Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

C ards. Charlotte sighed, half in relief, half in exasperation. Simon wanted to play cards. After checking to confirm no servants roamed the hallway, Simon sneaked into his room for a deck of cards and some markers, telling her he'd anticipated things in advance and had pilfered some from the duke's billiard room.

Thirteen hands later, why he had chosen such a pastime became clear.

He turned over a six of spades, a five of diamonds, a seven of spades, and lastly a three of hearts. "Vingt-et-un. My goodness, I win again."

"You're cheating!" Charlotte threw her cards at Simon. The king of hearts and a ten of clubs fluttered against his waistcoat.

He grinned and scooped up the markers in front of him.

She rewarded him with a scowl.

In mock horror, he slapped a hand to his cheek. "Oh dear, it would appear you're out of betting chips."

"You cheat. "

"I assure you, my dear wife, I do not need to cheat. I'm simply that lucky."

"Does this mean you'll finally leave me alone?"

He pulled out his pocket watch. "Only quarter past three. I suppose I could emerge requesting sustenance. A new husband must keep up his strength."

Rising, he stretched, emitted a languorous yawn, and tugged off his coat.

Pressure squeezed her chest, and she gasped. "What are you doing?"

"We've been in here alone nigh on two hours. They won't expect me to come out as I went in." With that, he yanked at the knot in his neckcloth and tossed it aside by his coat. He locked his gaze with hers as, one by one, he unfastened each button on his waistcoat.

Warmth raced up her neck to her face, and she swallowed. "How far are you going to take this—deception?"

He laughed, his blue eyes still tangled with hers. "Only this far." Unfastened, the waistcoat hung loosely but remained on his body. "But why so shy? You've seen me in nothing."

"It's not me I'm concerned about." A lie, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how he affected her.

Of course, one glance at his face told her that her deception failed.

He leaned down and touched her chin with his fingertip. "And it is precisely the others this act is for." Stooping in front of her dressing table, he looked in the mirror and mussed his hair.

She imagined he appeared exactly like a man who had been recently bedded. A different tightness attacked her stomach, knowing that, unlike her, he was intimately familiar with the look.

Perhaps intimately was a poor choice of words. The heat that had confined itself to her neck and face traveled to the rest of her body.

However, he wasn't finished with his illusion. He pulled the counterpane from the bed, and rumpled the sheets, tossing the pillows at odd angles. Hands on his hips, he studied the tableau, then nodded.

At the door, he turned. "I shall return with some refreshment shortly. Is there anything you . . . desire?"

"No." She choked on the word.

With a soft chuckle, he exited, closing the door with a much too loud click.

Charlotte stared at the twisted linens far too long. How long could she put him off? Or perhaps the real question was: How long did she wish to put him off? If the kiss at the church was any indication, Simon's boasts about his bedroom skills were not exaggerated, and to be honest, she found the prospect of experiencing them rather tempting. Her mind wandered, wondering what sort of naughty things Simon might do on the bed. Before her imagination could take her much farther than a few sensual kisses, the door opened.

"I brought a few things for you anyway." He placed a tray holding tea, some sandwiches, and a glass of wine on a nearby table.

"Why didn't you have a servant bring that up?" If he expected her to serve him, he was sadly mistaken.

"Ah, they would expect you to be naked and purring like a kitten in bed. And being a gentleman?—"

Purring like a kitten ?! The man had an ego the size of—well, she couldn't think of anything large enough at the moment. "You flatter yourself," she said, unwilling to admit her own thoughts moments before had been similar.

He frowned, something she admitted he did rarely. "Being a gentleman, I offered to bring it myself." He poured some tea, forgoing the sugar but adding a dash of milk, then handed it to her.

She blinked. "How did you . . . ?"

He shrugged, the careless lift of his shoulder natural and so like him. "I observe and learn. Besides, it's tea. How many ways can one take it?"

She sipped the perfectly prepared beverage, studying him over the rim. "It's early in the afternoon for wine, wouldn't you say?" With her luck, he was a drunk who hid it well.

"No. I wouldn't say. But it's not to drink. At least not all of it." With calculated precision, he peeled aside the rumpled sheets and dripped wine onto the middle of the bed.

"You fool! Wine is difficult to get out!"

A smirk covered his face as he peered over his shoulder. "So is blood. Oh, it's not a perfect match, but it will discourage any questions."

Oooh. That pesky heat made a reappearance, but mercifully, Simon either didn't notice or had the decency not to comment. She suspected the former, for surely, given the opportunity to chide her, he would leap upon it like a lion on its prey.

"So a tiny splash of wine is to indicate my deflowering?"

He frowned again at the splotch on the bed linens. "Yes."

"And how many women have you deflowered?" she asked, not certain she really wanted to know.

He met her gaze. "Doesn't it look realistic enough?"

"How would I know?"

"Right." He rubbed a hand across the back of his cravat-less neck. "I don't suppose you have a razor?"

"Whatever fo—" She recoiled. "To cut me?"

Eyes widened, he stared. "Of course not. Myself."

"You didn't answer my question."

He blinked. "I promise you; I didn't mean to cut you."

"Not that. About the women? How many have you deflowered?

Simon's face contorted, the rakish grin typically spreading across his face—gone. He appeared, in a word, pained. "Only one. It was a long time ago. I don't want to discuss it. It's not important. "

Oh, but from his reaction, it clearly was.

And Charlotte was determined to find out.

Cursed memory. Simon pushed it back into the dark recesses where it belonged. How dare Charlotte dredge it up! He should have known better. And how the hell had that Pandora's box been pried open?

Oh, yes. The wine on the sheet.

Charlotte pointed at the rumpled bed. "If you think that's going to fool anyone, you're a bigger nodcock than I presumed you were."

"Would you rather I slit my throat and make you a widow right away?" He hated the mocking tone in his voice, but he had to deflect her questioning.

She grinned at him, the harpy. "If you're offering."

How could she make his blood boil so much? And not just with anger. He hated how much he wanted her.

Pursing his lips, he tilted his head to the ceiling. "Um. I think not. It would make you too happy, and I relish spending more of my time on earth to vex you as much as possible." He picked up the deck of cards and shuffled them. "Which speaking of. Shall we?"

"As you rightly noted, I'm out of markers."

"Ah, yes. So you are. Perhaps we could wager for something else?"

"Such as?"

Oh, it was too tempting, especially given her challenging tone. He set the cards down and placed his hands on the arms of her chair, leaning toward her and boxing her in. "What about a kiss?"

"Ha! Not interested. That's not prize enough for me."

"I didn't say it was if you won. That's if I win—which I will, of course. But"—he pulled away—"In the spirit of fairness. Name your price."

"If I win, you must answer any question I ask honestly."

The determination in her luscious dark eyes gave him pause. She could call him a dolt, a rake, a scapegrace, and he would answer to them all. But in all things, he was an honest man.

The prospect was not appealing.

However, honest didn't necessarily mean truthful. Although he hadn't yet, he could cheat. "Very well. But one question, one answer at a time."

"And only one kiss at a time. On the hand."

"No specifying the body part. That is up to the winner's discretion." And he thought of many parts of her body he'd like to kiss.

As she mulled over the stakes, he stalked to the bed, sat down and patted the mattress next to him. "We could find other ways to pass the time."

Ah, there was the bloom of pink on her cheeks, softening her usual austere expression.

"You are?—"

"Incorrigible?"

Rather than freeze him, her scowl heated his blood.

Narrowed, her dark eyes challenged him. "Deal the cards."

Outside, the rain continued its patter against the windows, and occasionally, Charlotte glanced toward them, a flash of concern in her eyes at a distant sound of thunder.

"You think you'd be used to the rain, living in England." He meant nothing nefarious in his idle comment, but her attention jerked back to him as if he'd struck her.

"Of course I'm used to it. What type of ridiculous statement is that?" She studied her cards, her lips twitching.

"Do you want another card?" he asked, even though he knew her answer.

"No." She grinned .

"You have a horrible tell. If you expect to play cards well, you must control your emotions."

She stiffened at his words.

What had he said? He studied his cards, restraining his sigh of disappointment at the ten of clubs and six of diamonds. Too soon to cheat, he resigned himself to answering one question. How bad could it be? He laid down his hand. "Sixteen."

With a whoop of triumph, she laid down her ace of diamonds and queen of hearts. "Vingt-et-un!"

"You don't have to gloat. It's hardly a satisfying win against such a poor hand."

"You're a poor loser. Now, for my question." She rubbed her hands together. "Hmm. What shall I ask?"

Although he suspected the type of question she would ask, he hoped he could circumvent it with a vague answer. Much would depend on her phrasing.

Tapping her forefinger against her lips—why did it have to be her lips?—she spent a great deal of time considering her question. Or perhaps giving the appearance of considering it in order to vex him.

Yes, it had to be the latter.

"Well?" If he had to sit still waiting for her to ask her infernal question one moment longer, he would start drifting downward into that abyss of inactivity.

"Don't rush me. I must phrase it perfectly to avoid any chance of you skirting it."

Drat . His wife was a formidable opponent.

At long last, she said, "Tell me the name of the woman you deflowered."

Ah - ha! "That's a statement, not a question."

"Semantics, but very well. What is the name of the woman you deflowered?"

Is. Not was. Oh, he had an out in her phrasing, but if he used it, it would only lead to more questioning. He weighed his choices.

She held up a hand. "And before you answer, remember, you must be honest."

Decision made, he hoped her admittedly sharp mind would gloss over his meaning. "Her name was Joy."

She snorted her disbelief. "Joy? Likely story."

He shrugged. "It is your choice to believe or not believe. But it is the truth." Thank goodness she chose to focus on Joy's name instead of her state of being. However, a warning rang in his mind that more questions in the same vein would follow.

If necessary, he would have to cheat. He dealt the next hand. Eighteen. Damn. Good, but would it be good enough? He considered her upturned ten of hearts. At least his visible card was the eight of clubs.

Eyes trained on her face, he watched for her tell.

There . A slight flinch. Surely she didn't have a hidden ten or ace.

"Another card, my lady?" he asked, keeping his voice innocent.

She waved him off, and he held his breath, taking a gamble he had her beat and refraining from risking going over hoping for a two or three.

As she turned over a seven of diamonds, he withheld the excitement brewing in his veins.

Instead, he pouted, lifting the corner of his king of spades.

"Well, are you going to stare at that card all day or play it?" she snapped.

He met her gaze, drilling into the depths of her dark brown eyes. His only decision was where to kiss her.

Her gaze dipped to his card, and he took great care to turn it over as slowly as possible.

Her little rosebud mouth opened the tiniest bit, and he imagined probing inside with his tongue for a deep kiss .

"Now, that, my lady, is a satisfying win." Before claiming his prize, he leaned back in his chair, enjoying his moment of victory.

"You don't have to look so smug."

"Do you mean as you did with your win? My, my, how the tables have turned."

She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing his gaze to her breasts.

And lovely breasts they were. Full and round, the tops pushed up over her bodice.

"Are you going to take all day? Please get this over with," she snarled.

"Now, now. A kiss is nothing to rush or endure. It is to be savored, like an expensive brandy, or fine chocolate. My only dilemma is where to kiss you."

After rising from his seat, he moved over to her and touched her temple. "Here, perhaps?" His finger trailed a line to her jaw. "Or here? Maybe here?"

As his fingertip brushed the hollow of her throat, she shuddered.

Oh, he would definitely come back to that spot later. But first . . .

"I think I shall start here."

When he lifted her hand, he kept his eyes trained on her face.

The trepidation in her eyes vanished, and her shoulders relaxed.

Until he turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her palm.

She drew in an audible breath.

He lingered for a moment, his tongue sliding over her soft skin that tasted sweet and a little salty. His kiss sketched a line to the pulse point on her wrist, which quickened beneath his touch, the scent of lilac filling his nostrils and arousing his desire .

Yet, he wasn't the only one affected. The ice queen trembled. Perhaps she had a heart after all.

She jerked her hand away. "Enough! One kiss. You are taking liberties which I have not granted."

"Then I shall have to win another hand . . . and another . . . and another. For there are many places I wish to kiss you." If his face in any way evidenced the fire burning inside him, he would surely melt her icy heart with his gaze.

"I don't want to play any longer."

"You're just afraid to lose."

Oh, there was the glare he'd come to know and love. "I am not afraid. Deal the damn cards and prepare to answer the most outrageous of questions."

Hurried footsteps sounded out in the hall, followed by raised voices. Mid-deal, he stopped and, striding to the door, threw it open. A maid rushed past, carrying a large stack of towels.

He stepped into the hall. "What's going on?"

"Her Grace is having her baby!" the maid called over her shoulder as she rushed down the hall.

Simon spun toward Charlotte, only to find her right behind him. Panic slid up his spine and grabbed onto his mind with sharp claws.