Falling for Chloe

by Farr, Diane

  The game of piquet proved incomprehensible, but no matter. It was the other game being played that truly interested Chloe. That game she was able to decipher, she thought, fairly well. Tish was in a continual flutter of nervous exhilaration, betrayed by her high color and breathless laughter as she declared her points and played her cards. It seemed to Chloe that Tish played very carelessly. She had eyes only for her partner, and scarcely glanced at the hands she was dealt. It seemed that, to Tish, the chief purpose served by a rubber of piquet was that it made an excellent excuse to spend time with Lord Rival.

  Lord Rival, on the other hand, was smooth, imperturbable, and largely unreadable. Chloe wondered if this reticence was for her benefit. It seemed to puzzle Tish, and even provoke her to more extravagant displays of flirting, as if she were desperately trying to engage his interest. Chloe blushed for her friend’s pathetic eagerness. Every so often Lord Rival would shoot Tish a secretive smile or make a suggestive comment, but Chloe formed the distinct impression that he was offering these sops to Tish’s vanity in the hope that they would soothe her into more circumspect behavior. He seemed all too aware of Chloe’s presence as an observer, and she was sure her assumption of placid oblivion to their undergame did not fool him for an instant. He knew exactly why she was there, and which game she was watching.

  Six hands were dealt and played, with the deal alternating between Lord Rival and Tish. Chloe could not follow the play at all, but it was clear that Tish had lost all but one hand. At the end of the sixth game, Lord Rival scooped up the cards with a fluid, practiced movement and offered Tish a tender smile.

  "I make it 317. My sweet, your friend will think I have taken shameless advantage of you."

  Tish giggled and tossed her head. "Nonsense, my lord! Chloe knows me too well. I do not regard a few losses at piquet, I assure you."

  "Shall we play again? The cards were favoring you toward the end, I think. Perhaps your luck has changed."

  Tish shot him a provocative glance from beneath her lashes. "Since I met you, George, I feel sure it has," she murmured daringly.

  It was all Chloe could do to keep from shaking Tish. But Lord Rival’s eyes were upon her, so she quelled her irritation with an effort.

  "What say you, Miss Littlefield? Can you bear it if we play another round?"

  She saw the amusement in his dark eyes, heard the mockery in his voice. A surge of dislike rose up to choke her, but she managed to smile brightly. "I am finding the game most interesting, my lord."

  She did not mean piquet.

  "You surprise me. I had thought it impossible to learn so complicated a game by simply watching others play it. The best way to learn is to practice it yourself—with an experienced partner, of course."

  Chloe glanced at him again, her eyes narrowing in sudden suspicion. What game did he mean? Sure enough, the amusement in his eyes was meant for her to see. You clever devil, she thought. Every sentence you utter has a double meaning.

  She lifted a brow, then smiled blandly at him again. "But you play with such skill, my lord. It is an education merely to observe you."

  He chuckled. "I own, I am held to be something of a master."

  "My unfortunate friend is no match for you, sir," she said quietly. "You ought to spare her, and seek a more worthy opponent."

  Tish cried out at this. "I protest, my play is not contemptible! George, why do you not defend me?"

  "You play very well, cherie. But Miss Littlefield correctly divines that you have not bested me yet." He ran the cards absently through his hands, rhythmically shuffling them, his eyes resting thoughtfully on Chloe. "What a pity that you have not yet learned the game, Miss Littlefield. I feel sure you have a natural aptitude."

  Chloe could not suppress a flash of vexation. "You are wrong," she told him crisply. "I detest games. Of all sorts."

  His shoulders shook with soundless laughter. "Then you haven’t played the right game yet. When you find one that seizes your interest, and are finally matched with an opponent worthy of you, you will become as obsessed as any gambler."

  Tish laughed. "Oh, not Chloe! She is far too levelheaded."

  Lord Rival’s eyes never left Chloe’s. Up went the eyebrow. Down went the mouth. "We all lose our heads at least once in our lives." He leaned slightly toward Chloe again, and she felt her cheeks grow hot. "The day it happens to you, Miss Littlefield, I hope I will be there to see it."

  His voice was low, teasing, and intimate. It made her feel as helpless and angry as a beetle pinned to a card. Once again, he had flustered her to the point where she could think of nothing to say. She was caught in a confusing swirl of fury and attraction. Impossible to like this horrible man! But equally impossible to resist his peculiar charm. It made a lady want to slap him, kiss him, do something that would break through that wall of cool mockery.

  Whatever questionable enjoyment the evening had held was over for Chloe. She had to endure another hour of watching Tish’s wretched cardplay, and Lord Rival making a May game of her. Chloe was stunned to learn, going home in the Dalrymples’ carriage, that Tish had lost several hundred pounds to him that night.

  "Tish, no! It is—it is wanton!" gasped Chloe.

  Tish tossed her head and pouted. "Pshaw! I’m sure Robert loses far more than that at his wretched club."

  "But—but—what is the point of it all? What does such a vast sum purchase? Merely an hour or two of entertainment?"

  "Chloe, you don’t understand. One must play. One simply must! It’s the done thing. And often the cards run the other way, you know, so that it evens out in the end."

  Chloe pressed her gloved hands together tightly to keep from saying something she feared she would regret. The idea that Tish would blithely hand over hundreds of pounds to Lord Rival, of all people, was more disturbing to her than she could possibly express. It seemed an enormous sum to Chloe, and she was absolutely certain that there was something wicked, something dishonorable, about a man winning that much money from a reckless, infatuated girl whose level of skill was far beneath his.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning, Mr. Gilliland received a note. It appeared to have been written in the throes of agitation and with a very bad pen. The author had plainly written in haste, had employed frequent underlining and multiple exclamation points to disastrous effect, and had then completed the missive’s annihilation by folding it repeatedly into a tiny square without giving it a chance to dry. What reached Gil was a muddy and blotted bit of creased foolscap which would, to any other eyes, have conveyed no information whatsoever. Gil, however, had received similar billets in the past. Although the text was completely illegible, he knew an urgent summons from Chloe Littlefield when he saw one.

  He immediately called for his curricle and arrived at the Dalrymples’ door at what was, for him, a painfully early hour. The flicker of a curtain on the first floor caught his eye, telling him that he had been impatiently awaited. It was with a sense of foreboding that he strode, a few moments later, into his sister’s morning room to meet Chloe.

  He checked on the threshold. His jaw dropped.

  A vision of loveliness in which he, with difficulty, recognized his childhood playmate rose from a sofa near the fire and ran toward him.

  "Gil, for heaven’s sake! What took you so long?" the vision cried. "Tish may return at any moment!"

  Miss Littlefield was garbed in a dainty morning dress of white muslin trimmed with fluttering sky-blue ribbons and flounces of lace. It was the first time in their adult lives that Gil had seen Chloe wearing a garment that actually fit her. He had always known that the clothes made for her by Gertrude Tewksbury were unflattering, but until this moment he had not comprehended the enormity of what he now perceived was almost criminal incompetence. Miss Tewksbury, accommodating the fullness of Chloe’s breasts, had somehow metastasized the feature into a general impression of plumpness. She had taken Chloe’s petite and fairy-like form and rendered it merely short.

  One had always rea
lized Chloe was pretty, of course, despite her disfiguring wardrobe. One had simply assumed that her style did not appeal to one personally. It was a shock to see good old Chloe revealed as an exquisite and enchanting creature who definitely appealed to a man’s baser nature. She looked adorable. Flaxen ringlets clustered becomingly round her seraphic countenance in a way that somehow, inexplicably, drew attention to the sweetness of her mouth. Gil had never looked twice at Chloe’s mouth before. Now he found himself tempted to stare at it. Most unsettling.

  She must have noticed his stunned expression, for she halted in mid-stride, her china-blue eyes wide. "What is it, Gil?"

  He found it necessary to clear his throat before speaking. "Nothing," he stammered. "You look . . . you look different."

  It was an idiotic thing to say, and probably rude as well, but Chloe correctly interpreted it as a compliment. She added to his stupefaction by beaming radiantly at him. "It’s my new clothes," she confided. As if he didn’t know. "But that’s neither here nor there! I must tell you immediately what I learned last night, and I am in such a quake for fear Tish will return before I—hist! What’s that?"

  Chloe darted to the window, giving Gil a chance to admire the gracefulness of her movements, the pretty back of her modish gown, and the winsome way her curls tumbled down between her shoulders. He was moved to exclaim, "I say, Clo, that frock is slap up to the echo! Never knew you could look so well."

  "Thank you," she said absently. She was peering intently down at the street. "Tish has gone to buy ribbons to match the silk we bought yesterday, but I told her I had the headache. I don’t suppose she will be gone much longer. That is not her carriage, thank Heaven!"

  "Well, if you’re so concerned about Tish overhearing us, why not pop on your bonnet and step out with me? I’ll take you for a spin in my curricle."

  "Oh, Gil, would you? I shall be back directly!"

  He didn’t suppose she would be, despite the rapidity with which she flew out of the room, but to his surprise she spent no more time in perfecting her appearance than was needed to fasten a tippet round her shoulders and tie her bonnetstrings. Most females of his acquaintance would have fussed and preened a bit before allowing themselves out of the house. Of course, he acknowledged, it was hard to see how Chloe’s appearance could be improved upon. The bonnet and tippet matched her frock, and were just as becoming. In less than five minutes they were seated side-by-side in his curricle and headed down Mount Street toward the park. Twice he had to admonish her not to turn round and peer behind them, but eventually she settled down beside him, heaving a tiny sigh of relief.

  "I do not see Tish’s carriage anywhere about, and I am sure we are not being followed after all."

  "Followed! Why the deuce should we be followed?"

  "Well, I don’t know, but I’m sure Tish suspects that I disapprove of her goings-on, and she must know that I will do what I can to thrust a spoke in her wheel, so who knows but that she will set someone on to prevent me?"

  "Good God! What’s amiss? Never tell me that Tish is involved in something brummish, for I won’t believe you!"

  "No, not that, exactly, but—oh, Gil, she is in such a scrape."

  Chloe’s voice caught, as if she were suddenly fighting tears. Gil felt his heart sink. "I knew it," he said grimly. "Give me the word with no bark on it, Clo. Is she scorched?"

  She looked blankly at him. "Scorched?"

  "In debt."

  "Oh! No. Nothing so easy! We could pull her out of that sort of trouble in a trice."

  "Well, then?"

  "I will tell you, but you will be excessively shocked. And Tish must never discover that you heard it from me! Do you swear?"

  "Of course I swear! Dash it, Chloe, have I ever betrayed any of your secrets?"

  "No, but this is very, very important. Now, Gil, you must attend, if you please, and pray do not interrupt me or I shall make a mull of it!"

  Gil, now thoroughly alarmed, assured her that he would hang upon her every word. Chloe folded her hands like a schoolgirl about to recite. She stared straight ahead, trouble in her face. "There is an odious man."

  Gil exclaimed under his breath. She held up a warning finger. "Let me finish! There is an odious man who has—who has insinuated himself into Tish’s good graces. You will think she ought not to have let him, but I met him last night, Gil, and I must say, it is difficult to blame her. Robert is so neglectful, and this dreadful man so attentive! He has wound Tish completely round his finger. And I feel sure it is deliberate. I don’t believe he cares for her at all. I watched him very carefully, and it appears to me that he has entrapped poor Tish for—for sport." Her voice had sunk to a shocked whisper.

  She placed a hand on his sleeve, her expression tragic. "Is such wickedness possible, Gil?"

  "Aye," he said shortly. Although he would have given a great deal to spare Chloe the knowledge.

  She was shaking her head slowly, obviously perplexed. "Well. I would not have believed it, had I not seen it for myself last night. He set out to gull her, and she has fallen into his snare like a—like a—well, I don’t know what. What falls into snares?"

  "Never mind that! Does Robert know?"

  "I don’t know. His behavior toward her is certainly not what it was three years ago. But I don’t see how he could know; he scarcely ever accompanies Tish anywhere! Why is that, Gil? Tish tells me it is the fashion, but how is that possible? To me it seems sad, and rather shocking for married persons to attend parties alone."

  "Yes, it gives rise to all sorts of mischief. As you see! But I would have thought Tish the last woman on earth to—I say, who is the fellow?"

  "His name is Carstairs. Lord Rival. Oh, Gil, mind your horses!"

  At the sound of Rival’s name, Gil had dropped his hands and the horses had shot forward. He controlled them again, clenching his jaw to keep from swearing aloud.

  Chloe peeped anxiously up at him. "Do you know him, Gil?"

  "I ain’t acquainted with him, if that’s what you mean! But the fellow is notorious. Worst rake in town! If he’s come sniffing round my sister—" Gil ground his teeth in impotent rage.

  Chloe’s eyes widened in apprehension. "Now, Gil, pray do not do anything rash! If you’re thinking of calling him out, or some such thing—"

  "Well, I am thinking of it! Thinking of it with pleasure! But I’d only make a guy of myself. Besides, it’s Robert’s place to put a stop to this."

  She bounced up beside him with a little shriek of alarm. "Gil, you can’t tell Robert! Tish would instantly know you had done so! And that you had learned it from me."

  "Now, how would she know that?" argued Gil. "If Rival has been paying court to her, ten to one it’s all over town! I suppose the only reason I haven’t heard the tale is because I’m her brother." He paused, gloomily considering the matter. "It’ll be a lesson to me. I’m forever receiving invitations from the Beau Monde biddies, and I never accept ’em. Dashed dull affairs! But if I had done my duty and showed my front at a rout or two, I daresay I’d have caught wind of this by now. How serious is it?"

  "Heavens, I’ve no idea! But if you attend a party with us, I daresay you can decide for yourself. I own, it would be a great relief to me if you did. Now that I have gone to Lady Paversham’s drum, it seems I am expected to attend other functions, and it would be dreadful to find myself thrust willy-nilly into the role of chaperon. Besides, Tish cannot blame me, whatever action you choose to take, if you have seen them together with your own eyes. But, Gil—there’s more."

  "Good God! What could be worse?"

  Chloe toyed nervously with the fringe on her tippet. "I did not say it was worse. Indeed, I know so little of these things . . . perhaps this is silly."

  "Out with it, Clo. I’ll tell you if it’s silly."

  She sighed, and blurted it out in a rush. "They play cards together, and Lord Rival wins. I believe he always does so; he actually made some remark to that effect! Last night he won nearly five hundred pounds off her."
<
br />   Gil whistled, long and low. "Pretty deep doings."

  "Is it? Tish would have me believe it was nothing extraordinary, and that Robert loses more at White’s, but I can’t help thinking—"

  "I daresay he may, but Robert doesn’t always lose."

  "Well, perhaps I am making a mountain out of a molehill. And I know nothing of piquet, of course. When he said Tish had never bested him, he may have been speaking of—of something else. But it certainly seemed to me that Lord Rival is a superior player."

  "Oh, he’s the very devil at piquet! Known for it."

  Chloe’s blue eyes sparkled with indignation. "Why, then, it isn’t fair! Surely he ought not to play Tish for such high stakes."

  Gil pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Hm. Very delicate question, that. I suppose she might feel insulted if he played her for chicken stakes."

  "Oh, rubbish! She cares nothing for that, I am sure. Tish values piquet only as a chance to be alone with Lord Rival."

  Gil shuddered. Chloe nodded in sympathy. "Yes, it was that obvious. To me, at least. I scotched it, though, by going off with them—so you needn’t fear he made any progress with her last night."

  "You’re a right one, Clo!" said Gil approvingly, causing Chloe to blush with pleasure. "I’ll come along on your next venture and meet the fellow myself. Unless—I say, you’re not going to be presented, are you? For I won’t go through that again, not for a monkey!"

  "Well, I believe Tish may be planning that, but I don’t know when. I think she said we are going to somebody-or-other’s private ball tonight."

  He nodded sagely. "Alverstoke House. The marquis is launching his cousin or some such thing. Very well; I’ll join you after dinner and we’ll go together. Bound to be a shocking crush, and I daresay I’ll be wishing myself at the devil inside of an hour, but a fellow’s got to sacrifice himself when his sister’s in the basket."