Passion for the Game

“I shall find a suitable female posthaste.”

Maria leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

“Mhuirnin?”

“Yes?” She heard his glass settle on the surface of the sideboard and then the steady sound of Simon’s confident stride. It made her sigh, flooding her with a sense of comfort she struggled to deny herself.

“Time for bed.” His large hand covered hers where it curved around the chair arm, and the rich scent of his skin filled her nostrils. Sandalwood. Pure Simon.

“There is too much to be considered,” she protested, her eyes opening just enough to look up at him.

“Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.” He tugged her up and when she stumbled, he caught her close, embracing her in warmth. “You know I will not be swayed until you do as I say.”

Her body attempted to melt against his, and Maria squeezed her eyes shut to fight off the urge.

She could not help but remember the feel of him moving over and inside her, an association she had put an end to over a year ago. When his touch had come to mean more to her than mere physical comfort, Maria had concluded the affair. She could not afford to become complacent or feel contentment. Still, Simon remained in her household. She refused to love him, but she could not send him away either. She adored him and appreciated his friendship and his knowledge of the underbelly of society.

“I know your rules.” His hands cradled her spine.

He did not like them, she knew. His carnal interest had not waned. She felt it even now, pressing hard against her stomach. A younger man’s appetite.

“If I were a better woman, I would make you go.”

Simon sighed into her hair and pulled her closer. “Have you learned nothing about me in the years we have been together? You could not make me leave. I owe you my life.”

“You exaggerate,” she admonished, recollecting when she first saw him in an alleyway, standing alone against a dozen opponents. He held his own with a ferocity that frightened and aroused her. She almost continued on, her aim that dark night to follow a lead on Amelia that seemed more promising than most. But her conscience would not allow her to ignore the imbalanced battle.

Brandishing sword and pistol, and flanked by several men, she managed to be sufficiently intimidating and the attackers had been frightened away. Left weakened and bloody, Simon had still chastised her roundly. He did not need rescuing, he said.

Then he collapsed at her feet.

Her original intent had been merely to clean him up and ease her conscience. Then he had emerged from a bath, a virile and breathtaking creature. And she had kept him.

Simon stepped back, his mouth curving in a wry smile as if he knew her thoughts. “I would face a dozen men again, hundreds, if it led me back to your bed.”

Maria shook her head. “You are incorrigible, and overly randy.”

“It is impossible to be too randy,” he said with laughter in his voice, leading her toward the door with his hand at the small of her back. “You will not distract me from ushering you into bed. You need rest and sweet dreams.”

“Ah, have you learned nothing about me?” she queried as they stepped out to the hallway and took the stairs. “I prefer not to dream. It makes waking so depressing.”

“One day all will be well,” he promised in a low, assured tone. “I promise you.”

She yawned and then gasped as she was swung up into powerful arms. Within moments she was tucked into bed with a quick good-night kiss pressed to her forehead. As Simon retired, the soft click of the adjoining door made relaxation possible.

But it was a different set of blue eyes that followed her into sleep.

“Good evening, sir.”

Christopher nodded at his butler. From his drawing room on the left, raucous laughter spilled out of the open double doors to fill the entryway where he stood.

“Send Philip to me directly,” he ordered softly, handing over his hat and gloves.

“Yes, sir.”

Crossing to the stairs, he passed the boisterous group of his men and their companions. They called out to him, and he paused a moment on the threshold, his gaze moving over the assembled crowd he considered his family. They were celebrating his release-the luck of the devil, they said-but work awaited him. There was much he needed to ascertain and accomplish if he wished to ensure his present state of freedom.

“Enjoy yourselves,” he urged before taking the stairs with shouted protests following him to the second floor.

He reached his rooms and, with the help of his valet began to undress. He was shrugging free of his waistcoat when the young man he had requested rapped lightly on the door and then entered at his behest.

“What have you learned?” Christopher asked without preliminaries.

“About as much as one could expect to learn in the space of a day.” Philip tugged at his cravat and started pacing, his pale green coat and breeches a stark contrast to the stamped leather that lined the walls.

“How many times must I warn you about your fidgeting?” Christopher admonished. “It betrays a weakness that begs to be exploited.”

“My apologies.” The youth adjusted his spectacles and coughed.

“No need to apologize. Simply correct it. Stand straight, no slouching, and look me in the eye like an equal.”

“But I am not your equal!” Philip protested, pausing midstride, looking for a moment very much like the five- year-old child who had appeared on Christopher’s doorstep orphaned, beaten, and destitute.

“No, you are not,” Christopher agreed, moving as required to facilitate his disrobing, “but you must attempt to face me as one. Respect is earned here and in the world at large. No one will give it to you simply because you are pleasant and thorough. In fact, many an idiot has obtained success merely by acting as if it were his right.”

“Yes, sir.” Philip squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.

Christopher smiled. The boy would become a man yet. One who could stand firmly on his own two feet and survive the worst life could throw at him. “Excellent. Now speak.”

“Lady Winter is six and twenty, twice widowed, with neither husband surviving more than two years in her bed.”

Shaking his head, Christopher said, “Can you begin with something I do not know and then continue in that vein?”

Philip flushed.

“Do not become flustered. Simply remember that time is valuable and you want others to consider yours to be of some worth. You should always lead off with the kernel of information most likely to pique interest. Then proceed from there.”

Taking a deep breath, Philip blurted, “She has a resident paramour.”

“Well…” Christopher stilled, awash in visions of a softer Lady Winter, a woman flushed and sated from passionate play. It was his valet’s sharp tug to his waistband that pulled him out of his surprise. Freeing the placket of his breeches, he cleared his throat and said, “That’s more like it.”

“Oh, good! I was unable to gather much aside from his Irish descent, but I can tell you he has been a member of her household since Lord Winter passed on two years ago.”

Two years.

“Also, I find something curious about her relations with her stepfather, Lord Welton.”

“Curious?” Christopher asked.

“Yes, the servant I spoke with mentioned his frequent visits. I find that odd.”

“Perhaps because your relations with your stepfather were less than satisfactory?”

“Perhaps.”

Christopher thrust his arms through the robe his valet held out for him. “Thompson, bring Beth and Angelica to me.”

The valet bowed slightly before doing as he was bid, and Christopher left the dressing room for the sitting area. “What do we know of her finances?” he tossed over his shoulder.

“Not enough at the moment,” Philip answered, following, “but that will be rectified in the morning. She appears