Wicked, My Love (16 page)

Randall stared, motionless, thoughtless, and breathless. Then deep inside him, a root of raw, primitive anger broke through.

I'm going to throttle her.
Randall was supposed to be the only one who knew she was lovely. She was his secret. It was bad enough that her stockbroker knew, but now all of London was in on the secret.
I'm going to put my hands around her lovely white neck and shake her until some sense falls loose in her thick, beautiful skull.

Isabella withdrew her glasses from an odd pocket in the side of the dress, which Mrs. Perdita had said was perfect for keeping a sponge, in case,
you
know
. Isabella had assured her that she wouldn't spill anything on the lovely gown that required a sponge to clean and, instead, used the pocket for her glasses and money. Now, she took a quick peek at the blur-turned-servant, who held a box of cigars and stared at her in a strange, slack-jawed manner.

“Pardon me,” she said, returning her spectacles to her pocket. “I'm looking for a particular gentleman. He's quite handsome, a little taller than I am with luscious brown curls and deep-chocolate puppy-like eyes that make you think you can trust him but you shouldn't, because he's a lying scoundrel. Oh, and there's an adorable set of moles on his jaw that l
ook like—”

“The Little Dipper?” the servant finished.

“Actually, I thought it resembled Charioteer.”

“Aye, I can see that too. He's not here, but he was playing deep a few months ago at Mr. Spinkell's table there on the far right.”

“Oh,” she said to the exceptionally, yet oddly, informed servant. “Thank you.” She gave him
a crown.

Gripping the banister, she carefully eased down the steps, patting each tread with her toe to make sure it was there. She could hear the murmur of hushed conversation and the pinging of glass and bottles set on tables. The sweet, acrid congestion of food, perfumes, alcohol, cigar smoke, and burning coal assailed her nose. She should wear her glasses, but she was the most attractive that she would probably ever be in her life. For once, she was the pretty girl, and she wasn't going to ruin the moment by putting on glasses and turning her eyes into huge moons.

Then a female voice shrieked, “She's wearing m
y dress!”

What!
Isabella's cheeks flamed.
Was
Randall's old mistress here?
“Ahh!” She missed a step and swan dived into the air.

Dozens of hands were about her, catching her, lifting her up, telling her to “Watch yourself, pretty lady” and “Are you well, my lovely dove?” She heated all over with embarrassment and stammered her thanks.
Just
find
out
about
Powers
. She straightened herself and headed off in the direction of the back right, only to slam into someone carrying what sounded like a tray with a dozen plates. “I'm so sorry!”

A familiar and annoyed male voice rang out. “Izzy May, for God's sake put your glasses on.”

Isabella wanted to shrivel. Could she not be clumsy just once in her life? She dug her spectacles from her gown and slid them on her nose. At the table in the far right corner, the one she assumed was Spinkell's, stood Randall. Besides him was another blond. This one was female and ravishing and had her arms wound around his body. Isabella's gut turned as the realization sank in: no wonder Randall wanted her to stay away.

“That's my dress,” the vision snapped, and then asked Randall, “It looks better on me, doesn't it?”

She felt like a little girl dressed up in her mother's clothes, but, in this instance, it was Randall's real mistress's clothes.

“Now, Izzy,” Randall said, his hands out, palms up. “I told you to—”

“Don't you dare ‘now Izzy' me after you left me at the hotel,” she hissed.

“Is this her?” the blond demanded. “The one you can't stop thinking about.” She turned to Isabella and raked her up and down. “A bit blind, are you?”

“Quiet, Cecelia,” Randall growled.

Isabella blinked, hurt. So this was the notorious Cecelia? Mrs. Perdita was right. She was atrocious. What did Randall see in her? Oh, bother that half-witted Randall.

“Izzy is…is my new mistress,” Randall said, his lips as tight as if he were in pain.

“I am
not
your mistress,” Isabella countered, her words breezy yet cutting like thin razor blades. “You already have one. I am an unattached courtesan.” She glanced at the table where cards and money lay—
oh, sweet numbers.
“I would like to speak to Mr. Spinkell, if he is available.”

“Pardon me, Miss Izzy May, but Mr. Spinkell is dealing an important game of cards,” a smooth, rich baritone said. A warm, strong hand rested on the bare skin of her shoulder, sending a tingle through her body. Isabella turned and was left momentarily stunned at the striking male specimen by her side: a lean, bronze face with glowing eyes; a bald, shining head; and a tall, muscular body. She didn't understand why, but she had a primitive urge to meow like her lust-inflamed cat Milton.

“Would you care to sit down, my little starling?” said Mr. Wildly Exotic. She acquiesced, entranced by those cocoa eyes he kept locked on hers. A heavy gold ring with rubies clustered in the shape of a poppy sat on his index finger. He bent the digit just the slightest and a waiter materialized. “Please bring this stunning lady and me the house's finest red.”

“Goddammit,” said the blond man behind them—
Randall
somebody
. “I told you she was under my protection. Get your hands off her, Harding.”

“Harding?” Isabella echoed. “You're—you're George Harding of Southern Manchester Railroad Company and Eastern Kent Railroad Company, and other sundry companies, as well as being on the boards of numerous joint stocks?” Why hadn't Randall told her Harding was attractive as the devil? She'd expected a dour, older man, not this tall, dark, and alluring pot full of tingle and throb.

Harding chuckled and turned over the card lying facedown before him. An ace of diamonds. “I busted. Lord Randall won.”

“What!” the viscount hissed. “No, you
didn't bust.”

“My love, how I missed you.” Cecelia lunged into his arms. Isabella's heart squeezed. She felt like she was nine again, the strange girl Randall didn't notice except when he was making fun of her. “Just wait,” he said, gently pushing back the woman. “Look, Harding, both of these ladies are my mistresses.”

Whistles of admiration rang out around the room, as well as “Congratulations” and “Well done,
old chap.”

“I believe Miss Izzy May said she was an unattached courtesan.” Harding drew his finger along Isabella's jaw and down her throat. “Of course, that can always change.” Tiny eruptions exploded under her skin, as when Randall had kissed her after interrupting her bath. If that wasn't scandalous enough, her mind lit with the image of both Randall
and
Harding touching her wet, slick body at the same time. Randall with his mouth on hers and Harding's hands on her—
What
is
the matter
with
you?
She flinched, almost falling out of h
er seat.

“Is something wrong, my stunning dove?” H
arding asked.

Yes, I'm in deep waters, far from the shore, without a boat, and there are fins circling. And I don't know how to swim—metaphorically, that is
. “I wish to—to speak to Mr. Spinkell. Then I'll just go home.”

“You will have to wait until Mr. Spinkell has a break,” Harding answered for the dealer, glancing at Spinkell, who nodded in agreement. “Do you like cards, my sweet canary?”

Cards! Yes, that's what she needed—something she understood. Randall could have his old mistress back and she could have her numbers—her male mistress, her footman
d'amour
. “Very much,” she said.

Harding motioned to Spinkell. “Deal in the beautiful swan.” Isabella quivered. Did one of the most powerful men in England really think she was beautiful? Randall was right; Harding couldn't be trusted.

The dealer produced a new deck from under the table and began passing out cards, omitting Randall. “I came to play,” Randall said, and tossed three sovereigns on the table.

Spinkell's face paled. He muttered his apologies and gave Randall a card.

Isabella reached into her pocket and drew out her money pouch. From it, she removed ten sovereigns for her bet.

Spinkell blinked. “Pardon me, ma'am…”

Isabella looked at him, brows lowered, waiting for him to finish. When he didn't, she slowly said, “I thought we were playing cards.” Had she made
a mistake?

“But ten pounds is rather—”

“The lady bets high out of the gate,” Harding said. “I can respect that.” He placed ten pounds on the table as well. Randall added to his initial bet.

Isabella picked up the card that had been dealt facedown. It felt good to hold it, letting her world shrink to two numbers: a seven in the hand and an eight showing, no nuance, undertone, or subtlety to their finite meaning. With a fresh deck started, it would be unwise to ask for another card. She might lose a few hands before she could have a better idea of the numerical landscape. Meanwhile, Randall asked for another and then threw it down and cursed. He never learned, even after all those years she had taken his Christmas money. He had no strategy, no sense of numbers. But then, he had Cecelia practically sitting on his lap to comfort him, so let him lose.

The dealer had seventeen. Only Harding won
with nineteen.

“You lost a great deal,” Harding told her, taking a glass of wine from the waiter's tray and setting it on the table before her.

She jerked her head back. “I haven't lost.”

Harding leaned closer, bathing her in his dark musky and floral scent. “We are playing vingt-et-un.” He spoke slowly, as if she were a dull child. “The idea is to get closer—”

“I know the rules,” she sniped, annoyed that he would dare to question her prowess. “If I leave this table with more money than I came with, then I've won. And really, you shouldn't play if you get upset each time you lose. You won't win every time.”

A smile snaked across his lips. His teeth were stark white underneath. “That's a rather defeating attitude. You should be more optimistic, more bold. That's how I am in business.”

“I know,” she said. “I've read about you.” She took a sip of wine, the cherry and oak flavors unfolding on her tongue.

“Did you like what you found?”

She studied Harding's hands. He had smooth, square fingers with powerful knuckles, like her father's. “I don't know,” she said. “You don't put everything on the surface.”

“It's true,” Harding replied. “I like to keep some things hidden. Would you like me to show them t
o you?”

“Dammit, Harding,” Randall said. “She doesn't understand subtle meanings. Leave her alone.”

“I do understand subtle meanings!” Isabella retorted. “He has companies that he keeps hidden for financial reasons.”
And
don't talk to me when she's sitting in your lap.

She watched Randall run his hand down his face and gaze heavenward. “God, I told her to stay at the hotel. Why didn't she listen?” He nudged his mistress. “Cecelia, can you find another chair, please. I need to concentrate.” She only cuddled closer.

The dealer slid a card forward. Isabella lifted its edge. A seven of spades.

“Be bold, my chickadee,” Harding whispered
to her.

“I do not believe in boldness,” she said absently, as her mind organized every card that had been played by suit and rank. “Or optimism or even pessimism, for that matter.”

“What do you believe in, then?” Harding asked.

Isabella received the second card—a jack of spades. Again, she would stay. “Calculated risk.” She took another sip of the lovely wine. “You move according to analysis of numbers. The numbers will predict the correct course. Now look, the dealer has nineteen. I've lost again. Oh, well.”

After she lost the third game and the fourth was being dealt, Harding said, “I don't think your method of calculated risk is working. Shall I tutor you in boldness? You might like it.” He kissed her on the earlobe, letting his warm tongue touch it ever so lightly. “You see, bold.”

Isabella jumped in her seat and cupped her hand over her ear. “Mr. Harding! Are you…
flirting
wi
th me?”

It wasn't Harding, but Randall who answered, “Well, darling, you told him you were an unatta
ched courtesan.”

One of the most powerful men in London—no, Europe—was flirting with her? Her! And Randall dared to mock even as he had a stunning mistress dangling off his person. Isabella threw down her cards: a king and queen. She beat the dealer as well as Harding and Randall, who busted anyway.

Maybe it was the swollen moon overhead, or the heady sensation caused by the wine, or how her scarlet dress glowed in the chandelier light, or the way Cecelia twined a lock of Randall's hair around her finger that made Isabella say, “Leave the earnings on the table. I'll bet it again.” She glanced at the railroad man from the corner of her eye, and said, with a pouty puckering of her lips, “I want to be bold for Mr. Harding.”

You
flirted!
You
really
did
it!
She felt so out of control, scared, powerful, proud, and excited at the same time. Her entire body was jittery.
Just
focus
on
the
cards
, she told herself. But, oh, Harding smelled so nice, and he continued to watch her with a strange, dark smile on his face that made her insides goosey. Meanwhile Cecelia nested in Randall's arms, whispering in his ear.

Isabella swallowed a mouthful of wine and then another and another. She had a wild desire to flirt with Harding again and again. Tonight, she wasn't Isabella, but Izzy May, the reckless, exotic, and una
ttached courtesan.