Passion for the Game (Georgian #2)

Passion for the Game (Georgian #2) Page 5

The blonde nodded, a movement that caused her large, unfettered breasts to sway within her pale blue gown.

“And me?” Angelica asked, her painted mouth curving with anticipation.

“You, my dark-eyed beauty, will serve as a distraction when required.”

He was uncertain whether it was Lady Winter’s purse that captivated her lover’s attention, her beauty, or both. Taking no chances, Christopher hoped Angelica’s exotic features and a careful y crafted façade of wealth would be enough to lure his rival away. She was not nearly as refined as the Wintry Widow, but she was curvy enough and bore the clear hal marks of Spanish bloodlines. In a darkened room, she could pass.

Rubbing the slight sting left on his wrist by Lady Winter’s ring, Christopher found himself desirous of the infamous seductress’s company. What a fine piece she was. Fragile in appearance and fierce in temperament. He knew, without question, that his life was about to become far more interesting than it had been of late. It was almost depressing that he had to wait a few days before he could tangle with her again.

In the meantime, his appetites were roused by lack of female companionship. He had been imprisoned for weeks. Surely that was the only reason he was thinking of the Wintry Widow with such fierce carnal interest. She was a task to accomplish, nothing more.

Still, when he lifted his hand and waved his visitors away, he drawled, “Not you, Angelica. I want you to stay.”

She licked her lips.

“Lock the door, love. Then turn down the lamps.”

Christopher sighed as the lights dimmed. Not Lady Winter. But in a darkened room, she could pass.

Chapter 3

“Can I tel you all the many things I adore about you, mhuirnin?”

Maria shook her head, her mouth curving in a faint smile. Arm’s distance away, Simon lounged on the opposite bench, his large frame beautifully covered in cream-colored satin embroidered with flowers in fine gold thread. Against the backdrop of a serene lake and green grass, the singular color of his blue eyes stood out with stunning effect.

“No?” he drawled. “Well, then. How about one? I do adore that tilt to your chin you affect when wearing your Wintry Widow façade. And the ice blue silk with white lace is a stroke of genius.”

Her smile widened. She was nervous, and Simon had noted the constant twirling of her parasol and sought to all eviate her disquiet. Behind her, the imposing stone edifice that was the home of the Earl and Countess of Harwick provided the roof under which she would pass the next three days. “It is expected, Simon darling. Mustn’t disappoint our hostess, you know.”

“Of course not. I, too, find it delightful. So what is the infamous widow planning for this weekend’s house party?”

“Who can say so early on?” she murmured, her gaze moving over the assembled guests. Some sat on benches like she did, the females reading or working on needlepoint, the gentlemen standing nearby on the lawn. “A bit of mayhem, perhaps? A sprinkle of intrigue?”

“Some sex?”

“Simon,” she admonished.

He held up his hands in a defensive gesture, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. “With someone else. Though I do hope you have better sense than to choose St. John.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Because he is coarse, mhuirnin. Tainted, as you are not. I should not have touched you either. You are too fine for the likes of me, but even I am a better man than he is.”

She looked down at her lap and the gloved hand that rested there. Why could Simon not see the stains of her transgressions?

He reached over and squeezed her fingers. “The blood you seek is on Welton’s hands.”

“I wish that were true.”

“It is.” Simon settled back into his seat.

“Tel me how it is that a known criminal would be invited here.”

“Word has it the future Lord Harwick was maimed during a failed abduction attempt. It is said that his father approached St. John to act as the method of his retribution. The miscreants were dealt with, and Harwick’s gratitude manifests itself in open invitations to his gatherings, amongst other things.”

“A devil’s bargain.”

“To be sure,” Simon drawled smoothly. “So tel me what your plans are, and I will formulate a way to assist you.”

“There is too much uncertainty for me to steer a clear course. Why did St. John choose this venue for us to meet? Why not my residence or his?”

Maria sighed. “If I were not so desperate, I would not play this game of his.”

“You think best on your feet. You always have.”

“Thank you,” she said earnestly, taking comfort in Simon’s esteem. “At present, I wish merely to speak privately with St. John. Hopeful y, he will tel me at least a small measure of how he thinks our association can benefit him. Based on that, I can move forward.”

“Ah Well, that I can help you with easily. He took that path behind you only a moment ago. I believe Lady Harwick mentioned a pantheon being in that general direction. If you wish to fol ow, I shal make certain you are not disturbed.”

“Simon, you are a blessing.”

“How good of you to notice.” He smiled. “Are you sufficiently armed?”

She nodded.

“Good. I will see you shortly.”

Maria rose to her feet without haste, her movements leisurely as she set the post of her parasol to her shoulder and began to strol . A carelessly affected glance behind her found Simon intercepting a couple intent on the same gravel pathway she took. Secure in the knowledge that he would handle things beautiful y as he always did, she set her mind to the task ahead.

Rounding a large hedge, Maria quickened her pace, her appearance of lazy perusal discarded. She took note of various markers along the way to keep her bearings—a pyramid here, a statue there. A few moments out, she spotted the pantheon up ahead and abandoned the trail, closing her parasol before weaving through the bordering copse. She circled the small building, looking through the pil ars to the interior and then through the rear door.

“Looking for me?”

She spun about and found St. John leaning casual y against a tree she had passed mere seconds before. Seeing the arrogant curve of his lips,

Maria recovered quickly, removing all traces of surprise from her features with a wide smile. “No, actually.”

The effect was what she had hoped for. His grin faltered, the smug gleam in his eyes flaring with a spark of awareness. She took that moment to study him in the dappled sunlight, her first clear viewing. His obviously powerful frame was draped in dark blue velvet that matched his irises and set off the golden strands of hair he kept neatly restrained in a queue. His eyes were not the bright blue of Simon’s, but a deeper, darker shade. They were startling in contrast to the unsurpassed beauty of his face.

“I do not believe you,” he chal enged in that delicious rasp that moved like rough silk over her skin.

“I do not care.”

He had the countenance of an angel, a man so handsome he seemed almost unreal. It made a woman’s brain stumble to see those jaded eyes and hear that husky, earthy voice from an otherwise ethereal masculine creature.

And he was definitely male, regardless of that perfection.

White stockings clung to firmly muscled calves, and she could not help but wonder what activities he engaged in to bear the form of a laborer. A build she admired on Simon, but even more so on St. John, who lacked Simon’s softer edge.

“Why, then, are you traipsing through the forest?” he asked.

“Why are you?” she tossed back.

“I am a man, I do not traipse.”

“Neither do I.”

“I noticed,” he murmured. “You, my Lady Winter, were too busy spying.”

“What do you call what you are doing?”

“I have an assignation with a lady.” He pushed away from the tree in a dangerously graceful movement and she resisted the urge to step back.

“Is she a bit…icy, perhaps?”

His gait was slow and blatantly seductive. She admired it even as she marveled at his daring. Her stomach fluttered, but she hid her response.

“Chil y enough to lure men who enjoy a chal enge. But I think it’s a façade.”

She laughed. “Has she given you any reason to doubt?”

St. John came to a halt before her. A warm, gentle breeze blew past her, carrying with it a faint hint of the bergamot and tobacco she remembered from his embrace in the theater. “She is meeting me here. As an intel igent woman, she knows what will happen if she seeks me out.”

“You made sure I would come,” she said softly, her head tilting back so their gazes stayed locked together. In such close proximity she saw the lines that bracketed his mouth and eyes, signs of a rougher life than his immaculate garments would suggest. “I’m certain you noticed that I did not come alone.”

Moving so quickly he took her unawares, St. John caught her waist and nape in his large hands and tugged her into his body. “I noticed you are no longer fucking him.”

For a moment his rough possession and the harsh edge to his crude speech startled her into silence. Then she found her voice.

“Are you mad?” she asked breathlessly, panting softly within the unyielding prison of her corset, her parasol dropped to the leafy floor.

The day was warm, but that was not what sent heat racing across her skin. As had happened before, nerve endings flared to painful life at the feel of his arms around her. The mass of her skirts forced her off balance, their chests touching, but yards of material separated his thighs from hers.

That did not alter her knowledge that he was aroused. She did not have to feel his cock to know it was erect for her. She could see it in his eyes.

And when he kissed her, she could taste it.

Closing her eyes, Maria told herself to ignore the feel of his lips against hers. Soft, with a brushing touch of the tip of his tongue. But the taste of him —dark and dangerous—was delightful and she indulged, opening to him, and was rewarded with his soft rumble of approval.