A Dangerous Love

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Rosalind sighed. Unfortunately, from what she could see, Juliet’s anxiety hadn’t swayed the girl from her course. Indeed, she was already glancing uneasily at Mr. Knighton to see if her unladylike behavior had offended him.

  Suddenly Griff loomed up in front of Rosalind, blocking her vision as he held out a cue stick to her. “Now that your sister has trounced me, Lady Rosalind, I thought you might like the chance to do the same.”

  The blatant challenge in his gaze dared her to accept the invitation. Very well—it was high time she reminded him of her ability to best him.

  With a smile, she rose and took the stick from him. “I can hardly think of anything that would give me more pleasure than trouncing you, Mr. Brennan.”

  “That’s my ‘Lady Disdain.’” His eyes gleamed as he quoted from Much Ado About Nothing. “‘She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.’”

  “I do my best.” She brushed past him and went to the end of the table, removing her gloves as she went. “But my poniards must need sharpening, since you keep coming back for more, and I’ve yet to see you bleeding.”

  He set the cue ball and the red in position on the table. “I’m glad you limit yourself to words and don’t know how to fence. Judging from how well you wield a sword, I might find myself unmanned.” He waved his hand to the table, indicating that she should go first.

  She grinned. “A tempting prospect indeed. But I’ll settle for trouncing you at billiards. How many points shall we set the game at?”

  “Fifty seems a nice even number.”

  “Fifty it is.” With a smile, she took a series of shots that potted the red, potted her cue ball off the red twice, and then potted the red again. She would have sunk it a fifth time if the table hadn’t been so uneven, causing the ball to stop an inch short of the pocket.

  Mr. Knighton gave a low whistle and rose from his seat to survey the table. “Christ, m’lady, where’d you learn to shoot billiards like that?”

  She stepped back from the table. “One of our footmen taught me.” She turned to Griff, who lounged against the near wall with his arms crossed and his gaze shuttered. “That’s four points, I believe. Your turn, sir.”

  He ambled to the table, placed his cue ball, and then shot a spot-stroke. “Your footmen have a wide variety of duties.” He took the red out and positioned it again, then shot an impressive cannon combined with a winning hazard. “They teach billiards and act as personal assistants to wandering guests. I wonder how they find the time to be footmen.”

  She winced when he potted the red neatly. “As you’ll soon discover, all our servants are quite versatile. So if it weren’t the footmen performing those services, it would be someone else—the butler, the coachman—”

  “The lady of the manor?” he quipped as he paused in setting up a shot.

  She raised an eyebrow. “If need be.”

  The red had dropped into the pocket nearest her, so she fished it out for him. When she leaned across the table to hand it to him, however, his eyes weren’t on her hand, but lower. Only then did she realize her shawl had come unknotted and she was displaying far too much bosom. With an unspoken oath, she started to draw back, but his hand closed quickly over hers to stay her, and for a second she couldn’t move.

  She shot a pleading glance at her cousin, but he and Juliet had wandered down the gallery to look at the portraits of the Swanlea ancestors. They were deep in discussion with their backs to the table. Neither of them noticed Griff’s hold on her.

  His smooth, warm hand was so large it enveloped hers, but not so large as to imply a brutishness of character. His fingers stroked hers, reminding her of how those same deft fingers had walked their way up her ribs while she and he had stood on the sun-drenched hill.

  Sweet need unfurled again in her belly. No, she thought angrily, she wouldn’t let him do this to her! He only did it to provoke her.

  Yet when she tried to withdraw her hand, he held it captive a moment longer. “As much as I might enjoy having the lady of the manor act as my assistant,” he whispered, “I don’t want to take her from her other, more pressing duties.”

  “Then you and your employer should return to London where you belong,” she said archly.

  “Why? Do we annoy you?” His corrupt gaze drifted to her half-exposed bosoms. “Or are you afraid that we’ll uncover…your secrets?”

  Despite her fervent wish to prevent it, her face flamed. He grinned, then took the ball and released her hand. Wishing she could stuff the ball in his shameless mouth to silence him once and for all, she sprang back and quickly knotted her shawl in place. Billiards clearly provided too many opportunities for unseemly contortions of the female body. The least she could do was cover up those parts Griff insisted on ogling.

  She glanced at him when she was finished, only to find him smirking at her. Let him smirk. It was better than his ogling. Or making wicked remarks—the ones she found so disturbingly titillating.

  He followed his previous stroke with three spot-strokes in rapid succession, recapturing her interest in the game. She had to admit Griff’s skill impressed her. She’d guessed correctly before—he’d surely allowed Juliet to win. But when Rosalind got the chance to shoot again, she’d show him that not all of the Swanlea spinsters were fumble-fingers with a cue stick.

  Her chance came a few shots later, just as she suppressed a sleepy yawn. He came around to her side of the table and assessed his next shot with great seriousness. From her vantage point, she could tell he was aiming for a white hazard, but their table wasn’t the best, and he missed it, thanks to a tricky carom off two cushions. By that time, he was seven points ahead.

  He stood back while she set up her own shot most carefully, for he’d left her cue ball in a devilish position. After a few moments of her bending over to sight down the stick, eye the pocket, then sight down the stick again, he murmured behind her, “If you’re doing this purposely to tempt me, you’re succeeding.”

  She glanced back at him quizzically only to find him eyeing her backside and the raised skirts that revealed a goodly length of her stockings. She glared at him. “If you don’t like being tempted, Mr. Brennan, you should keep your eyes on the game where they belong.” Without moving an inch, she returned her attention to the table, though it was difficult now not to imagine his interested gaze on her derriere.

  He chuckled. “Who says I don’t like being tempted?”

  Gritting her teeth, she shot. And missed, of course. That’s what she got for letting the bloody man drive her to distraction.

  When she straightened angrily, she turned to find him so close his gray trousers brushed her skirts. “Excuse me, Mr. Brennan,” she bit out, but he didn’t move away.

  He darted a quick look over to where Mr. Knighton and Juliet were still at the other end of the gallery. Juliet was explaining the history of each earl, and to his credit Mr. Knighton was patiently enduring the explanations. Unfortunately, he was also paying no attention to his man of affairs.

  Who now leaned even closer, mischief dancing in his eyes. “We should place a little wager on this game.”

  “What sort of wager?” She tried to step back, but the table prevented it. He was too close for rational thought, too close for anything but remembering what had happened the last time he’d stood near her. Her pulse began to race.

  “If I win,” he murmured, “you call off your dog.”

  She suppressed a groan. She should have known he would eventually come back to that subject. Tilting up her chin, she asked, “And if I win?”

  “You won’t win.” When she looked at him askance, he smiled and added, “Very well. If you do, I’ll…” he thought a moment, “I’ll arrange for you to audition for Richard Sheridan.”

  Her eyes went wide. “The Richard Sheridan? The owner of Drury Lane Theatre? The man who wrote School for Scandal?”

  The blasted man grinned, knowing he’d baited his hook well. “The very one.”

  He looked far too sure of himself. Sh
e eyed him skeptically. “You know him well enough to arrange an audition?”

  “Let’s just say that Sheridan and I share an affection for fine French brandy, which we indulge occasionally.”

  “How would a man of affairs come to know a famous character like Sheridan?”

  That seemed to catch him off guard. Then he shrugged. “My employer is a patron of the theater, and has a small investment in Drury Lane.” He nodded toward Mr. Knighton. “If you don’t believe me, ask him.”

  She glanced down the gallery at her cousin, who was still absorbed in her sister’s prattling. Mr. Knighton invest in Drury Lane? Impossible! At dinner last night the ox had been entirely unaware of who John Dryden or Christopher Marlowe or even Homer was, despite his Eton education. Indeed, she’d begun to doubt he possessed such an education at all. It was highly unlikely that he loved the theater.

  As if realizing the source of her disbelief, Griff added, “Actually, I instigated the investment, since it provided him—and me—with a very nice private box at Drury Lane.”

  That made more sense. Whatever his other faults, Griff did seem to possess a genuine interest in the theater.

  “Well?” he prodded. “Do you accept the wager?”

  She still hesitated. “Only if you answer one question.”

  “All right.”

  “Why are you so eager to be rid of my footman? He’s merely there to help you.”

  “I don’t need help. In any case, I’m accustomed to going where I please, when I please, without an audience. Have you ever tried reading documents with a servant two feet away trying to be unobtrusive? It’s damned annoying.”

  When he put it that way, she saw how he might find it so. Besides, she intended to win the game. And the possibility of auditioning for Sheridan—Richard Sheridan—was irresistible. “Very well. I accept your wager.”

  “Rosalind!” her sister cried from down the gallery. She and Mr. Knighton were headed back to the table. “Whatever are you and Mr. Brennan whispering about? I thought you were playing billiards.”

  Griff broke away from Rosalind with a rakish smile. “We are, my lady, we are.” He caught up his cue stick. “Your sister and I are about to become very serious about it.”

  She’d thought they were already serious about billiards, but he soon proved her wrong. When he took the table this time, there was no flirting, no teasing innuendoes, no wavering from his purpose. He went to it with the single-mindedness of a sportsman. Indeed, he gained twenty points more before a slip of the stick ruined his shot.

  She took her place with great trepidation, no longer as certain of winning. She should have made him start over for the wager. Now he was twenty-seven points ahead—a great gap indeed. If she lost, she’d have to spend more time in his presence, which would be terribly unwise—not to mention she’d lose the Sheridan audition.

  By careful attention to her aim, she managed a string of red and white hazards. She wasn’t as good at cannons and so didn’t even risk them, even though they’d let her increase her score more quickly. Nonetheless, she’d already passed his score by four points when she potted his cue ball.

  She and Juliet groaned at the same time.

  “My turn.” Griff gloated as he removed his cue ball from the pocket and spotted it.

  Then he began to play with all the expertise of a true proficient. She should have known that a former smuggler would excel at billiards. No doubt that was how he and his criminal companions had entertained themselves.

  As the score passed forty, she tensed. He aimed, and she leaned forward on the opposite end of the table to watch. In the split second between his drawing back and his sending the cue stick forward, his eyes veered from the table to her. He missed the shot and cursed.

  Scowling, he rounded the table, then stopped beside her to murmur, “Getting desperate, are you?”

  “What do you mean?” she whispered back.

  “Much as I usually enjoy any glimpse of your…charms, I hardly think it’s fair for you to thrust them into my line of sight when I’m shooting.”

  She glanced down and blushed to see that her shawl had come unknotted again. “I hadn’t noticed,” she said truthfully, reaching to retie it again.

  “Of course not.”

  The blasted scoundrel didn’t believe her! She hesitated a moment, then defiantly removed her shawl and tossed it over a chair. If the surly wretch insisted on attributing such tactics to her, she might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

  From there on, she did her best to distract him whenever he shot. It wasn’t that difficult. Apparently, given the choice between concentrating on his cue stick or ogling a woman’s breasts, a man chose ogling every time. Its predictability was almost comical.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t take him long to find a suitable revenge. Whenever she shot, he passed just close enough to whisper comments so imaginatively scandalous that he never failed to draw a reaction from her—usually a missed shot.

  It soon became obvious they had abandoned the game of serious billiards for “naughty billiards.”

  Juliet seemed oblivious to what was going on. When she did hear the comments, she apparently didn’t understand them, and the ogling was something she was too innocent to be bothered by. Though Mr. Knighton was not so oblivious, he oddly chose to say nothing. She did, however, catch him watching them both with an inexplicably gleeful expression once or twice.

  The game dragged, since neither progressed very far at a time—a point here, a point there, then a missed shot. Still, they were forty-nine to forty-nine when Helena approached along the gallery.

  “What’s going on?” she asked as she limped to a chair and took a seat.

  “Mr. Brennan and Rosalind are playing billiards,” Juliet said cheerfully, “and they both need only one point to win. But they’re playing very badly, even worse than me. They’ve both missed their last three shots. We’ll be here all day if this continues.”

  Helena eyed the table curiously, then glanced at Rosalind. As she took in Rosalind’s décolletage, her disapproval was obvious. “It’s no wonder Rosalind’s having trouble. She must be freezing without her shawl, and that would surely deflect her aim.”

  Rosalind cursed inwardly. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”

  “No,” Griff interrupted, “Lady Helena is right.” He strode to where she’d left her shawl, picked it up, and brought it to her. “Here, my lady.” With an utterly disgusting smile, he settled it around her shoulders. “This should help.”

  “Thank you,” she retorted through gritted teeth. Just wait until she got Helena alone.

  At least it was her turn to shoot and not his, and he wouldn’t dare make any of his nasty comments with Helena nearby. Rosalind took careful aim at the easy red hazard before her. All she had to do was shoot. That’s all.

  Yet her hands were clammy, the cue stick slipping around in them like an eel. She couldn’t fail now. She mustn’t! For if she missed this shot, he was sure to make his. And there would go her chance at Sheridan.

  She aimed, shot, and then watched with glee as her cue ball hit the red perfectly, sending it toward the pocket with a pure grace. But then it slowed as it neared the pocket. No, not again—it couldn’t happen twice! She couldn’t be so unlucky! Not now!

  But she was. The ball danced on the edge of the pocket, then retreated half an inch to a position even a novice couldn’t miss.

  To his credit, Griff didn’t even smile as he took the easy shot. But once the red disappeared into the pocket with a plop that echoed in her mind, he broke out in a grin. He glanced at her younger sister. “There, Lady Juliet. It appears we won’t be here all day after all.”

  Rosalind watched numbly as he rounded the table, then came up beside her and offered his hand. She wanted to break her cue stick over it, but she had better manners than that. Glumly she held out her hand, expecting a brief press of fingers.

  She should have known better. With the predatory gaze of an eagle carrying off a
hare, he bent over her bare hand and kissed it. His lips were warm and soft against her skin, and they lingered for what seemed like forever, yet when he straightened she knew it had only been seconds.

  “We are well matched, you must admit.” He released her hand.

  “I suppose,” she said ungraciously.

  His expression hinted at some other meaning for well matched, but she chose to ignore it and dwell instead on the disappointment of having lost her audition. It was safer than dwelling on the press of his lips against her hand.

  He waited until her cousin had begun to ask Lady Juliet about playing another game, then stepped up close and lowered his voice. “I’m going to my room to work for a while. When I come out, I expect your footman to be gone.”

  She’d forgotten that in losing her part of the wager, he’d won his. Now she’d have to find another way to shadow him or else move the strongbox where he’d never find it. If indeed he was looking for it.

  She swallowed, then nodded. With a final smile of triumph, he strode down the gallery to the west-wing stairs leading to the second floor where his room lay.

  Bitterly disappointed by her loss, she turned to find Juliet telling Mr. Knighton that she didn’t want to play billiards anymore.

  He faced Helena. “What about you, my lady? Do you play?”

  “No,” was her cold answer.

  When he looked offended by the short response, Rosalind explained. “Helena says her leg prevents her, that it’s hard to balance on one leg and shoot.” It was nonsense, of course, but she’d never determined if Helena believed it or was simply using the excuse to keep herself apart from people, as she did in other respects. She added, “But she used to beat me routinely before her illness.”

  Helena glared at her, but Rosalind had always thought it best to be honest. Besides, she rather liked her cousin, even if he were a bit coarse and had once consorted with smugglers. It pained Rosalind to see Helena treat him so coldly, even though Helena had been reserved toward all men of late.