Chapter One #2
“Will the dealer introduce himself? And tell us about the game?” asked a third voice. This one honey-rich, deep, thrilling.
And familiar. It couldn’t be. She was looking up at him before she realized it, and once she’d started looking, she could not stop.
Dark sandy hair waved back from his forehead over thick brows a shade darker than the rest. He had the type of hair women swooned over, the type that would swallow a lady’s fingers and fall rakishly forward when tousled.
Below, dark-blue eyes glittered with curiosity, deep as an ocean and just as lonely.
Several days’ worth of scruff ranged across his square jaw and surrounded well-shaped lips that beckoned her tongue to part her teeth, smooth her own lips over them for a taste.
He slouched, indolent and waiting, the gleaming mahogany chair back circling his broad frame, seeming delicate compared to him. His broad shoulders broke past the chair’s confines, and his long, elegant fingers drummed a slow rhythm on the table.
He was made for a lady’s pleasure, and he made her feel as if an ocean of desire stormed beneath her skin. Beautifully dangerous. Terribly thrilling.
Yes, she knew him well, the cad.
Felix Canterbury, Viscount Foxton. Her childhood friend.
He regarded her with half-closed eyes. That gaze flayed her. It felt as if he could see past her charade, past her every defense, deep down into her bones.
What a ridiculous flight of fancy. He saw what she showed him—a young man without the confidence to sit up straight.
But Felix had known her so long, seen her tears and her smiles, her laughter and her fears. If anyone could see through her disguise…
She bounced to her feet and made for the door. “Excuse me. A word, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” She paced the hallway until the older woman followed, clicked the door softly shut. Then she exploded. “What is Felix doing here?”
“Felix?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon blinked. “Oh. Lord Foxton.”
“I thought Lord Palmerson was supposed to be the third man.”
“He’s ill. Bowed out. I had to find a replacement.
You’re lucky I discovered that Lord Foxton fits your requirements.
Looking for a wife, possesses an unentailed house he does not care for.
Is younger than forty. I tire of repeating myself, but”—her sigh was so gusty, so put upon, it wafted her veil forward—“if you consider dropping just one of those requirements, then—”
“No. I say again, all requirements are essential. But Felix—Foxton—must give up his place at that table. Now.” He might recognize her. He would recognize her.
Mrs. Dove Lyon’s hands hit her hips. “You are being stubborn again.”
Caroline shrugged. “And I will not stop being stubborn. Not on this matter.” It had been years since she’d seen him.
She could not remember the date. Remembered only the moment—eyes locking across a crowded ballroom, his devilish wink, how he’d held her gaze as he’d dropped low to whisper something in a lady’s ear then take her earlobe between his teeth. Daring Caroline to react.
She’d not given him that satisfaction. But she’d been unable to keep a shiver from rippling up her spine.
Her earlobe, untouched by his teeth, had tingled.
She tugged that earlobe now. He reduced her to a damn girl .
Why couldn’t time have eroded her body’s reaction to him?
Why had his callousness not banished it?
“You’ve no choice,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Lord Foxton remains at the table tonight.”
“Only three men will play.”
“Those men agreed to a game of wits with four total players,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice was low and hard, the voice of a woman who rarely compromised.
“And, if you must know, there are others betting on the outcome of this game. Odds are not to be tampered with. But more importantly. You promised me three houses in addition to the price for my matchmaking services. Do you think to cheat me?”
No escape. Caroline would have to sit at a table with Felix and pray he didn’t recognize her. Pray he didn’t win.
Wait… He wouldn’t win. They’d played games together as children. He hated riddles. As much as she loved them. Marvelous. “Very well. I concede.”
The widow went still. No doubt beyond her veil she was shocked. A concession? From the most stubborn lady in London?
Enjoy it while it lasts. Caroline swept past her and reentered the room. Took her seat once more at the table, not looking back as the widow’s skirts swept inside and the door clicked softly closed.
“About the game,” Felix drawled, one gloved finger tap, tap, tapping in a measured movement. Controlled. Yet annoyed. Simultaneously. She’d heard just that tone before, seen just that unconscious action. “Are we ever to learn what it is?”
Caroline reached for the paper in her pocket and gestured to the pencils and stark, blank rectangles of paper set before each man at the table. “Of course. Are we ready to play?”
Three of them said they were. Simple as that. No pacifying smiles. No contradictions. No one pointing out that a woman should not be giving them orders. This little disguise, no matter how thin over her curves, had its benefits.
Felix, leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his back.
The fine wool of his jacket stretched taut across his biceps.
His bottle-green waistcoat threatened to pop a button with each breath that expanded his broad chest. The light of competition made his blue eyes glow.
Whoever had determined tight clothing fashionable for gentlemen had not been thinking of Felix.
Clearly . If they’d known he would merely breathe and rip his shirt seams, giving all of London a show sure to make the ladies swoon and the men burn with envy, that fashion paragon would have put men in the baggiest jackets and loosest trousers. To preserve the moral tenor of society.
Felix could burn morality to ash with a single brooding look, an unconscious flex of his bicep.
And he could burn her down with less than that, with a memory, a single moment of recognition.
But he didn’t recognize her. If he did, he wouldn’t look so confident.
“The game we play tonight,” she said in a low voice not her own, “is a game of wits.” She unfolded her paper, read it in the dim light. “Now, gentlemen, I hope you’re good at riddles…”