Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  “Did you see her?” James asked, keeping pace with Adam’s long stride down the carpeted hall.

  “I saw her. White tulle over white silk satin, tulip embroidery, a very pricey Worth gown,” Adam brusquely declared. “Empress Eugénie had a similar gown at the Tuileries last spring.”

  “Are you drunk?” James had never heard that clipped curtness.

  “You wouldn’t allow me, if you recall. I’m unfortunately dead sober.” Dammit, she could dance with the smiling, smooth-as-bear-grease Ellis Green all night if she wished, his voice of reason resentfully acknowledged.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Play cards.”

  “I mean about her.”

  “Play cards.”

  “You don’t know what you’re going to do.”

  Adam gave his cousin an ill-tempered glare. “I’m trying to keep my options legal,” he growled.

  Flora danced with a great many men besides Ellis that evening, for she’d been besieged by partners immediately after she’d arrived and with a gracious courtesy had agreed to several of the most ardent requests for a waltz. But she’d kept one eye on the time, and later, when Ellis took his turn again, she suggested they go into the card room to play poker.

  “Poker?” he incredulously asked, gazing down at her upturned face as if she’d asked for a slice of the moon. “It’s not usual for ladies to sit in on the poker games. Wouldn’t you rather play whist?”

  “No,” she sweetly said. “I’d much rather play poker. Papa said the games are exciting.”

  Ellis cleared his throat before replying, his handsome face marred by a faint frown. “The poker games might be a bit too exciting for you, my dear. The stakes are high.”

  “How wonderful,” Flora exclaimed. “Do let’s go in.”

  “Would your father approve?” he sternly inquired.

  “I have my own money, Ellis. He doesn’t have to approve.” Her voice held the smallest hint of exasperation.

  “I see.” Flora’s status as heiress to her mother’s inheritance was common knowledge. And Yankee shipping fortunes had reached fantastic heights during the Civil War. “Regardless of your independence,” he persisted, “if your father knew, I’m sure he wouldn’t like you to risk such a large amount of your money.”

  “But that’s why it’s my money, Ellis, so I can do with it as I wish,” Flora carefully enunciated as if his understanding were defective. “I want to play.” She abruptly stopped dancing.

  “If you insist, Lady Flora,” he rather stiffly declared. “But I warn you, it’s most irregular. And Harold dislikes ladies in his games.”

  “Harold seemed so sweet,” Flora theatrically cooed, ignoring Ellis’s added effort to dissuade her, immune to his Southern notions of female nicety. “Why don’t we find out if he’ll let little ol’ me play a hand or so?”

  George Bonham had joined Adam earlier in the evening, but it was near midnight when Flora walked into the card room with Ellis Green and, on reaching the poker table, said with a dazzling smile for the players at large, “Would you mind if I sat in on the next hand?”

  Harold Fisk, who decried women players, stumbled over himself finding a comfortable chair for Flora. She smiled up at him as she seated herself in a froth of white tulle and embroidered scarlet tulips, touched his chin lightly with her folded fan, and offered him a beguiling look of helplessness. “I’m looking forward to playing with you, Mr. Fisk. I hear you’re one of the best.”

  A clear score for the lady, Adam dryly thought. Harold Fisk had forgotten he was married by the time she’d finished talking.

  “What are we playing?” Flora sweetly inquired, her violet gaze sweeping around the table with guileless innocence. Slipping her ivory-and-lace fan off her wrist, she placed it on the table and minutely adjusted the fluff of tulle on her upper arm—a sensuous, personal gesture guaranteed to draw every man’s eyes. Her superb shoulders and arms gleamed in the lamplight. Her breasts rose in luscious splendor above the low neckline of her gown, the satiny flesh framed in frothy ribboned tulle like lush presents to the eye.

  “Whatever game you prefer, my lady,” Harold quickly replied, trying not to stare at her luminous, half-naked breasts.

  “Hmmm.” She looked over to Ellis, who had pulled up a chair behind her. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Why not simple draw? It won’t be too complicated.”

  “Would that be all right with everyone?” She’d infused her voice with a small-girl breathiness that had every man at the table leaning forward in fascination.

  Well, almost every man. Adam lounged back in his chair, his dark eyes cool, while Lord Haldane considered he’d be lucky to break even now that Flora had taken her place at the table. She’d surpassed him in skill as a gamester long before she’d given up her schoolgirl braids.

  Flora played an abstemious game for the first three hands, losing a little money, only seeing the bet, never raising, taking measure of the individual players, learning their style of play. When Ellis leaned forward to give her advice on occasion, she always thanked him prettily and played the cards he’d suggested. When she asked for a glass of champagne, several of the men who were crowded round the table to watch the game jumped to oblige her.

  She drank down two of the many glasses that appeared at her elbow and then, with a small, quirked smile one could misconstrue as tipsy if one wished, said, “I’m feeling particularly lucky tonight. I think I might bet slightly more this time.” With a feigned casualness she placed her cards facedown on the table so Ellis could no longer see them.

  She raised the already substantial bet by threefold, looked round the table with a wide-eyed innocence at the shock appearing on the faces of some of her opponents, and winsomely inquired of those rich merchants of Helena registering degrees of astonishment, “Is that too much?”

  “Of course not, my dear,” Harold Fisk quickly retorted. “But we wouldn’t want you to lose too heavily.”

  “Oh, Papa doesn’t mind how I spend my money, do you, darling?” she sweetly said, her opulent eyes lucid and clear as they met her father’s.

  “I don’t mind at all, dear,” the earl tolerantly replied, “but my hand won’t qualify for this rich a round. I’m out.”

  Faced with the option of losing a large sum of money to a flirtatious beauty, two other players also folded.

  “I’ll stay,” Harold Fisk gruffly said, “and raise you five thousand more.” His hand merited a run for the stakes, anyway; he had a full house.

  “I’ll raise you ten thousand more,” Adam quietly said, pushing his chips toward the pile in the center of the table.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have that much in front of me. Could I have some paper?” Flora asked.

  Ellis leaned forward and whispered at length into her ear while she gave every appearance of listening. And then she whispered back, her brief reply leaving the young Kentuckian purse-lipped.

  Seconds later a pen, ink, and paper appeared on a silver tray, and Flora wrote a few short words, folded the paper in two, and said, “I’ll see you and raise twenty thousand more.” She was holding a four, all aces. She could be beat only with a royal flush.

  A small gasp went up around the table.

  “I fold,” Harold swiftly declared, understanding one rarely bluffed for that amount of money.

  “Twenty thousand,” Adam softly murmured, glancing at his chips, assessing their value. Then, reaching for the writing instruments, he inscribed swiftly, the pen scratching across the slip of paper. “I’ll see that and raise you five thousand.”

  A low murmur of shock trembled in the air as many of those observing considered the lady had taken on more than was judicious. Ellis leaned forward despite his pursed lips, intent on averting disaster.

  Their whispered conversation was inaudible, his words only a low rumble, her sibilant murmur accompanied by arched brows, a faint smile, and a small brushing-away movement of her hand. After which Ellis abruptly rose from h
is chair, his expression resentful, and shouldering his way through the crowd of spectators, stalked away.

  “Lovers’ quarrel?” Adam silkily inquired.

  “It seems so,” Flora pleasantly replied, not inclined to rise to the query in his tone. “Just a small misunderstanding,” she dulcetly added. “I’ll see your bet and raise you ten thousand,” she mildly went on, writing a chit for the balance and placing it on the pile.

  “I’ll see your ten,” Adam calmly replied, adding his chit to the bet, “and call.”

  Flora laid her cards on the table in a slow sweeping motion, the four aces bright-colored on the green baize.

  “That’s too good for my hand,” Adam blandly declared, burying his cards in the deck.

  The smile she cast him held an irritating triumph. “Thank you, Mr. Serre, for such a profitable evening.”

  “And thank you for the entertainment,” he replied with an urbane smile. She was beautiful, graceful, aristocratic. And wholly sensual.

  “You’re very welcome,” she said, sweeping the chips toward her. “Cards can be entertaining.”

  “That too of course,” he softly said.

  She looked up, her gaze suspicious. “Would you care to share your mystifying inference, Mr. Serre?”

  “Not at the moment,” he tranquilly replied, surveying the standing crowd surrounding the table, “but I was wondering if you’d care to play another hand, Lady Flora, say, for fifty thousand this time?”

  Sitting back in her chair, she cast him a searching look. “That’s a sizable amount. Do you feel your luck has changed?”

  He shrugged and smiled. “Or yours, perhaps. You can’t always win.”

  “But I usually do.”

  He rather thought she did after watching her expert play, but then again, so did he. “Well?” he succinctly queried, his lounging pose, his bland gaze, the insolent curve of his smile bold with challenge.

  She looked to no one for confirmation or advice but returned his unruffled gaze and said, “Why not?”

  Adam scanned the players seated round the table. “Is anyone else interested?” The expressions of blankness and demur greeting him needed no further interpretation. His eyes met Flora’s. “We seem to be alone.”

  His voice held a curious intimacy in the midst of the hovering crowd, reminding Flora of the first time they’d met at a similar social gathering. “It appears so,” she said, sweeping over the rows of spectators with a swift glance. “Figuratively speaking,” she added in a hushed undertone.

  Adam quelled the urge to respond to her intimation, when he restlessly wished to lift her over the table and carry her away through the pressing throng. “You’ve been practicing on Ellis,” he smoothly said instead, curbing his rash impulses, the pitch of his voice low, like hers, so their conversation remained private.

  “I don’t need practice,” she coolly murmured, reacting to his suave insolence. “Are we going to play, Mr. Serre, or discuss your views on women?”

  “Why don’t we play?” He pronounced the verb with a delicate inference.

  Flora smiled. “Are you asking, Mr. Serre?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “It depends on my schedule.”

  “Are you heavily booked?” A small heat infused his voice.

  “I’d have to check,” she nonchalantly replied, beginning to unbutton her glove, determined to resist such casual intent. “But right now I’m interested in winning some of your money,” she added in a conversational tone. “Could we have a new deck of cards?”

  “Keep me in mind when you arrange your schedule,” Adam murmured.

  “You’re on the list and I’ve a very good memory.” She smiled at him over her gloved fingertips. “Now, are we playing or are we going to continue debating in this extremely public venue?”

  “Your servant, mademoiselle.” And then in a normal tone of voice he queried his host, “Could we have a fresh pack of cards for the lady and some markers?”

  As they waited for a servant to bring over new cards and markers, Flora finished unbuttoning her gloves. Sliding the soft white kid down her arms, she tugged her fingers loose, then pulled the delicate leather free. Her movements were slow, leisurely, unmarred by any show of nerves, and every man, watching with rapt attention, admired the languorous unveiling of her satiny flesh.

  Watching with an equally approving gaze, Adam wondered how often she’d used that maneuver to advantage while playing cards. There wasn’t a man who was concentrating on the game. “You won’t be too cold now?” Adam said with a faint smile.

  Her glance met his in brief understanding, but her voice when she spoke was as mild as his. “I find it easier to deal without gloves.”

  Since only two were playing, one of them would have to deal.

  The new cards arrived; Harold unwrapped the deck and dealt a card faceup to each of them.

  Adam had a jack.

  Flora a deuce.

  Low-card deals.

  Picking up the deck, Flora shuffled with facile ease, the cards a blur of color in her hands, and everyone watching realized no little skill was needed to gain that degree of proficiency.

  When she’d finished, she handed the deck to Adam. Every player had the right to shuffle, and for fifty thousand dollars she was sure he would.

  The pack seemed to disappear for a moment in his large palm, and then the cards slid to the tips of his fingers and he fanned them in a ruffled, glossy flux, flipped them over with a fingertip, racked them together with his other hand, and slid them back. Lapsed time, five seconds.

  Since the dealer shuffles last, Flora briskly snapped the cards together in a pliant flutter, evened the edges, and set the deck in the middle of the table for Adam to cut. Then she dealt them five cards.

  Looking briefly at his cards, Adam put them facedown on the table. “No cards,” he said without expression, and slid the fifty-thousand ante forward.

  “None for me,” Flora agreed, and a buzz of speculation burst from the massed viewers. Could they both be bluffing? With fifty thousand on the table? Or was it possible they could have been dealt hands worth that kind of money? “I’ll see that,” Flora declared, oblivious to whispered comment around her, pleased with her cards, looking forward to winning more of Adam’s money. She held a full house, three kings and two aces. Her very good hand and the taste of victory inspired a mad, self-indulgent impulse. “Would you be interested in a small side bet?” she softly queried, her violet eyes touched with a capricious audacity.

  “Of course.” No hesitation, an adventuresome glint in his dark eyes.

  Flora pulled a slip of paper from the silver salver, dipped the pen into the crystal inkwell, and wrote briefly. Folding the paper, she handed it to him.

  He read: My room for twenty-four hours. Winner’s rules.

  The thought of being locked away with the lush Lady Flora almost brought a smile to his face, and if a hundred thousand hadn’t been riding on his cards, he would have given in to his urge. Reaching for the paper and pen, his face impassive, he murmured, “I’ll see that and raise the side bet.” He swiftly scrawled: My room for forty-eight hours. No rules.

  He pushed the folded slip of paper across the green baize tabletop.

  When Flora read his words, a small heat raced through her blood—no rules, two days of untrammeled sex … an enticing fantasy. “Do you always raise?” Flora queried, no hint of her feelings in her voice.

  “Only when it’s worth my while,” Adam said as calmly.

  She placed her cards down one at a time, a formidable array of colorful face cards. “I’ll call,” she asserted, sweet victory within grasp.

  “I’ve two pairs.”

  “Not enough, Mr. Serre, I’m sorry.” Her smile was luxurious with satisfaction. “You owe me now.” And she reached for the pile of chips.

  But as he laid his cards down, a suppressed murmur rippled through the ranks of spectators.

  She looked up.

  Two matching pair—four
deuces—were strung out in a neat row on the far side of the table. “You lose,” Adam gently said, leaning forward, covering her hands with his, arresting her actions, the chips she’d been gathering tumbling into disarray. “Room twenty-eight,” he said very, very softly so that his voice wouldn’t carry. “Anytime tonight will be fine.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered in shocked accents.

  His brows rose and his hands over hers tightened their grip.

  “I mean tonight …,” she stammered. “I don’t know …”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said with a smile. Releasing her hands, he leaned back in his chair and in a conversational tone added, “I appreciate the opportunity to play with someone of your competence, Lady Flora.”

  “It was interesting, Mr. Serre,” she neutrally replied.

  “Perhaps we could schedule a rematch soon,” he proposed, his message plain.

  “As soon as possible, Monsieur le Comte,” she replied with a small heated emphasis that wasn’t completely due to nettled pique at his insistence.

  “I hope you don’t keep me waiting too long,” he smoothly murmured, sliding the four deuces together and slipping them into his pocket.

  “I’ll see what I can arrange.”

  He stood, then, as though he had a demanding engagement to meet and bowed to Flora with fluid grace. “Until we meet again, my lady,” he gallantly said, taller than the other men surrounding him, more handsome than a dozen of them together, dark, predacious power in evening dress. Nodding to the other players, he said to his host, “I’ll pick up my winnings later,” and walked away, the mass of onlookers falling back before him with that awe displayed toward those of extraordinary good fortune.

  Although Flora was in that rarefied company as well. She’d won $120,000 tonight. And provided she could arrange her schedule, the prospect of forty-eight hours with Adam Serre held gratifying promise.

  Her hands were trembling slightly as she gathered her chips, anticipation fluttering through her senses. Adam Serre had a special gift with women, a virtuoso talent in giving pleasure and a libido capable of sustaining his unbridled desires.