a silver tray sat an envelope with "Lucien" scrawled on the front. He examined it for a moment and then tore it open. He read through the brief note from Millicent. Apparently, she wouldn't be joining them for breakfast. That wasn't good. He needed her to serve as a buffer between him and Tempy.

  Tempy walked in just as he finished reading and he handed her the note. She quickly scanned it. "I stopped by her room," Tempy said. "She's developed a bad head cold, but your housekeeper seems to have things well in hand. She has Millicent on strict bed rest and has prepared a rather pungent-smelling poultice. It's really a shame."

  Lucien frowned. Was she was referring to Millicent's illness or the poultice as a 'shame'? He was about to ask when she continued.

  "I hope she feels better soon." Tempy handed the note back to him and began filling her plate.

  He watched her quick movements as she examined the selection of food. She seemed full of energy this morning. "With Millicent sick, I'm afraid you'll be on your own today. I have an appointment in the village. I'd take you with me, but I'm certain you'd be bored. The meeting should be dull."

  She turned back to the table with a full plate, seemingly unaffected by his comment. "There's no need to worry that I'll be bored in the village. I'm certain I can visit some of the shops or simply look around the area."

  Lucien paused with his forkful of ham halfway to his mouth. He'd wanted her to stay here. Having her along was certain to complicate things. "Are you sure?"

  "I always enjoy exploring new places and meeting new people. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I love the idea."

  Lucien continued to eat as he made adjustments to his plans for the day. He'd hoped to remain anonymous while in Porlock. Would he still be able to do so with Tempy at his side? But then he realized that it didn't matter. He'd much prefer go to the village with Tempy than without her. "We'll take the carriage. Boothby has some errands to run and you, my dear, need to bring Mary along as your chaperone. It wouldn't do for you to be seen in the village alone with me."

  Tempy nodded agreeably.

  "My appointment isn't until one o'clock. If you like, we can leave early so that I can show you around the village first. It will help orient you." He watched her face, waiting to see the pleased expression he anticipated, and she didn't disappoint him.

  "Thank you. I'd appreciate that. Perhaps you can show me where you and your father stayed when you visited."

  Lucien suddenly remembered one of the reasons he hadn't wanted her to come along. He pressed his lips together to keep from frowning at her. "Perhaps. If there's enough time."

  At Tempy's urging, they left within the hour. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and Lucien's anticipation grew.

  The drive to the village took more than a half hour. Lucien sat in the carriage across from Tempy and her maid, and young Boothby sat up top with the driver. On their way, they crossed a low stone bridge. Moss dotted with spring flowers grew both above and below it along the banks of the stream. Tempy looked over the side at the little waterfall that cascaded down the hill toward them. "It's beautiful here. This bridge is quite old, isn't it?"

  "It's known as Robber's Bridge. This area used to have roving bandits. It was dangerous for travelers to come this way."

  "And now?" She glanced suspiciously at the banks of the river, but it was plain that no thieves lurked in the sun-dappled carpet of primroses and bluebells or behind the moss-covered stones.

  "I think we're safe enough," he said, smiling wryly.

  She glanced toward him and caught sight of his smile. "Don't laugh at me," she said in mock offense, grinning. "You know this area better than I do. What was I to think when you called this the Robber's Bridge?"

  Lucien shrugged. The carriage lurched up the hill on the far side of the stream, and Lucien braced his body so he wouldn't topple forward onto Tempy. Not that it might not be pleasant. He glanced at Mary. But it probably wouldn't have a very gratifying result.

  Lucien relaxed, allowing his body to roll with the motion of the carriage as it climbed up the hillside.

  When they arrived in Porlock, Lucien headed for the shops he remembered on High Street. He hoped Tempy would find them so distracting that she'd forget about her desire to learn more about his visits there as a boy.

  Lucien strolled down High Street with Tempy's hand resting on his arm and with Mary trailing behind them. He liked the weight of her hand there. When he glanced over, he saw that Tempy's gaze was darting around as she tried to take in everything.

  Tempy noticed him looking at her. "I had no idea this town would be so pretty," she murmured. "When you called it a village, I expected something quite different. Porlock reminds me of a precious box of chocolates, full of delights."

  He liked her way with words, and he suddenly found himself looking around at the village as well. As they passed a window box full of hyacinths, Lucien inhaled deeply.

  He was immediately transported back to a similar moment twenty years ago when he'd walked this same street with his father. The memory fell upon him complete, and he recalled his enjoyment at spending time with his father and how much he looked forward to seeing the new friends he'd made.

  Most of the boys in the village helped with the swaling as the girls watched from a safe distance. Their full skirts made it too dangerous for them to come near the fire. Even one errant spark could set the fabric ablaze, and with the thick petticoats they all wore, a girl might not realize she was on fire until it was much too late.

  Lucien had made friends with a few of the girls, Rebecca among them. Just like all of the other boys, he'd sh
own off to the onlookers, moving a bit too close to the fire until one of the men shouted at them to back away. The girls laughed at them when they were scolded, but he could also see that they loved the excitement of watching them dodge the flames.

  Not all of the girls felt that way, of course, but enough did that it encouraged the boys to take foolish chances. Rebecca had been one of the few who didn't approve of the game.

  Lucien tensed, as he always did when he thought of Rebecca. There was too much regret in those memories, so he thrust them aside for now.

  "Here's a likely shop," he said, indicating a glass door that had the name No Common Scents painted on it in gold letters. As they entered, a bell jingled to announce them.

  Lucien scanned the store, but saw no one he recognized. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He knew he'd eventually meet someone today who knew him, but he'd prefer the moment not take him by surprise.

  Tempy took a deep breath and her face transformed with delight. "It smells heavenly."

  A shopgirl approached them, and Lucien stepped back to allow Tempy to explore the store on her own. The shopgirl showed Tempy where the bottles of scent were located and also pointed out the large glass jars that contained various blends of flower petals and herbs.

  Tempy drifted slowly past the jars of potpourri as she read the labels, occasionally lifting the glass lid of a jar that intrigued her so that she could take a deep whiff. She seemed to like most of them, although there were a couple that caused her to put the lid back on rather quickly. He noticed her lingering over one in particular before she eventually moved on down the row. After a while, she returned to it again. She motioned Lucien over.

  "Do you like this one?" she asked, raising the lid.

  He leaned toward it, wondering what the mixture of dried flower petals might include. The flowers looked much different in this state than when they were still alive. He sniffed. Lavender? And roses? And what was that spicy note? It reminded him of...cloves. Yes, that was it. It was faint, but he was certain the mixture contained just a hint of cloves. He smiled. The scent Tempy had chosen reminded him of her. Soft, but with a sharp hint of spice. "I like it," he said. "It suits you."