by Diane Gaston
The East India man huffed in disapproval. Emily ignored it, feeling an anger building in her so fiercely, she thought she might plant her husband a facer, pop his cork, draw some claret.
How dare he look at Lady Widow in this…this leering sort of way, when in his own home, he did not look at her at all? Is this what he was about when he went out at night? Was he jauntering through the London hells, searching for just such a creature as Lady Widow? A woman he might dally with? Goodness knows, he had no wish to dally with his wife.
Her throat constricted and a bitter taste filled her mouth. Why could he not look at Emily in that manner? Why could he not look at her? The jelly her insides had become now solidified into sharp-edged steel.
If her husband so desired Lady Widow, Lady Widow would lead him a merry dance. She would entice him and tease him. She would become everything he fancied. She would lead him to the brink and then she would push him over so hard, he would be knocked out of his senses. And when Lady Widow left him, he would know exactly what he had lost.
She leaned towards him to make sure he appreciated the low cut of the gold silk gown Hester had transformed. She lifted her hand and ran her finger slowly down his arm. He responded. His eyes darkened. Colour infused his face. His posture changed.
She smiled. ‘Your company, sir, would give me great pleasure.’
Taking his arm, she pressed her bosom into his side as she’d seen Madame Bisou do to Robert. He escorted her to the supper room, leaving Sir Reginald and the East India man to trail behind like two baby ducklings. Sloane glared at her from across the room.
Guy’s gaze feasted upon the woman seated across from him in the supper room, his blood coursing through his veins. She had certainly roused his senses.
When he’d seen her stride gracefully across the room, her chin had been elevated regally. Her hips swayed gently. She’d moved with the knowledge that every man in that room wanted her in bed with him.
God help him, Guy was no exception. No wonder Sir Reginald was besotted. Guy was somewhat shocked that he’d reacted so physically. Every sense in his body was aroused. Every one.
Why her? He had certainly encountered other beautiful women on occasion. What was it about this one that stirred him so?
He had an uncanny notion he ought to know her, but that was nonsense. Surely he would remember. Lady Widow, masked or unmasked, could not be a female to forget. Still, the feeling of familiarity nagged at him.
She flirted openly with him, batting her eyelashes, touching his arm, pressing her knee against his. He was not immune. No, she’d whipped him into a vortex of sexual desire the likes of which he had not known since before he’d reached his majority.
When a droplet of wine rested on her lip and she slowly licked it off with her pink tongue, he was struck again with the feeling he’d seen this before, and reacted as strongly. At least the notion distracted him from his sudden raw sexual need.
‘Why have you come to Madame Bisou’s, Lord Keating?’ she asked, music in her voice. ‘To sample her lovely girls?’
He swallowed some wine. ‘To play cards.’
‘Indeed?’ Her eyes widened from under her mask. ‘That is why I attend as well. To play.’ She paused and gave him a saucy look. ‘Play cards, that is.’ She was a seductress all right.
She swept her gaze over the other gentlemen at the table, lighting upon Sir Reginald, who puffed up like a rooster about to crow. ‘The gentlemen here are not very good players, I fear.’ Her eyes, looking golden like her dress, glittered with amusement. ‘I seem to win almost every game I play. Perhaps you wish to partner me? You will win, too.’
He took another sip of wine, a bit wary of the effect she had on him. ‘If you wish it.’
Her smile widened, and she shifted her attention to one of the other gentleman sitting with them, asking him something about trade with India.
A few minutes later, she declared supper over, and all the gentlemen rose in unison. Lucky Sir Reginald had the pleasure of escorting her back to the card room. Guy took up the rear.
He regarded her more dispassionately, an easier task with her back turned, even though that view of her was delightful as well. She flirted with him quite blatantly. Did he wish for a dalliance? Lord knew, he ached for release. Lady Widow was more temptation than his imagination could have conjured up, and he’d not lain with a woman since that night with his wife.
His wife. Emily, alone at home in bed. Always alone. And her husband could do nothing to bring enjoyment into her life, as her brother had so briefly done. Never her husband.
Lady Widow turned around, as if checking to be sure he followed her, smiling when she saw he did. Damn him, he could easily be hooked.
He blew out the breath he’d not been aware of holding. He had no intention of being unfaithful to his wife, no matter how much temptation a masked lady might be. Even if she could never discover it, his conscience would never allow him. He’d betrayed his wife enough.
Lady Widow led him to a table, directing him to be her partner and designating Sir Reginald and another man as their opponents. They all scurried to do her bidding, like bees buzzing around their queen.
She pointedly favoured Guy with her coy glances and flirtatious banter throughout the game. As she’d predicted, Sir Reginald and the other gentleman played like simpletons, putting down high trumps when low ones would do or leading with suits they knew she’d held. Lady Widow squealed becomingly at every trick she won. She grinned when the losing team pushed their counters to her side.
Guy gave Sir Reginald an amused glance. He’d watched Sir Reginald partner Emily in whist and knew the man to be a crack player. The love-struck old fool was merely tossing away money. Sir Reginald was a nodcock for letting his funds dribble through his fingers. He’d be better off playing at a high-stakes table and winning the fortune he said would entice the lady. The man could do it. He and Emily had been formidable opponents.
Sir Reginald and Emily.
Guy’s head snapped up. He stared at Lady Widow as she regarded the hand she’d just been dealt. She tapped the cards against her fingertips, then snapped the cards into place exactly like a practised gamester.
Exactly like Emily. Guy’s heart thudded in his chest. Could it be?
She looked up. He quickly averted his gaze for the moment, arranging his own hand. As the round commenced, he watched her carefully. When the cards were in play, her face held no expression. No smile, no frown, no clue to what she really thought or felt.
How many times had he seen that same lack of expression? Certainly in that game of whist more than a fortnight ago. He’d not thought about it, but, then, he’d glimpsed the same lack of expression every day when he said good morning at the breakfast sideboard.
By God, she was Emily. Lady Widow was Emily.
‘Your turn, Keating,’ Sir Reginald said.
He quickly put down a trump, winning the hand.
The game was theirs. Lady Widow’s face lit with delight. ‘Oh, thank you, Lord Keating! We have won again!’ Smiling, she leaned over the table and scooped up the counters, giving all the gentlemen a good glimpse of her décolletage. ‘Did I not tell you I always win?’
He wanted to throw his coat over her chest. This woman was nothing like his wife, but she was Emily all the same. He was very certain. ‘Indeed you did, my lady,’ he replied.
‘You must play with me some more,’ she teased, her eyes filling with mischief.
Would Emily speak so provocatively? No, she would not, but he heard the words coming from her mouth. ‘The night is merely beginning,’ he said.
She grinned wickedly at him. ‘Do you mean to say you wish to spend the whole of the night with me, Lord Keating? I assure you, sir, other gentlemen will wish their turn.’
His body lit like a rushlight touched to flame, the heat of raw carnal desire. But before he went completely up in flames, he struggled to consider that this wife of his now spoke like a skilled coquette. What games was she playing
here besides whist? Nothing yet, if Sir Reginald’s tale of a wager was true.
By God, these gentlemen were wagering on bedding his wife! He had half a mind to call them all out. He had half a mind to drag her away from this place this very moment. Drag her to his bedchamber at least.
That would not answer, however, no matter how much he craved it. What was she doing here? Why was she dressed in this disguise? Why was she flirting with every man in the place—even her husband?
He’d never discover her purpose by prematurely tipping his hand. She did not know he recognised her. She believed he thought her to be Lady Widow. He could play along for a while, until he found out exactly what she was up to. And, by God, he would be here every night to make sure none of these men collected on that wager.
After winning the next game, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head and declaring she must retire for the night. All three men jumped to their feet as she rose from her chair, Guy included.
‘Now, I do not need all three of you to escort me to the door, do I?’ She swept her gaze over the three of them, letting it light on Guy longer than the others. ‘I pick…Sir Reginald!’
‘Delighted. Delighted.’ Sir Reginald nearly knocked over his chair to give her his arm.
Guy’s fingers curled into fists. By God, he didn’t care if Sir Reginald was on the far side of fifty and an old friend of his father’s, the man was asking for a duel if he led Guy’s wife to a room above stairs.
Trying to appear calm, Guy wandered over to the door a bit behind Sir Reginald and his wife. If they turned to the stairway leading above, Guy would not be far behind.
None other than Cyprian Sloane waylaid him.
‘No need to draw daggers, Keating,’ Sloane said, sounding as slippery a cad as ever. ‘She’ll allow Sir Reginald help her with her cloak and walk her to her hack. Nothing more. He’s no rival.’
What the devil was that fellow doing here? ‘Sloane,’ Guy said, pushing towards the doorway. ‘Didn’t know you were in town.’
As he reached the hallway, Sir Reginald’s voice sounded from down in the hall. Guy heard the front door open and close. Apparently Sloane had been correct. Guy bit down on a relieved sigh and leaned against the wall.
Sloane, who had followed him, eyed him curiously. Of all people, why should Sloane show up here? He’d been in Bath, and here he was again. Was this an accident? Had Emily come to meet Sloane in this place? She’d hardly given him a glance, however. Or was that because her husband had walked in the door?
‘Have a drink with me,’ Sloane said, bending his head to the supper room.
Guy’s eyes narrowed slightly. What better way to discover what kind of fast shuffle the man was playing with Guy’s wife?
The supper room was nearly empty. They sat at a secluded table where no one would overhear their conversation. Sloane ordered whisky for them both. After the pretty maid delivered it, Guy sipped and waited.
Sloane lifted his glass as if in a toast. ‘Congratulations, Keating. You seem to have won the regard of our Lady Widow. I commend you.’
Guy gave Sloane a shrug. ‘What concern is this of yours?’
‘I lay claim to her. I saw her first.’ Sloane’s voice dropped into a more menacing tone. ‘Consider yourself informed.’
‘Indeed?’ Guy kept his cards close to his chest, but he certainly did so with effort. ‘She has your carte blanche?’
Sloane did not break off his gaze, but Guy perceived a fleeting look of uncertainty there. ‘Not quite.’ Sloane paused before continuing, ‘She’s a wily creature, Keating. Not an easy win. I intend to be the first to bed her, however.’
Guy nearly rose from his chair to plant his fist in Sloane’s face. With difficulty he adopted a calm demeanour. Could Sloane indeed not know he was speaking of bedding Guy’s wife?
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Guy asked casually.
Sloane took a swig of his drink. ‘Damned if I know,’ he said. ‘Maybe to make the game more challenging. No cards hidden.’
‘The game?’
Sloane smiled. ‘The game of who wins the lady. Have you put your wager in the betting book? Stakes are at four thousand, I believe.’
Guy’s fingers squeezed the glass in his hand. This was his wife Sloane spoke of! His wife the men had bet on! He silently fought for control. They could not know Lady Widow was his wife. Even a man like Sloane would not speak in this manner to a husband of his wife.
Guy believed he discovered the gentlemen’s interest in Lady Widow, but he still did not know why Emily engaged in this masquerade. He’d discover nothing if he unleashed his temper. ‘Who the devil is she, anyway?’ he asked instead.
Sloane’s brows rose. ‘No one knows. Makes the game more interesting. The winner removes the mask!’
Guy let that one pass.
Sloane glared at him. ‘The point is, Keating, I claim her. I aim to win. Do not waste your money on this wager. She’s mine.’
No, Guy thought. She’s mine.
The air vibrated with tension. The two men stared each other down, like two Captain Sharps, each daring the other to accuse him of playing a dirty game.
Guy figuratively threw in a stack of coins. ‘Seems to me the lady decides,’ he said. ‘You play your cards, Sloane, and I’ll play mine. We’ll see whose hand wins the lady.’
Guy would play his hand, yes, indeed. He’d return to Madame Bisou’s, every night if necessary, until he discovered why his wife came there in a mask, flirting like a demi-rep. He’d return to make certain Sloane failed in his plan to entice Lady Widow into his bed. He’d return to make sure all of them failed.
No one would bed Lady Widow. No one save her husband.
Chapter Ten
Emily slept late the next morning. Or rather, she remained abed, until certain her husband would not be about. It was his habit to go out in the morning, off on some jaunt in town. Perhaps he’d go to White’s to boast of meeting Lady Widow.
She rolled onto her side, hugging her pillow. Silly. No one would speak of Lady Widow at White’s. Lady Widow’s renown confined itself to one gaming hell. Not very auspicious fame, but more than Emily had expected to experience. She had aimed merely to be considered above reproach in every quarter. Ironic that by being Lady Widow she risked every shred of her reputation. Emily would be mortified if discovered.
But even her husband had not known her. Lady Widow’s mask proved to be an effective shield. She could say and do as she pleased.
Even flirt with her husband, if she chose to.
Emily sat up and pressed her fingers to her temple. Why had he, of all gentlemen, walked into Madame Bisou’s? It changed everything. She must not allow him to ruin her plans. She would make sport of him instead, show him how his desires could be shattered just as easily as hers…
She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. No, she must not admit to any foolish notion that she’d hoped for anything more from her marriage besides an escape from her parents. She’d known from the beginning it was a marriage of convenience. She merely had not known that the convenience her husband sought was a fortune to gamble away. She’d thought he sought an heir.
What a lovely idea. A baby. A robust boy with hair as dark as mahogany and eyes as blue as the sea. She sunk her head to her knees. This was indeed foolish in the extreme. Her husband avoided her bed. There would be no baby from this marriage.
Do not think of that, she scolded herself. Think of how he looked upon Lady Widow. Think of the sweet revenge when she spurns him.
The clock struck noon. Had she ever stayed in bed this long? Dragging herself from beneath the covers, she summoned Hester to help her dress.
‘You have slept late, my lady,’ Hester remarked.
‘I was out very late.’
Would not Hester’s eyes grow round as saucers if Emily told her the disguise she’d fashioned worked so effectively that Emily’s own husband did not know her?
She and Hester had created a more dazz
ling creature. Lady Widow made his eyes glitter with desire. The reprobate.
‘Did you win the card game?’ Hester asked.
Oh, she’d won more than a card game. She’d won the favour of Lord Keating himself.
‘Of course I won.’ Emily opened a drawer and removed four shillings, dropping them into the maid’s palm.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Hester curtsied and, with a wide grin, thrust the coins in a pocket of her apron.
‘And your brother received his share as well.’
Still beaming, Hester skipped over to the wardrobe. ‘What dress today, ma’am?’
Lady Widow would undoubtedly have picked something bright and gay, but Emily Keating owned nothing of that description. ‘My green and brown stripe, I suppose.’ The stripe was about as dashing as ever-so-proper Emily Keating could manage, which was to say, not at all.
Hester helped her into the dress, tying the laces in the back. The looking glass reflected back a drab young woman in a drab outfit. Emily sighed. It really was much more fun to dress in something like the gold confection that had captivated her husband the night before. For the first time Emily appreciated her mother’s madness for the latest fashions.
Hester arranged her hair in a simple knot on top of her head. Emily wondered how Lady Widow would wear her hair if she went without her hat?
Probably in a becoming cascade of curls.
When she finished dressing, Emily made her way down the stairs. As she reached the first floor, the Dowager Lady Keating called from the drawing room, ‘Is that you?’
Not, ‘Is that you, Emily?’, which would make some sense, but, ‘Is that you?’, which avoided using her name, and could be answered affirmatively by anyone.
She took a deep breath. ‘It is Emily.’
Her mother-in-law appeared at the drawing-room door. ‘You slept the morning, did you not?’
‘My apologies, Lady Keating. Did you require me?’
Lady Keating walked back into the drawing room, no doubt expecting Emily to follow. ‘I have several calls to make and I need someone to accompany me. I hope you do not have plans.’