Luck Be a Lady

by Meredith Duran

  Oh, ho. Bit of arrogance there. “You mean to say you’ve broken some hearts in your time.”

  “I have received proposals,” she said. “But gentlemen of my rank prefer their wives not to work. I had no interest in taking a husband, only to disappoint him.”

  “Sounds like you’d be the one disappointed,” he said. “It’s a right buffoon who would mind a woman able to support herself.”

  She slanted him a quick, odd look. “It isn’t counted feminine.”

  He shrugged. “Nor is starving, I reckon. But when a bloke bites the dust, there’s often a widow who goes hungry afterward, for want of a way to earn.”

  Her hand hesitated atop her last card. “I suppose . . .” She flipped the card over. “It is good to know I could stand on my own two feet, if necessary.”

  Her words had the shy flavor of a confession. “Could stand? With all the time you spend at those auction rooms, seems like you’re already standing. Pity, though—you’ve just lost.”

  “What?” She looked down, gaping at her empty hand. “I—”

  “And now I’ll be asking you my favor.”

  She looked up warily. “Go on.”

  He let out a soft laugh. He’d seen street children with more trust. “Nothing so bad,” he said. “Just a kiss.”

  She swallowed. “How unsurprising.”

  He rose, slowly approaching her. “Is that so? Reckoned it from the start, did you? Yet still you played.”

  She stood, jostling the table. “Of course, I will not permit it. We agreed at the beginning that the favor could not contravene the terms of the contract.”

  “Hence a kiss,” he said. “The contract, if you’ll recall, bars sexual congress that might lead to a child. It says nothing of other pleasures.”

  “I . . .” Her lips parted; she looked stunned. “The spirit of the term . . .” She cleared her throat. “The spirit is very clear.”

  “Spirit won’t win a lawsuit.” He slid his hand around her waist, feeling the coolness of the wool, the scratch of the embroidery, the warmth of her body beneath it. The soft line of her waist. “You going to back out?”

  Her breath hitched audibly. He felt her stiffen, and then, as she sighed, the tension eased from her shoulders, and she bowed her head.

  “Go ahead, then,” she mumbled. “But make it quick.”

  If she wanted it quick, she’d need to make it easier. He tipped her chin up, to take a good view of her pretty pink mouth. She wasn’t the classic beauty she first appeared. Pink and gold and white, to be sure, but that upper lip was slightly fuller, slightly longer, than the one beneath. Nature’s small quirk, which would have lent her a natural pout if she didn’t work so hard, so continuously, to tame her lips into a flat, hard line.

  He stroked his thumb over her cheekbone. Like magic, the wash of color that his touch called forth. She smelled clean, skin and the faint lingering scent of soap; no perfume tonight. He lifted his hand to lightly brush the tight cap of her hair against her skull, and felt the smallest tremor communicate itself through her waist, where he gripped her.

  “Quickly, I said,” she whispered.

  “Right.” He put his tongue at the seal of her lips, nudging. Trying to rescue that upper lip from its cruel restraint. God, but she smelled good. Some current leapt between them, a lightning flash of information; he sensed with perfect clarity each swell and curve of her body, only inches from his.

  He slipped his hand from her waist to the small of her back, drawing her body against his. In the silence, cloth slithered, rustled. The faintest noise came from her. She could feel that he was hardening for her.

  With his tongue, he opened her lips. Her mouth tasted fresh and cool, like a priceless wine that had just been uncorked; untouched, which wasn’t right—he’d been here before. He’d been inside her, with his dark hot ways, and he was inside her again now, and he meant to leave a mark this time. He kissed her deeply, angling her back over his arm to show her who was in charge, and her hands caught his shoulders for balance, then hooked in like claws as she kissed him back.

  If she was ice, then she was the early spring variety—the thinnest veneer, which cracked at the first nudge. For suddenly, in his arms, she was a hot little wild thing, shoving her hips against him, knocking into the table. He heard distantly the sound of cards falling. He laid her back atop the scattered remains of her defeat, and she accepted him beautifully, letting him fuck her with his tongue as he longed, needed, to do with his cock. Encouraging him by accident, with her desperate grasping hands on his back and waist, his arse, hallelujah; she was making whimpering noises, and it was beyond God’s own power to stop him from reaching down and knocking up her skirts, grasping her damp, hot leg behind one knee and lifting it so she could wrap herself around him, and let him put himself against the spot where they both wanted him to be.

  She arched beneath him, her eyes flying open—wide, blind, the purplish-blue of sunset over distant mountains, the color of a sky that would draw a man onto the road and keep him there, determined to walk until he found the source of the light. Wasn’t a man in the world who had seen her like this, who’d managed to put that look of dazzled, hungered pleasure on her face, and he meant to make sure she didn’t sleep well tonight, didn’t think of anything but him.

  Her inner thigh was plump, sweetly trembling, as he tracked up it. Through the split in her bloomers, he found her. Cupped her as she jerked in his hand. Wet and hot and ready for him. “Shall I kiss you here?” he asked roughly.

  Her groan sounded like a yes—and then, abruptly, as he stroked her harder, she cried out and scrabbled at his chest, pushing him off her.

  Some part of him had been waiting for it. That part, the only corner of his brain still functioning, made him step backward immediately. The rest of him, instincts and appetite and sheer animal lust, remained locked on her, so when she sat up and met his eyes, whatever she saw caused her to look immediately away and lick her lips.

  Christ. Those lips. “Say it,” he ground out. “I’ll put you to bed properly.”

  “No.” She folded her arms around herself as she stood. “No. The contract . . .” She frowned, as though her own words puzzled her. Then she shook her head, took a long breath, and looked at him.

  “No,” she said flatly.

  His own lungs felt as though he’d run five miles. He pushed out a breath, waiting for his heart to calm. “All right, then.” Wonder of wonders, the words came out just fine. Even an easy lilt to them.

  She knocked down her skirts, then took a hunted look around, as if expecting a crowd to witness her dishevelment. “Well,” she said, then faltered, casting him a sidelong look he couldn’t interpret. “Congratulations.”

  Humor licked through him, unexpected and very welcome. He smiled. “Bet you had a different favor in mind.”

  “Oh, I . . .” She flushed. “Yes. Of course.”

  “But this one wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

  Her lips pressed together in that schoolmistress line. “It’s done. No need to speak of it further.”

  “What was the favor you wanted?”

  She hesitated, then glanced behind her, checking the time. Or, no—it was the vase she was looking at. It had caught her attention earlier tonight, too. “I was going to ask . . .” She shrugged. “If I could have a look through your antiques.”

  “You mean in the storeroom?”

  She wheeled back. “There’s an entire storeroom of these things?”

  “Sure. Plenty of blokes overextend themselves. If they’ve got something worth offering, I go easy on them. Let them pay up as they can.”

  “And all of these furnishings scattered about . . . that vase, and the fixtures in my suite . . . they come from the storeroom?”

  “No point in buying what I’ve already got,” he said.

  Her eyes widened. “I would love to see that storeroom.”

  “Tell you what.” If she would set up the shot so neatly, who was he not to take it? �
��You can play me again tomorrow night. See if you can win the favor.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  A full set, you say?” Batten lifted the teacup to the light.

  “Yes,” said Catherine. The cup was petite and elegant, scrolled porcelain decorated in cobalt blue. Dr. Wall square-marked Worcester, very rare. She had stolen it from her sitting room in the House of Diamonds. “The entire set is in mint condition. I don’t think anybody ever used it.”

  He set down the cup and looked over the rest of her spread—today, a Sèvres figurine and an Elizabethan chalice wrought in silver. Every morning for ten days she had brought him items purloined from the House of Diamonds. Each evening, escorted by Mr. Johnson, she returned to Diamonds and replaced the items before anybody could remark their absence.

  “All of these come from the same collection?” Batten asked.

  She nodded.

  “I know you cannot tell me his name,” he said in a leading tone. “But surely, just a hint . . .”

  “I’ve given my word to stay mum.” She could hardly tell him the truth: that she was living in a gaming club, and enjoying it far more than she ought.

  It was wondrous to live independently. For the first time in her life, she could come and go as she pleased. No butler to harass her about dinner menus, or pout at her indifference to domestic chores. No lady’s maid to spy on her for Peter. She would never keep a maid again, in fact; she was no grand lady, with complicated corsetry and gowns that required assistance to remove. In the evenings, she took her meals in her sitting room, free to work, with no concern of Peter ambushing her with impromptu guests like Pilcher. And on those rare occasions when tedium struck, she need only walk out to the balcony, and spy on the bizarre antics of the players below.

  Even the staff at Diamonds suited her. The footmen took no interest in her, for unlike the players, she gave them no tips. The kitchens, trained in producing feasts for the discerning palates of wealthy gamblers, routinely delivered miracles of French high cuisine. Two maids saw to her baths and laundry—cheerful, plainspoken creatures, without airs or pretensions.

  And then there was Mr. O’Shea . . .

  Had the room grown hotter suddenly? She blotted her brow with her handkerchief. She had not taken him up on his invitation to play cards again. In fact, she had kept to her rooms for three nights running, to avoid him.

  For three nights running, she had dreamed of what would happen should she lose again.

  “How mysterious!” Batten exclaimed. He was stroking the rim of the silver chalice, humming his appreciation as he traced the engraving. “One rarely sees such an eclectic collection, so expertly curated. He must have an unusually broad education.”

  “Unusual, yes,” she said faintly. No gentleman had ever managed to tempt her. But she found herself tormented by thoughts of a cardsharp, a criminal, a ruffian . . . A curious, unexpectedly kind, alarmingly fascinating, beautiful man.

  She resolved to lock herself in her rooms again tonight.

  “Do you think he might be interested in selling his estate?” Batten asked.

  “Oh, there’s not any question of that,” she said hastily. She had brought the first lot from Diamonds out of concern, to make sure she hadn’t lost her ability to detect a forgery. Batten’s enthusiasm had led her down a dangerous path; now she was stealing—borrowing—these items for the mere pleasure of showing them off. “He was only curious about valuation, you see.”

  “Perhaps you’ll persuade him otherwise.” Batten bit his lip. “I could imagine a very interested crowd for the sale.”

  She gave him a glum look, for no doubt his thoughts strayed down a similar path: such an auction would benefit Everleigh’s tremendously, at present. The aftermath of the Cranston debacle had turned uglier than Catherine had foreseen. The new Lord Cranston had not been soothed by her apologies regarding the interruption of his sale. He had insisted on being released from his contract so he might take his collection elsewhere.

  Elsewhere, pah. The gentlemen at Christie’s must be toasting one another right now.

  Alas, Cranston had not been content to break the contract. Viewing the episode as a bruise to his pride, he had complained publicly of gross mismanagement. Letters had arrived now from four different solicitors, seeking to break the contracts of clients whose collections had been slated for winter sales. In each case, the lawyers had cited a “loss of faith” in Everleigh’s.

  Peter, of course, blamed her for the entire fracas. He claimed she had imagined a ring at work in the Cranston auction. “You’re delusional,” he’d told her. “Not only this business with the ring, but your bizarre notion that I brought Pilcher to your bedroom door? One almost pities O’Shea for the burden of wedding a madwoman. At any rate, I wash my hands of you. You have the proxy; this mess is on your head now. Do as you like, and sleep where you like, so long as you keep your sordid little affairs a secret from the public.”

  A single flight of stairs separated their offices, but they communicated now only by letter. It made a very comfortable state of affairs, Catherine thought.

  “There’s a cunning clock I must show you,” she told Batten as she gathered up the borrowed wares. “I’ll try to bring it tomorrow.”

  “Are you leaving?” Batten looked startled. “But you haven’t yet looked at the painting!”

  “Goodness! Is it finished?” She had forgotten it entirely. “I’m terribly sorry, Batten—my mind was elsewhere. Please, do show it to me.”

  Beaming, he crossed to the easel in the corner. She knew, by the flourish with which he removed the oilcloth, that she would not be disappointed.

  “Oh!” She cupped her hands over her mouth. Batten had rescued the angel from centuries of abuse. The great winged warrior loomed over Saint Teresa, his robes resplendently white, his dark mane knocked back by a heavenly wind to reveal a visage of implacable demand. As for the saint, her figure no longer faded into a dark murk. She was writhing in her bed, her agony so vividly rendered that she looked almost in motion as she grasped the angel’s spear—

  Catherine blinked. Good heavens! How had she not seen it before? That wasn’t agony on Teresa’s face, but pleasure. As the angel’s spear pierced her, she writhed in voluptuous delight.

  “You don’t like it?” Batten asked querulously.

  She pressed her palms to her cheeks and felt how they burned. “No,” she said in a choked voice. The painting was not at fault. It was she who had changed. She’d been awakened to . . . this.

  And to the fact that a devil might prove as irresistible as any angel.

  “It’s lovely,” she said quickly. “You’ve done a marvelous job! Mr. Clarke will be very pleased. I am very pleased.”

  Batten was giving her a very queer look. She tightened her grip around the antiques and croaked out some excuse before hurrying from the room.

  * * *

  A knock came at the door. Startled, Catherine looked up from the writing desk. It was half past four, and she was working in her suite at the House of Diamonds. Since Peter had granted her power of attorney, she had seized every document related to the accounts. Her office at Everleigh’s did not seem sufficiently private to review them. “Who is it?” she called. Nobody here ever interrupted her during the day.

  Silence. She frowned and rubbed her temple as she glanced back to the papers scattered across the desk.

  She sat surrounded by proof of doom. Her eyes had started to cross from tallying sums, but no matter how generously she forecasted, the prediction remained identical: Everleigh’s would not turn a profit this year. Combined with the damage Peter had done with his embezzling, the recent cancellations would throw the company into the red.

  Despondent, she flipped again through the descriptions of the upcoming sales. Minor estates, furniture of unfashionably recent make, libraries of no real depth and rarity—these were the workaday sales of winter, a far cry from the spectacular events that characterized the height of the social season. What Everleigh’s needed
was a miracle.

  The knock came again, sharper. She stood. “Who is it?”

  “Me.”

  O’Shea’s voice. Ignoring the nervous flutter in her belly, she cast down her pen and opened the door.

  O’Shea stood flipping his beaver hat against his thigh. He must have just stepped indoors, for he wore a long wool coat and muffler, and cold radiated off him; his hair was windblown and his color looked high. She steeled herself against his effect. That painting of Saint Teresa was a timely warning. If she indulged her curiosity any further, she’d no doubt end up gored for it.

  “I need your help,” he said. “You got an hour? I’ll make it worth your while.”

  She glanced back toward the desk. “I was working.”

  “Right. That warehouse down on Wentworth Street—you want into it, right?”

  “Warehouse?” She caught her breath. “The storeroom, do you mean?”

  “Aye.” His glance shifted off down the hall briefly. He sounded uneasy, slightly stiff, as he went on. “I’ll give you free run of the place. But I’ll be needing a favor first.”

  A favor! She stepped backward. “I won’t play cards with you.”

  “Not that,” he said with a laugh. “A proper good cause. Little girl about to be taken from her sister. No need for it; lass has a proper job in a factory in Back-church-Lane, and it pays well enough to support them both. But her sister’s been skipping school, and the board’s about to realize there’s no adult in the house. They’ll remove the little one to a workhouse, unless there’s a guardian to speak for them.”

  She frowned. “A . . . you can’t mean me.”

  “I’m in pinch here,” he said. “We need a woman, somebody whose face they don’t know.” He grimaced. “I just learned of it today. Otherwise I wouldn’t be asking.”

  “I can’t lie to a government body!”

  “Why not? I’m not asking you to give your true name. Come up with an alias, if you like.”

  She snorted. “Is that meant to reassure me?”

  “You want into that storeroom, don’t you? Up to you, I suppose.”