Page 8 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

“Stop slouching, Henry,” Cressida said. She lifted her tea to her lips.

“I wasn’t slouching, I was merely resting,” Henry sighed as he sat up straight in his chair.

“If you have time to lean, you have time to read,” she said authoritatively, stressing the near-rhyme of the last word.

“Mama,” Henry protested.

Cressida set her teacup down and gracefully slid the open magazine closer to her son. She tapped her finger upon it, making a soft, satisfying thumping sound.

“Read,” she instructed. “I won’t have Dr. Collier think I’m raising you to be some idler. He ought to be here at any moment.”

Henry pulled a sour face, then snatched the magazine.

“Dear god! How long must I suffer,” Henry muttered under his breath as he riffled through the pages of Good Words for the Young .

“Hmm, several more years, I should think. Then you’ll come into your majority and can surrender the entirety of your income to your peers in some gambling hell.”

“I won’t,” he said, the slightest hint of remorse seeping into his words. Then, more forcefully, “I won’t! I swear it.”

“Then read,” Cressida said, picking up her tea once more. “And when Dr. Collier arrives, listen. Or else you might find yourself begging a spare penny off your brother someday.”

Henry groaned. But he finally set to reading.

It ought to be the easiest thing, for the Rowbotham House library was massive and bright, the ceiling nearly as high as the ballroom’s, with every inch of the walls covered with uniform shelves. The furnishings were subdued, but very fine indeed. Bartholomew had fancied himself one of the cognoscenti , but she’d never suffered the same delusion. For Cressida had always known her late husband to be an idiot. Still, at the very least, he had left her two fine sons and a lovely library, even if none of the wisdom contained within its volumes had improved his own way of thinking.

Cressida had proposed the unorthodox idea of tea in the library to start off Dr. Collier’s tenure with Henry. And then she would slip away, leaving the two of them to conduct their lessons in the library’s calm, scholastic environment. She’d made sure to have the servants set up a gaming table outfitted with all possible necessities, neatly arranged and ready for use.

Cressida took another sip. She had all but given up hope of coaxing this gentle giant of a doctor into anything more a cordial acquaintance with her after her ball. Perhaps she’d been too arrogant—too confident in her flirtations, presuming too much of her fading beauty. But Henry’s miserable losses at school had offered her another angle: inviting Dr. Collier into her home for an extended, and repeated, length of time. Although the wee lamb wouldn’t bite, Cressida would still enjoy making him blush. And more importantly, Henry wouldn’t end up a laughingstock. Her gaze settled fondly upon the boy. If she could spare her children any harm, by any possible means, she would do it. Neither of her parents had lived long enough to protect her from the most grievous hurt ever done to her.

Henry lowered the magazine with a frown.

“Why is the tutor a doctor, anyway? There’s nothing wrong with me.” He looked away, then back to Cressida, his brows knit. “Mama?”

Cressida laughed. “Of course there isn’t, darling.”

Henry eyed her skeptically.

“He simply happens to be a physician.” She waved her hand about, as if having a profession was a silly, nebulous concept. “That’s all.”

They continued on in silence for several more minutes, Henry pretending to read, Cressida pretending to enjoy her tea rather than imagining just what Dr. Collier looked like underneath his shirt and vest.

And then a servant knocked, sending her heart skipping like a silly maiden.

“Dr. Collier, my lady,” the footman announced.

The doctor was looking very well; he certainly scrubbed up nicely when he wanted to. He wore a tentative look and what must have been his best suit, which was neat enough to accentuate his fine, strong shoulders. He’d also combed his sandy hair, which had been a bit mussed when she’d called on him earlier that week; he no longer looked so absent-minded that he couldn’t be bothered to tidy up. She itched to have her way with him, to turn him out in the finest tailoring she could finagle out of Savile Row. What a figure he’d cut then.

The footman slipped away, and Henry stood and introduced himself, as he’d been taught.

“Please, Doctor, sit.” Cressida extended an arm. “We’ve been having tea. Do join us.”

Dr. Collier seated himself gingerly; he was evidently accustomed to having to mind his large frame around spindly furniture that was more decorative than functional.

Cressida poured him a cup of tea.

“Thank you,” he said, offering her only the briefest of glances before turning to Henry as he fiddled with his spectacles. “Ah, Good Words for the Young . That looks amusing.”

“Not really,” Henry sighed. “It’s instructive .”

“Ah.”

Henry pulled a face. Cressida met it with a stern look, and the boy softened.

Dr. Collier looked lost in thought. Goodness, she hoped she hadn’t overestimated his abilities. It would be a sorry end to this little interlude. And after it had seemed so promising, the idea of Henry learning his way around a pack of cards, and her making the handsome doctor blush.

“Milk?”

“No, thank you, and no sugar either.” The doctor waved her off without so much as a look. He was studying Henry intently, as if trying to figure the boy out in just these initial moments.

“What sorts of entertainment do you enjoy, Henry? Are you fond of reading?”

Her son looked at her, as if seeking permission or, more likely, a little encouragement. She nodded serenely.

“Sometimes,” he replied glumly, “but Mama won’t allow me the books I wish to read.”

“I see,” Dr. Collier said, his brow knit. “Do you prefer outdoor pursuits? Shooting, perhaps?”

Henry shook his head, too shy to voice his opinion assertively. He’d never cared for hunting, and didn’t enjoy riding like his elder brother.

Cressida felt a pang of sadness. Henry had always been wary of grown men, even his uncle Frederick. Privately she wondered if the blame lay with her, and her own selfishness. For if she’d deigned to remarry, to choose someone less repugnant than her first husband and deem them acceptable enough for her, someone like that daffy young diplomat, Richard… well, perhaps Henry might’ve benefited.

But she’d prized her freedom above all else.

“Erm, horses? No? What about shooting marbles? I was awfully fond of ring taw when I was a lad.”

Henry nodded shyly, a slight glint in his eye.

“Really? Well, that’s a start. We ought to set up a game—perhaps you could run and fetch yours.”

Henry hopped up excitedly, the forgotten Good Words slipping from his lap and onto the floor. He picked it up, then looked hesitantly at Cressida.

She nodded again, and the boy took off.

Irritated, she retrieved her tea from the table before her and lifted the cup to her mouth, her eyes trained on the sweet, milky brew within.

“Surely not marbles, Doctor?” She took a sip.

“A game he enjoys is a preferred place to begin,” he explained, his voice gentle. “Besides, it’ll give us a jumping-off point to talk of billiards.”

“Billiards?” Cressida set her tea down, eyeing the doctor skeptically. “I don’t recall inquiring after your talents at billiards.”

“Yes, but you did ask me to instruct him in games of skill, to make sure he isn’t a mark. Eventually he’ll end up getting into all sorts of nonsense; young men are adept at turning anything into a wager.” His hands rested upon his knees, his fingers fidgeting. “Many a bet is placed around billiards and snooker tables, my lady.”

At least he had the decency to look apologetic. In Cressida’s opinion, contrition was incredibly becoming in a man. Especially this man, this mountain of masculine energy tempered by a charming pair of spectacles and a kind countenance.

“I doubt Henry even knows how to play snooker—”

“Then I shall teach him.” Dr. Collier reached for his own tea. “Please, my lady. I do not wish to sound conceited but, well… there are few things I trust. My knowledge in this field is one of them.”

“Just this field?” Cressida said, feeling mischievous.

He furrowed his brow, thinking as he sipped. “Perhaps… perhaps in a couple others as well.”

“What others, pray tell?” She leaned forward, one elegant finger resting upon her chin. “For I can’t help but wonder about a certain… other entertainment.”

“A game of skill?”

“In some sense, yes.” She smiled devilishly. “But more often than not, a game of chance.”

Frowning, he set his tea down carefully. The china looked so dainty in his large hand.

“I don’t much go in for games of chance,” he said, his voice hard.

Oh no. She liked that. Far too much.

“A pity, then,” she purred. “For I often find those the best kinds of entertainment.”

“I beg to differ, my lady. And we should leave it at that, for Henry’s sake.”

Hang contrition. His expression had turned dark, his wide jaw firmly set. Cressida found herself desperate to have him like this. Serious and severe as he held her against him, both their bodies slick with sweat. To rile such a large, docile man… the idea was intoxicating.

And now she was determined.

Matthew looked to the massive shelves of books, hoping to move the conversation beyond Lady Caplin’s teasing. He would never risk anything significant upon something as capricious as a throw of the dice. Never again. He could still hear Uncle John admonishing him in his memory. Matthew had gone to bed without supper that night, bereft of not only his marble collection but also the comfort of a kind word and a gentle touch.

“It’s quite a collection. I had no idea Rowbotham House boasted such a library,” he said, almost to himself.

Why, there must be an Aldine edition in here somewhere, perhaps even a copy of Sir Joseph Banks’s Florilegium . With a collection this size, he wouldn’t be surprised by any treasure found within. If only he could have one day—hell, even just an afternoon—what could he learn? What fantastic works might he uncover?

“Yes, well. My late husband fancied himself somewhat of an autodidact,” Lady Caplin said, her words dripping with derision.

“And you thought him not?”

“Ha,” she said mildly. “A dilettante, at best. A bloody fool, more like.”

Matthew tore his gaze away from the towers of books. Lady Caplin was the picture of grace in every inch of her dress, in the flawless arrangement of her thick, dark hair. But the far-away look in her eyes and her taut expression gave her away.

“Anything he’d ever wanted was given to him with little effort on his part. So, naturally, he supposed that if he wished to be seen as a brilliant scholar, then he simply already was.” Her gaze wandered, as if those deep, dark eyes searched the shelves of the library for something no book could contain. “He’d gone all in with one exceptionally stupid notion before he passed. Phrenology. Absolute bosh. If we’re to accept bumps on the head as predictive of one’s abilities, why not call palm reading a science? It’s certainly a more comfortable practice.” She snorted, then turned back to Matthew. “I told him if he ever came near my skull with a pair of calipers I would scream for Wardle.”

“You and your husband didn’t get on, I gather.”

“Oh? Whatever gave you that idea?” She forced a smile that bordered on terrifying, her eyes flashing.

Matthew swallowed. His heart raced, and he sat up straighter. It almost felt as if he were engaging in something dangerous, illicit. For a petite widow, she could be awfully fierce.

But he was learning. This time he would tread carefully.

“When I asked you about him before, during the game of vingt-un …” He shifted forward in his seat. “Please understand, I was only trying to ask questions similar to those you’d put to me. I didn’t intend—or, rather, I didn’t mean anything by it.” He dropped his voice low. “I only meant to play the game. By the example you’d set.” He slid his spectacles down his nose and looked over the lenses at her, his gaze intense. “My lady.”

She stared back at him, blinking. And then something within her shifted. Once more she was all doe eyes and suggestive smiles.

“I thought you didn’t much go in for this sort of game, Doctor.”

“I consider myself a quick study,” his voice rumbled in his chest.

He couldn’t recall ever speaking like this to anybody. When had he ever engaged in this sort of behavior? Fleeting glances, double entendres, indecent insinuations?

“Truly?” She reached forward to pour herself more tea. Her gown was cut moderately low, he couldn’t help but notice.

Damn it. The woman knew exactly what she was doing. Lady or no lady, she trifled with him.

“I can see you’ve improved,” she murmured as she dropped in a sugar cube, “though I admit, I do miss your more novice efforts. You’ve such a charming way about yourself.”

And then she looked up at him with the most dazzling smile, all lovely teeth and, by god, those dimples. His head felt swimmy; he quickly lost his newfound footing.

A viscountess, a pretty—no, a gorgeous —viscountess was trifling with him, found him charming. But she belonged with men of her own station. Men of consequence. Members of the Athenaeum.

It would likely be pigeon pie on the menu at the Transom Club tonight.

This time she watched him over the rim of her teacup as she sipped, that one thick brow cocked, challenging him.

Several rejoinders came to mind—all cleverly suggestive quips that invited more from her. He clasped his hands, worrying them as he weighed his options. The trick, it seemed, was to not go too far beyond the pale. For this was all in fun; there was no meaning behind it, of that he felt certain. For truly, Matthew could not make sense of the rules if this was all in earnest.

He opened his mouth to speak.

The door slammed open.

Henry stomped into the library. Matthew had missed his chance.

“Mama, did you set a maid upon all my things? It took me an age to find my marbles. Everything was all tidied up in boxes, not how I’d left it. Not. At. All .”

Henry paused a short distance from them, a wooden box tucked under one arm.

“What is it? What’s gone wrong?” He looked quizzically at Matthew.

Too late Matthew realized his mouth was still hanging open. He clapped it shut.

“Nothing, darling. Dr. Collier and I were speaking of games, that’s all.”

Matthew nodded vigorously, hoping his face wasn’t flushed. He shoved his spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose.

“Is he to be my tutor or yours?” Henry rolled his eyes. “You’d better get on with it, Mama,” he said seriously, his hands tapping at the wooden box. “Marbles can take an age to play, when one is serious.”

“Let it never be said that I would impede two fine gentlemen in their pursuit of entertainment.” Lady Caplin made an elegant show of getting up and moving to depart.

She paused before Henry and gave him a stern look.

“No punting.”

Henry groaned.

“Not yet,” she said, then cupped his cheek fondly.

She glanced back at Matthew, one side of her mouth quirked up slyly.

“Thank you, Dr. Collier.”

Matthew nodded, feeling as foolish as ever.

He would wager hers wasn’t a game of chance, as she’d suggested. No, it was one of skill. And soon he’d be able to play it as adeptly as she.

He didn’t tear his eyes away until the door closed behind her.