He refrained from pointing out that the trouble had begun when she’d forged her late husband’s signature on the deed to Adam House. If there was one thing upon which they agreed, it was that she deserved the opportunity to be happy. “Diane, I’ll see to it.”
“No, you won’t. Thank you for dinner. Now excuse me.”
Damnation. Every time he took two steps closer to earning her trust, someone—generally Diane—came along to push him back one step. Oliver left the dining room to circle around through the smaller Ariadne gaming room and to the rear door of Persephone. When he, albeit rarely, reflected on his life, it seemed as though he’d spent most of his adult years in the mud for one reason or another. He was tired of it—but he also knew how to navigate through the muck. In fact, he was quite good at it.
Interestingly enough, while all three of the club’s new visitors stood around the roulette wheel, only Greaves and Larden were placing wagers. Cameron stood beside them, his attention clearly on the room at large, its layout and décor, and its occupants. He was likely taking mental notes about its value. He’d worn that look before, but no doubt this time he thought he had a chance to actually take the club from her. And whether by the strictest interpretation of the law it should have gone to Cameron or not, Oliver wasn’t about to let that happen. Diane had earned this, for God’s sake.
Halfway across the room she was playing the charming hostess, admiring John Welling’s new watch fob and smiling as another of the club’s membership flirted with her.
Oliver didn’t mind the flirting overly much, because he was quite aware that she was merely playing a role, providing a bit of charm to earn The Tantalus Club a few more shillings by distracting the wagerers. It was the way some of the other men looked at her, generally while she wasn’t looking at them, that he didn’t like.
Greaves had his gaze on her in just that way, a wolf sizing up its next meal. Oliver’s lip curled in a snarl. This club might be her business, but looking after her had become his. That wouldn’t make her very happy, but he would accept the consequences. It was about time he began doing that, anyway.
With a last look around the busy room he left the shelter of the doorway and made his way toward the roulette table. As Miss Sylvie Hartford acknowledged him, he placed his wager—twenty pounds on number eleven.
“Only twenty?” Larden commented. “That’s rather light for you, isn’t it, Mr. Warren? Or Lord Haybury, rather. My apologies.”
“Was that an insult, or is your mind failing you, Larden?” he returned. “I warned you about your fondness for pox-ridden chits.”
The earl paled, a vein pulsing in his forehead. Greaves, though, cleared his throat, elbowing his companion at the same time. “You should know better than to begin a verbal battle with Oliver,” Greaves commented. “Make your argument on the table.”
“True,” Larden put in. “We all know he’s far from invulnerable there.”
Before that night at the tables in Vienna, Oliver would have been able to claim the moral high ground on the subject of game play. In a sense, he could blame Greaves for his behavior—but that would mean he owed the duke just as much for what was happening now. Oliver preferred to leave Greaves out of it altogether and accept responsibility for his relationship, such as it was, with Diane.
“Were you chattering, or wagering? Or should we all wait while you decide?” he asked, placing a second twenty pounds on black. He nearly always bet on black. It had served him well thus far.
“Gentlemen, hold your wagers,” Sylvie instructed, and sent the ball around the wheel. “Seventeen black,” she declared after a moment, then paid off the winners and cleared the table.
“I can see why The Tantalus Club is becoming so popular,” Larden commented. “Even losing has its charms.” He tossed a shilling onto the table. “Pick that up, will you, my dear?”
Without hesitation Sylvie leaned across the table and retrieved the coin. “This one’s mine,” she said, setting it at her elbow. “The next dropped coin will go to him.” With a charming smile she gestured at the gargantuan Mr. Smith, who’d seemingly appeared from nowhere. “Mr. Smith, though, will thank you outside.”
Oliver realized he was smiling, and he belatedly pulled the expression back in. Of all the things he thought would come of this experience, feeling paternal pride was not one of them. For God’s sake, he was nine-and-twenty, ten years Sylvie’s senior—but he’d taught her how to manage the table and the wagerers and how to respond to general male idiocy. And she’d done it well.
“Well, where’s the fun in that?” Larden protested. “If you’re not for touching, and not for looking at, what good are you?”
Before Oliver could do more than curl his fist, Diane glided up to the table. “If that is your opinion, my lord, perhaps you would prefer to wager at a different club.”
“Do you lead all your members about by the nose then, my lady? Or is it a lower body part you prefer to grasp?”
“Some gentlemen prefer an ordered, elegant setting where they can eat and wager and chat with friends, and not be disturbed by gauche displays of vulgarity, Lord Larden.”
A chorus of “hear, hear” rang out behind her. Larden had made enough enemies during his reign at the Mayfair gaming tables that while not many would be willing to stand up to him, they were certainly willing to whisper their dislike from the safety of the shadows. Oliver took a half step closer to Diane.
“I believe I more than qualify for membership in your little embroidery circle,” the earl commented, his expression cooling to the point of blankness.
“No, I don’t believe you do,” Diane returned. “Your friends are welcome to stay, but as I recall, you have an engagement elsewhere, anyway.”
And she even invented a way for the fiend to save his pride. Unless Larden was a fool, which he wasn’t, he would take the opportunity to avoid being thrown out of The Tantalus Club on his arse. If he hadn’t thought it would make matters worse, Oliver would have applauded.
Larden, though, turned his pale blue eyes in Oliver’s direction. “Do you actually allow this cow to speak to her betters like that?”
As if he would say anything now to ruin this fragile new alliance he and Diane seemed to have forged. “I don’t believe Lady Cameron requires anyone’s permission to conduct business in her own establishment,” he returned. “As for you being her better, well, we’ll have to agree to disagree. And if you insult Lady Cameron to her face or to her back ever again, I’ll be calling on you. With a pair of pistols, if you were wondering.”
“You’ll regret this,” the earl snapped. “And so will you, harlot.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, the hulking Mr. Smith close behind him.
Diane sent a pointed glance at Greaves and her former brother-in-law. “Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen,” she said coolly, and with a nod strolled toward the nearest of the faro tables. Halfway there, she paused and turned around. “Lord Haybury, do you have a moment?”
Oliver collected his blunt and left the table. “For you, of course.”
She led the way into the Demeter Room and then through the nearest of the mystery doors into the narrow hallway beyond. “Lord Larden has nothing in particular against you?” she asked, facing him.
“I’ve beaten him several times at the tables, but not for any significant amount. So, no. I think he was tempted to come here by Anthony Benchley.”
Green eyes studied his, though he wasn’t certain this time what she might be looking for. “Yes, I do, as well.”
Then she stepped forward, slid her arms up around his shoulders, and kissed him. He put his own hands up to her face, drawing her in closer as she sank into him, moaning against his mouth.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she murmured, nibbling at his lower lip.
His eyes wanted to roll back into his head. “Of course not,” he agreed, tangling his tongue with hers.
“I still don’t like you.”
“I don’t blame you.” Arousal
tugged through him, heady and exciting.
“And I don’t need your help.”
“Only a madman would think so.” With her fingers kneading convulsively into his shoulders, her breasts pressed against his chest, and one ankle wrapped around the back of his boot, she seemed fairly amenable to having him. And he was beginning to lose the ability to think. “Unless you move away from me immediately,” he muttered against her mouth, “then I am going to collect on my eight hours. I want you.”
He felt her hesitate, felt the jump of her muscles. Clearly she’d been swept up in the moment, her blood rushing after standing her ground in a confrontation with a pair of dangerous men. And he’d overplayed his hand. She didn’t want him; she simply … wanted. Damnation. If there was one thing he’d been attempting to avoid, it was making a mistake that would set them—him—back to the beginning again.
Then Diane tangled her fingers into his hair and pulled his head down. “I do hate leaving debts unpaid,” she whispered into his ear. “I’ll go tell Jenny I’m leaving, and then I’ll meet you upstairs.”
If he gave her any time to think, she would change her mind. “No. You come with me, and we’ll tell Langtree on the way upstairs.” He kissed her again, hot and openmouthed, for emphasis. Now that he’d shown his hand, there was nothing to do but pretend he’d meant to do so.
“Oh, very well,” she breathed, licking his earlobe.
Good God. If he could have locked the mystery doors, he and Diane wouldn’t be leaving the hallway. As it was, another minute of this would render his … interest visible to everyone at the club. Taking a hard breath, he grabbed her hand and towed her up the hallway. At the last door he released her, ran a hand through his hair, and looked sideways at her.
What an idiot he’d been two years ago. He’d abandoned this woman because he’d fallen for her, and that made him a complete fool and a coward. Whether he could make amends for that or not, if she would allow it he would spend the remainder of his life trying to do so.
Instead of speaking, he reached over to brush a stray strand of her midnight hair back behind her ear. “Shall we?”
Nodding, Diane opened the door and stepped into the ordered chaos at the front of the Demeter Room. As soon as she appeared, men noticed. She drew them to her like a magnet. Oliver didn’t like it, but he understood it. However brilliant her plan and even the design of The Tantalus Club, she was the reason anyone wanted to be there, to be seen there, to be a part of this very unusual venture. The face she showed them was … magical, for want of a better word.
She drew him as well. At least he was aware of it. And he’d seen more of her than her knife-sharp, seductive side. Even so, he couldn’t help moving closer to her as they made their way to the foyer.
“Juliet,” she said, flexing her fingers as if to be certain she still retained possession of all of them. “Please inform Genevieve that I will be … unavailable until five o’clock or so in the morning.”
How pitiful was he that he took the words “or so” to be a sign that she might be softening toward him? Shaking himself, Oliver nodded at the butler chit. “Likewise, Langtree. I don’t want anyone pounding at my door this time for anything less than a fire. Is that clear?”
“I’ll see to it, my lady,” the servant said, not even glancing in his direction.
Oliver stifled a grin. Clearly the chit knew who buttered her bread. “I’ll remember this, Langtree,” he commented, and gestured Diane to lead the way up the front stairs.
Once they were inside his front room, he closed and latched his door. That damned foreign chit was too unpredictable to risk leaving it open. Then he faced Diane again, to find her gazing at him. To his eyes, at least, her face in the lamplight seemed almost ethereal in its beauty. Every part of him, skin to soul, wanted her, and it took all his willpower to remain where he was.
Slowly she looked him up and down. “Well, come along,” she said, her voice breathy and rough. “A bargain is a bargain.”
He shook his head. “This isn’t about a bargain.”
“Then why am I here?”
Oliver took a slow, controlled step closer, halving the distance between them. “Because you want to be here.”
She tilted her head. “Are you certain about that?”
For a heartbeat he weighed how much he wanted her against how much he wanted her to choose him. He swallowed, knowing he was an idiot for relying on hope after what he’d done. He much preferred skill, but that wouldn’t serve him until after he got her clothes off. “If you want to leave, then go.”
“And the eight hours?”
“Wiped clean.”
“Are you certain of that?”
No. “Yes. That debt is finished with. You still owe me the walk in the park, though.”
A grin, sultry and aroused, touched her mouth. “Then I can leave if I wish to?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” She continued to look at him. “Why so generous?”
“There’s something about compelling you to join me in bed that I find … distasteful.” He shrugged. “Odd, I know.”
“Very odd.” Diane folded her arms across her chest, then lowered them again. “Step aside, then.”
Cursing himself in every language he knew, Oliver moved away from the door. He’d played games of faro and whist with thousands of pounds at risk. He’d lost huge amounts of money, albeit rarely. And he’d just lost this game.
She walked past him and put her hand on the latch. “You truly aren’t going attempt to stop me?”
“Truly.”
“You don’t want me to stay?”
He blew out his breath. “Of course I want you to stay.”
“Then ask me.”
Was she simply playing? Asking him to look even more foolish than he already felt? He deserved it, he supposed. “Diane, would you spend the night with me?” he asked, unable to keep his voice steady.
For a long moment she looked straight into his eyes. “Perhaps,” she finally murmured. “But not tonight.” She unlocked the door. “If you want me again, Haybury, then you’re going to have to prove that you truly have changed.” With that she slipped back out to the landing and closed the door behind her.
Chapter Sixteen
Diane had to give Oliver a great deal of credit for not pursuing her down the stairs.
Considering the raw ache coursing through her, however, perhaps he wasn’t able to run. She stifled a somewhat hysterical chuckle and continued down to the foyer. Oh, she wanted him. But now, at least, they were a bit closer to being even. And with Anthony making much more blatant accusations and threats, she needed to think. In Oliver’s intimate company, thinking became supremely difficult.
“My lady?”
She blinked as Juliet materialized in front of her. “Ah, yes. Never mind what I said earlier.” Shifting to ease the material that abruptly seemed far too tight across her breasts, she grimaced. “Though I will be retiring to Adam House for the evening. Have someone prepare a cool bath, will you?”
“A cool bath?”
“I don’t have to look at you to know you’re smirking, Juliet,” she said over her shoulder, heading for the half-hidden door that led through a short corridor to her private home. “A cold bath.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Even as she stripped out of her black gown and stepped into the uncomfortably cold water thirty minutes later, her mind continued to argue with her body. Why should she deny herself a night of pleasure—and being with Oliver Warren was infinitely pleasurable—simply because he’d erred two years ago?
“Erred,” she muttered, stifling a shriek as she sat down in the bathtub and cold water rose to her chest. If erring consisted of abandoning people without a word—people who’d begun to care for him a great deal and deserved some kind of explanation, which he still hadn’t offered—then yes, he’d erred. Very badly.
And she was not some fainting daisy who melted into his arms simply because he knew how to kiss and he
knew how and when to say the correct thing to her and about her. Or because he’d proved to be quite helpful, more so than blackmail strictly required. The bastard.
At least the icy water cooled her ardor. For heaven’s sake, twenty minutes ago she’d barely been able to put two sentences together. Blowing out her breath, Diane squeezed her eyes shut and splashed her face. If he deserved credit for not chasing after her, then she deserved credit for escaping from him when what she wanted to do more than anything was feel his weight on her and his cock moving inside her.
Growling, she splashed more vigorously, gasping as the water’s wake reached her armpits. An abrupt solid thud seemed to rattle the room around her, and she gasped again.
“Mary?” she called, flinching as the thud repeated, reverberating against the ceiling. Her maid, though, would be down in the kitchen helping sort out the food orders during the Demeter Room’s busiest hour.
Another thud. This time, dust and plaster shook down from above. At the next blow, the end of what looked like an axe carved a hole into her ceiling and then vanished again. “Good heavens,” she muttered, and scrambled out of the bath.
Pulling her thin dressing robe over her shoulders and knotting the belt around her waist, she dove for her bed stand and the pistol she kept there. Wood and plaster dropped to the floor as she grabbed the weapon and cocked it.
With a last shuddering thud, the ceiling exploded. A good portion of it hit the floor a few feet in front of her, followed by a figure that fell and rolled to its feet. His feet.
“Oliver?” she gasped, leveling the pistol at him.
“Langtree and your damned behemoths wouldn’t let me back into the club,” he muttered, brushing plaster dust from his shoulders as he straightened. “And don’t shoot me again, damn it all.”
“You made a hole in my ceiling!”
“No, I made a hole in your floor above. Hope no one falls through it. I put a vase on either side, but you never know.” He shrugged.
A Beginner's Guide to Rakes Page 21