Page 13 of For a Scandalous Wager (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #3)
CHAPTER 12
R ochester felt relieved when he found Evelyn awake, but he had not anticipated what her presence in his room would make him feel. True, his libido was no match for his concern while she slept off the storm, but he identified a battle brewing beneath his thinly controlled attraction for her, and he was as unprotected against that as he’d been against the rain.
God, must he remind himself again she was Winn’s little sister?
She argued with him, insisting that he lacked good sense when he suggested they begin the tour of his home with the entry hall. Her bold proposal would have them starting with the room she’d stayed in. Which, of course, was his and the reason he didn’t start there.
“I give you the foyer.” He stretched his arms in a grand gesture. It was beautiful, the one saving grace when he’d purchased the house. He watched her as she stretched her gaze about the arched hall. An impressive gallery lined three sides. The light-blue medallion central to the ceiling in the foyer had a painting of the Tree of Life at its heart, and the marble floor boasted the same shade of cloud blue. But the walls, painted a warm dove gray, were beautifully simple without a muss of portraits, except for the mirror that hung over the mahogany entry table.
He liked simplicity.
“It’s beautifully understated, truly.” Her adoring gaze slowly perused the ceiling and walls. “Just a mirror?” She shook her head, her mouth parted in awe. “When so many homes are covered in gaudy portraits and gold filigree, you’ve left us to look nowhere else but that amazing ceiling.”
“Thank you.” He held his shoulders back, internally shaking off the unexpected emotion that bloomed from her appreciation of his home. “I can’t take credit for it, though. It was like this when I purchased it.” He wet his lips as he looked at her profile, then cleared his throat and threw himself into the gallant role of a gentleman. He leaned close, sliding his fingers from her dainty wrist to her hand, lifting it to his mouth for a kiss.
She gave a startled jerk but smiled at his performance. “Now, I am certain that it was not you who kissed me in the alcove.”
“Should I be offended by your remark, madam, or did you find this kiss better?”
She clothed her fa?ade with the severe look of a scientist and brazenly proclaimed, “Not better.”
“Then offended it shall be.”
“Not to say it wasn’t pleasant, Mr. Rochester. You shouldn’t compare yourself to Casanova.”
“Do you think he was truly that good? Hm, I don’t see the appeal.”
“Casanova? It’s the legend that’s appealing. When you achieve such notoriety, let me know.”
He slanted her a wry, crooked smile while worshiping her mouth with a gaze.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, feigning a swoony sigh complete with the back of her hand to her forehead. “I didn’t know your eyes could smolder that way. But you still owe me a shilling.”
“Miss Markham, you are proving more difficult to please than I first anticipated.”
“I hope not.” She favored him with a genuine smile.
Perhaps she did not know how strong his attraction was for her after all. He thought his effort to keep her at a distance had been obvious. Nothing good could come from courting her when her father would never agree, and she deserved someone honest, better, more reliable than a man who irresponsibly gambled away a fortune in one night. Such foolishness had all but ruined him and Darrington and did ruin Winn for a time. During their three-year hiatus, they’d all matured. Winn even married. But it was Winn’s father—her father—who kept him down now. It would take a phoenix to rise from that ash.
“Your smile gives me hope, madam.” He’d never tasted her lips, and now he couldn’t stop thinking of them. He took a cleansing breath. “Moving along to the drawing room.” He led the way through the foyer, past two closed doors.
“You’ve forgotten these rooms,” she said, halting between the doors.
“What if it’s a broom closet?”
“It’s not. Not off the foyer. It has to be a salon.” She broke free from his gaze and turned the latch on the second door.
With his hands clasped behind him, he followed her into an empty salon.
She stood in one spot, rolling her head in a slow arc, while her gaze danced over the walls and windows before meeting his eyes. “What a cozy parlor. What’s wrong with it besides the lack of furniture?”
Little by little, her presence drew out his truest self, and he found his voice, something he rarely heard. “It’s a hideous shade of puce.” His mouth turned down, and he scrunched his nose.
“Puce is a dirty mauve. This is green.”
“This is puce green, and it’s ugly as sin. Not at all to my taste.”
“Neither is royal blue, apparently.” She absently traced a finger along the wainscotting, rubbed a smear of dust against her thumb, then brushed her hands together and turned toward him.
“What makes you think I hate royal blue?”
“My royal-blue gown? The one I wore at the ball where you first refused me?” Her eyebrows shot up as if that said it all. And just like that, the game was on again.
“Miss Markham, in case you weren’t aware, that royal-blue bedroom you’re sleeping in is mine.” He placed a hand on his heart.
She turned to hide the stunning blush that rushed her cheeks. “Then it’s just me you don’t care to see in royal blue?”
His mouth went dry, and the truth caught in his throat. He couldn’t tell her that watching her sleep, her hair the color of rich butterscotch toffee lying against royal-blue crushed velvet made him want to press her beneath his body, his touch, his mouth. He forced down a swallow. “I believe we’ve discussed this before, and I explained that my only goal in saying such a dreadful thing was to discourage your preposterous plan to fool a baron.”
She shrugged, haughtily fanning her eyelids closed. “Well, I burned it. So, no matter.”
“The deuce, you say.” His hands went to his hips. Teasing or no, he felt a surge of fresh guilt every time she brought up the subject, and it began to grow in him like an ache. “No one’s opinion should mean that much to you, Evelyn. Least of all mine.” He sincerely meant it.
“Least of all?” she asked, hiding behind sarcasm and banter. She passed him to the door. With her back to him and the room, she mocked him in good humor. “You know your opinion is the only one that counts.”
Next, they visited the drawing room, where inviting summer-green wallpaper accented the half-paneled walls. She twitched an eyebrow, hinting at the color.
“Not puce,” he emphasized. He wanted to walk up behind her, draw her close, and sample the silky skin of her nape. He had a sudden urge to suck the sweet spot behind her ear until he marked her with it. His mouth watered. His hands made fists, and he returned her innocent grin with a forced smile.
“All right, I concede, it’s not puce. You may unclench your hands now, Mr. Rochester.”
“My apologies. I was planning the next test.” He returned her blush with a smile, feeling his eyes crinkle at the edges with it. “Not to worry, I don’t think I should try it here when this is essentially my boudoir and that red sofa my bed.” He looked about without moving his head, placing his hands behind his back. When his gaze fell on her, she was blushing again.
“Where to next,” she said a bit too breathlessly as if trying to convince him that the comment didn’t move her.
“A very special room.”
“The broom closet?” she asked in a charming, musical tone.
He held up a finger. “Not quite.” She followed him, passing more closed-off rooms. Then he stopped, braced his hands against two ornately carved oak panels in the wall, slid them apart with a well-oiled whoosh, and revealed the billiard room. It was as large as the drawing room but with fewer chairs, no sofas, a more complete bar, and a high sideboard table specially built to leave drinks on or lean against. He rubbed his jaw, smiling fiercely. His heart hammering like a young fop’s first tumble between the sheets.
Her mouth parted, and her eyes shone with awe as they’d done in the entry hall. “Now, this is a room, Mr. Rochester. And it smells rich and wonderful. What is that?”
“A special blend of wood polish scented with sandalwood and musk. Do you like it?”
She nodded, that same perplexingly awed expression on her face. She opened her mouth to speak and then sighed, running her fingers along the deep burgundy baize of the billiard table while scouting out the rich mahogany paneling and the unique lanterns he had made to hang over the table for night play. He didn’t generally care for anyone to touch the table, but he’d allow her almost anything. Besides, he’d just as soon lay her on it and make love to her. Pleased with her reaction, he felt his lips curl into a generous grin.
“I had the baize specially dyed because green and gold are too ordinary for billiards. The windows face west to take advantage of as much sun as possible before the oil lamps need lighting. Daylight is best for play, but a good player can shoot blindfolded.”
She whipped about, her hair coming to lie over her shoulder. “Can you shoot blindfolded?”
“Some shots if I have a good even lay, and I know the table.”
“Will you do it for me?”
He scrubbed a hand thoughtfully back and forth across his mouth, then licked his lips, and reached for his neckcloth. Her face beamed; her smile infectious. “Bring me that cedar box.” He pointed to one of several polished boxes that held the billiard balls. “Open it, if you will, and hand me a white ball and a red one.” With his neckcloth hanging loose, he chose a stick, chalked the end, and looked down it like the barrel of a gun.
“What is this? Practicing during the day?” Hudson bellowed from outside the opened door.
Rochester fanned a hand, indicating he wasn’t needed. “Go away, Hud. I’m busy.”
As expected, his cousin ignored the command and strolled into the room with an open ledger. “And who do we have here?” Hudson snapped the log closed, placing it under one arm and bowing toward Evelyn.
“Miss Evelyn Markham, this is Hudson Wright, my illustrious cousin. He lives here sometimes.” Rochester flared his eyes at him, hoping he’d make himself scarce for the afternoon.
“My pleasure, Mr. Wright.”
Hudson tsked , shaking his head. “No, no, no. You mustn’t Mister me. It’s just Hudson. I’m not a proper aristocrat like this nob over here.” Hudson hinted with a tilt of his head toward Rochester.
She looked between them. “You could be brothers.”
The comment hit Rochester’s heart. Hudson was more a brother to him than his own.
Hud smiled, and Rochester found himself at a loss. He’d never truly felt jealous before, but Evelyn seemed to like his cousin. She regarded him with ease, her hands demurely clasped in front of her.
“Rochester, you haven’t told her about me? For shame.”
“For shame, nothing. I haven’t had a chance.”
“I have a feeling that knowing one of you is as good as knowing the other.”
Hudson roared with laughter. “Bravo. She’s correct on all accounts.” He raised his eyebrows daringly. Then he caught sight of Rochester’s cravat and waved a hand toward it. “Rochester is almost always impeccably dressed, so I’m guessing he’s about to share with you his talent with a blindfold.”
She nodded eagerly. “Can he truly do it?”
“Well, madam, I am his account keeper, bet taker, and overall steward of his businesses.” He winked. “So, yes. I’d say he can do it. I hope you haven’t wagered with him. If so, I’ll force him to pay it back.” Hudson smiled outrageously at him, and Rochester almost suspected his cousin of knowing about the shilling, though he’d never told anyone.
Evelyn eyed him as she spoke. “Oh, but he does owe me a shilling for missing a shot some time ago.”
“Does he?” Hudson made a show of checking the ledgers. “When would that be, my lady?”
“Two Christmases past, I’m afraid.”
Rochester tapped the toe of his boot against the waxed floor, feeling for the shilling.
“Did he tell you he never misses? And then hustle your bet?”
“Nothing so scandalous as that, I’m sure. In truth, he said nothing, just pointed that stick at a ball and missed.”
“Completely?” Now Hudson actually looked confounded.
“Unless, of course, he did it on purpose,” Evelyn said, a teasing accusation behind her tone.
Rochester ignored them both, lined up the shot, whipped off the neckcloth, and blindfolded himself. He groped about for the cue stick, then ran his hand slowly over the baize, careful not to disturb it, locating the ball. Next, he leaned his thigh gently into the side of the table and made a slight adjustment to his angle. Feeling for the ball again, steady on his feet, he slid the stick through his finger and, without waiting another second, struck the cue ball, instantly hearing the satisfied sound of ivory clacking ivory. He heard Evelyn’s delightful squeal even before he removed the blindfold.
“I would not have believed it possible if I hadn’t seen it for myself. You truly are a master at this. It should be an official sport.”
“It will be someday,” Hudson said with assurance. More assurance than Rochester felt. “Nicely done, Rochester. Seriously, I mean it.”
Rochester resisted the urge to roll his eyes, smirking instead because what else was he to do? He felt that compliments on his talent should be reserved for gameplay. This was a setup, a trick, something he practiced for show.
Hudson sighed dramatically. “You’ll have to excuse him, Miss Markham. He’s bashful when it comes to praise.”
“Is there something else I can do for you, Hudson? Anything? Now?” Rochester emphasized the now, throwing him a speaking look before racking the cue stick.
“And I believe that is my invitation to leave you to your game. It’s been a pleasure, my dear.”
“All mine, Mr. Wright.”
Hudson stopped in front of her, his chin pressed to his chest.
“Hudson,” she corrected with a solemn bow of her head.
Rochester watched his cousin retreat, and when he was clear of Evelyn’s view, Hud turned his head and gave a thumbs up. Rochester didn’t need his approval, but it made him glad all the same.
“I like him,” she said. “Will you answer a question for me?” Her gaze was serious, and she appeared worried.
He thought he knew what it was, but he nodded and allowed her to ask anyway.
“Does he know I’m to stay the week? And what does he think of me after two nights in your bed?”
Lord, hearing her say his bed lit a fire in his groin. His thighs flexed involuntarily. “Hudson is special. He’s not swayed by propriety’s rules, nor does he pass judgment. And he cares enough for me not to ask questions. But if you’re uncomfortable, I’m open to suggestions, even to the extent of asking him to leave for a time.”
The worry lines on her forehead softened. “I trust you. I suppose it’s too late even if I didn’t.” She moved to the window, her profile beautiful and serene. She folded her arms. “Rochester? Why did he say that praise distresses you?” The question sobered him more than her trust.
“I’m not opposed to praise when it’s deserved.”
“Your talent is deserving,” she slanted him a glance over her shoulder. “And if you think otherwise, then you’re a fool.”
Listening to her say that he deserved anything meant everything . This thing he did, smacking red and white ivory balls around a table with a stick, was more important than an idle hobby. It provided an income in part and a place to feed his portfolio with business deals and information. He thought of it as collecting people. It wasn’t just a game, not to him. His father didn’t understand that, which added to the man’s hardened heart toward Rochester. His fondness toward his eldest son was coarse and jagged. Which is perhaps why Evelyn’s opinion was so significantly powerful. It felt like a caress to his soul.
He needed to regain control of the moment.
“I’ll make you an offer. Either you stop provoking me with accusations about the blue gown, or you stop calling me a fool.” He said it with a smile in his voice, using humor to distract her.
“That is a difficult choice. What happens if I don’t comply?”
“I’ll give you a real kiss, nothing like your phantom Casanova, I promise you that.”
She bit into a smile. “That’s not much incentive, is it?”
“Trust me when I say it should be. I’m not as honorable as I look. Don’t let the fancy clothes mislead you.” He moved to put the billiard balls away and found he couldn’t let the subject of praise go.
The cedar box felt smooth and cool. It had been a gift from his cousin when they first began working together on this project. “About the accolades,” he said, his back to her while he shut the lid and slid the gold hook into its eye. “Complimenting a real game of billiards is appreciated, but not when it’s a contrived shot. It’s all tricks and nonsense.”
She strolled toward him, stopping just short of the table. “Are you saying you could see through the blindfold?”
The untied cravat still hung loose about his neck, and he yanked it with a snap. They stood feet apart, and he closed the gap with one stride. He took her by the shoulders, turning her about with her back facing him. Holding the pristine cloth between both hands, he covered her eyes, making sure to keep the fold wide enough that she couldn’t see from the side or underneath. He tied it, adjusting her hair around her silky neck.
“Now,” he whispered in her ear, satisfied to see gooseflesh prickle where he touched her like a ripple in the water, fanning out to cover every exposed inch of skin. “Can you see anything?”
“You’re waving a hand in front of my eyes.”
Putting both hands on either side of her upper arms, he turned her partway, tilting his head to see her face, checking the neckcloth in case it had fallen loose.
She giggled, crossed her arms, placed her hands over his, and gave him a pat. “I cannot see you,” she said. “I could feel the fanning wisp of air. And you smell delicious, by the way.”
His pulse quickened. Before she could reach up and pull the blindfold down, he leaned close, brushing the tip of his nose along her neck. “You smell like fresh lavender and heat.”
She fluttered. The slightest little shudder.
He smoothed his lips lightly over her skin, a tickling erotic pleasure, and she relaxed ever so slightly against his chest. His heart beat hard enough that it felt like an echo against her. There was little hope that she didn’t feel it, too. She was like silk under his palms as he slid his hands down her arms and wrapped his fingers around her wrists. He crossed both their arms in front of her, pulling her into an intimate embrace against him, their arms entwined just under her breasts. The soft swells resting against his forearms were forbiddingly delightful.
His actions were too much, too far, and equally not enough. He blew out a soft sigh on her shoulder and then kissed her nape. But not like the alcove. This time he savored it, drinking in the scent of her skin, opening his mouth to taste her, gently sucking and fighting the urge to increase the pressure and hear her whimper. Little sexy sounds. Womanly sounds. The kind that created their own oxygen and life. The kind that made him tight and hard.
Just the thought thickened his need, and she had to know it. He wanted to rub his hips against her derriere, but this had not been his intent. He hadn’t expected one taste of her to feel like an erotic storm. He released the draw on her skin, gave her one last kiss, and then drew his mouth up her neck and nipped her ear lobe.
“Miss Markham, let me know when you’re finished with your analysis of that kiss.”
Her throat bobbed, and he realized her chest rose and fell in little pants.
“I’ll need to get back to you on that.”
“After you catch your breath?” he dared ask.
She nodded.
“And will I need to debate you on your findings?”
“While I still wear the blindfold, I couldn’t say who you are, could I?”
He knew the statement had more to do with the fallout of that kiss and how it affected their friendship. This was a side that neither had ever explored. Not together. But all the banter, all the times in her presence when she’d teased him, stroked his humor, he’d always known it led here.
She was dangerous to his freedom and to his friendship with her brother.
She gave him hope—the most dangerous thing of all. She made him believe in dreams that he could be what he wished. He was more than an heir to a viscountcy, even one that held his surname as the title. In her presence, he wanted more from life.
He wanted her.