A Dangerous Love (17 page)

As if realizing the source of her disbelief, Griff added, “Actually, I instigated the investment, since it provided him—and me—with a very nice private box at Drury Lane.”

That made more sense. Whatever his other faults, Griff did seem to possess a genuine interest in the theater.

“Well?” he prodded. “Do you accept the wager?”

She still hesitated. “Only if you answer one question.”

“All right.”

“Why are you so eager to be rid of my footman? He’s merely there to help you.”

“I don’t need help. In any case, I’m accustomed to going where I please, when I please, without an audience. Have you ever tried reading documents with a servant two feet away trying to be unobtrusive? It’s damned annoying.”

When he put it that way, she saw how he might find it so. Besides, she intended to win the game. And the possibility of auditioning for Sheridan—
Richard Sheridan—was irresistible. “Very well. I accept your wager.”

“Rosalind!” her sister cried from down the gallery. She and Mr. Knighton were headed back to the table. “Whatever are you and Mr. Brennan whispering about? I thought you were playing billiards.”

Griff broke away from Rosalind with a rakish smile. “We are, my lady, we are.” He caught up his cue stick. “Your sister and I are about to become very serious about it.”

She’d thought they were already serious about billiards, but he soon proved her wrong. When he took the table this time, there was no flirting, no teasing innuendoes, no wavering from his purpose. He went to it with the single-mindedness of a sportsman. Indeed, he gained twenty points more before a slip of the stick ruined his shot.

She took her place with great trepidation, no longer as certain of winning. She should have made him start over for the wager. Now he was twenty-seven points ahead—a great gap indeed. If she lost, she’d have to spend more time in his presence, which would be terribly unwise—not to mention she’d lose the Sheridan audition.

By careful attention to her aim, she managed a string of red and white hazards. She wasn’t as good at cannons and so didn’t even risk them, even though they’d let her increase her score more quickly. Nonetheless, she’d already passed his score by four points when she potted his cue ball.

She and Juliet groaned at the same time.

“My turn.” Griff gloated as he removed his cue ball from the pocket and spotted it.

Then he began to play with all the expertise of a true proficient. She should have known that a former smuggler would excel at billiards. No doubt
that was how he and his criminal companions had entertained themselves.

As the score passed forty, she tensed. He aimed, and she leaned forward on the opposite end of the table to watch. In the split second between his drawing back and his sending the cue stick forward, his eyes veered from the table to her. He missed the shot and cursed.

Scowling, he rounded the table, then stopped beside her to murmur, “Getting desperate, are you?”

“What do you mean?” she whispered back.

“Much as I usually enjoy any glimpse of your…charms, I hardly think it’s fair for you to thrust them into my line of sight when I’m shooting.”

She glanced down and blushed to see that her shawl had come unknotted again. “I hadn’t noticed,” she said truthfully, reaching to retie it again.

“Of course not.”

The blasted scoundrel didn’t believe her! She hesitated a moment, then defiantly removed her shawl and tossed it over a chair. If the surly wretch insisted on attributing such tactics to her, she might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

From there on, she did her best to distract him whenever he shot. It wasn’t that difficult. Apparently, given the choice between concentrating on his cue stick or ogling a woman’s breasts, a man chose ogling every time. Its predictability was almost comical.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take him long to find a suitable revenge. Whenever
she
shot, he passed just close enough to whisper comments so imaginatively scandalous that he never failed to draw a reaction from her—usually a missed shot.

It soon became obvious they had abandoned the game of serious billiards for “naughty billiards.”

Juliet seemed oblivious to what was going on. When she did hear the comments, she apparently didn’t understand them, and the ogling was something she was too innocent to be bothered by. Though Mr. Knighton was not so oblivious, he oddly chose to say nothing. She did, however, catch him watching them both with an inexplicably gleeful expression once or twice.

The game dragged, since neither progressed very far at a time—a point here, a point there, then a missed shot. Still, they were forty-nine to forty-nine when Helena approached along the gallery.

“What’s going on?” she asked as she limped to a chair and took a seat.

“Mr. Brennan and Rosalind are playing billiards,” Juliet said cheerfully, “and they both need only one point to win. But they’re playing very badly, even worse than me. They’ve both missed their last three shots. We’ll be here all day if this continues.”

Helena eyed the table curiously, then glanced at Rosalind. As she took in Rosalind’s décolletage, her disapproval was obvious. “It’s no wonder Rosalind’s having trouble. She must be freezing without her shawl, and that would surely deflect her aim.”

Rosalind cursed inwardly. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”

“No,” Griff interrupted, “Lady Helena is right.” He strode to where she’d left her shawl, picked it up, and brought it to her. “Here, my lady.” With an utterly disgusting smile, he settled it around her shoulders. “This should help.”

“Thank you,” she retorted through gritted teeth. Just wait until she got Helena alone.

At least it was her turn to shoot and not his, and he wouldn’t dare make any of his nasty comments with Helena nearby. Rosalind took careful aim at
the easy red hazard before her. All she had to do was shoot. That’s all.

Yet her hands were clammy, the cue stick slipping around in them like an eel. She couldn’t fail now. She mustn’t! For if she missed this shot, he was sure to make his. And there would go her chance at Sheridan.

She aimed, shot, and then watched with glee as her cue ball hit the red perfectly, sending it toward the pocket with a pure grace. But then it slowed as it neared the pocket. No, not again—it couldn’t happen twice! She couldn’t be so unlucky! Not now!

But she was. The ball danced on the edge of the pocket, then retreated half an inch to a position even a novice couldn’t miss.

To his credit, Griff didn’t even smile as he took the easy shot. But once the red disappeared into the pocket with a plop that echoed in her mind, he broke out in a grin. He glanced at her younger sister. “There, Lady Juliet. It appears we won’t be here all day after all.”

Rosalind watched numbly as he rounded the table, then came up beside her and offered his hand. She wanted to break her cue stick over it, but she had better manners than that. Glumly she held out her hand, expecting a brief press of fingers.

She should have known better. With the predatory gaze of an eagle carrying off a hare, he bent over her bare hand and kissed it. His lips were warm and soft against her skin, and they lingered for what seemed like forever, yet when he straightened she knew it had only been seconds.

“We are well matched, you must admit.” He released her hand.

“I suppose,” she said ungraciously.

His expression hinted at some other meaning for
well matched
, but she chose to ignore it and dwell
instead on the disappointment of having lost her audition. It was safer than dwelling on the press of his lips against her hand.

He waited until her cousin had begun to ask Lady Juliet about playing another game, then stepped up close and lowered his voice. “I’m going to my room to work for a while. When I come out, I expect your footman to be gone.”

She’d forgotten that in losing her part of the wager, he’d won his. Now she’d have to find another way to shadow him or else move the strongbox where he’d never find it. If indeed he was looking for it.

She swallowed, then nodded. With a final smile of triumph, he strode down the gallery to the west-wing stairs leading to the second floor where his room lay.

Bitterly disappointed by her loss, she turned to find Juliet telling Mr. Knighton that she didn’t want to play billiards anymore.

He faced Helena. “What about you, my lady? Do you play?”

“No,” was her cold answer.

When he looked offended by the short response, Rosalind explained. “Helena says her leg prevents her, that it’s hard to balance on one leg and shoot.” It was nonsense, of course, but she’d never determined if Helena believed it or was simply using the excuse to keep herself apart from people, as she did in other respects. She added, “But she used to beat me routinely before her illness.”

Helena glared at her, but Rosalind had always thought it best to be honest. Besides, she rather liked her cousin, even if he were a bit coarse and had once consorted with smugglers. It pained Rosalind to see Helena treat him so coldly, even though Helena had been reserved toward all men of late.

Mr. Knighton hadn’t taken his eyes from her older sister while Rosalind was speaking. Now he walked silently to the far wall. Lifting an armchair, he brought it back to the pool table and positioned it so that one arm was parallel to the rim, with about a foot of space between the table and the chair.

He glanced at Helena. “Couldn’t you sit on the arm of the chair? Then you wouldn’t need your legs at all to play.”

A dark flush spread up Helena’s neck. “That’s highly impractical, Mr. Knighton. The chair would have to be moved and positioned to my order for every shot.”

Bracing his hands on the chair back, he shrugged. “That’s why you must play billiards with a great lummox like me, m’lady. I’ve lifted bigger loads a thousand times. If I can’t move a wee thing like this, then I ain’t much of a man.”

Rosalind’s heart melted.

But Helena appeared unswayed. “The arm of the chair won’t hold my weight.”

“Yes, it will.” He pressed down on the arm to demonstrate. Then he strolled up to where she sat, still eyeing him warily. He held out his hand. “In any case, you won’t know until you try it. And I promise to catch you if it breaks.”

Helena stared at his hand for a long moment. Rosalind saw the flash of yearning in her face. It had been many years since Helena had played billiards, and many more years since a man had treated her so courteously.

“Go on, Helena,” Rosalind prodded. “Mr. Brennan and I gave Mr. Knighton no chance at all to play, and if Juliet won’t play and I’m too tired, you’re the only one left.”

Helena rolled her eyes, but clearly recognized she was trapped. With a scowl, she took his hand and
let him help her rise. As she hobbled to the armchair, she muttered, “If it tips me over, Mr. Knighton, I shall hold you responsible.”

He only grinned in answer, then helped her settle herself onto the chair arm.

When the two of them began their game, Juliet pulled Rosalind down the gallery, well out of earshot. “Look at him,” she whispered. “He’s so kind to Helena.”

Rosalind watched as Mr. Knighton hurried to set up the balls for the game. “Yes, he’s a kind man, I think.”

“It’s such a pity that she dislikes him so,” Juliet said mournfully. “This morning she called him a great oaf and said she’d never marry a man like that.”

“You know how foolish Helena had become about men. She’ll find any excuse to refuse them.”

“Well, she has more than an excuse in his case, I’m afraid. She thinks he’s only out for what he can get. She thinks he wants to marry an earl’s daughter who can teach him how to behave in society. So there’s no chance of her marrying him—Helena’s pride wouldn’t allow it.” Juliet worried her lower lip. “And you’ve got your eye on that man of affairs—”

“I do not!”

Juliet shook her head. “Deny it all you wish, but I can see you like him.”

“Not in the least.” She was intrigued by him, fascinated by him, tempted by him. But
like
him? That was far too bland a word for what he made her feel.

“So if neither of you will marry Mr. Knighton, it’s left to me.” She said it with a tone of mournful acceptance.

“Now, dearest, you mustn’t feel like that. None of us needs marry him. I told you, we can—”

“Leave Swan Park forever. I won’t do it.”

“I don’t know why not,” Rosalind snapped.

Juliet’s lower lip trembled. “You don’t understand. You never did.”

A plaintive note in Juliet’s voice gave Rosalind pause. “Why don’t you explain it to me then?”

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the gallery’s mullioned windows, spangling Juliet’s golden hair and glinting off the sudden tears in the girl’s eyes. Rosalind’s heart broke at the sight. She took her sister’s hand and squeezed it. “Oh, Juliet, please tell me what has made you so determined to marry against your heart.”

“I have to marry Mr. Knighton. I have to!” Juliet bent her head, several gilt curls falling over her brow. “It’s all my fault that we’ll lose Swan Park, so I must prevent it.”

“How could it possibly be your fault?”

“Because if…if Mama hadn’t died giving birth to me, Papa would have been able to have a son.” Tears rolled down her angelic cheeks. “And then the estate would never have been entailed away.”

So that was the source of all Juliet’s stubbornness. With wrenching sadness, Rosalind tugged her sister into her embrace. “Oh, my dearest, don’t even think it. It’s not your fault women die in childbirth. And Papa could have had more children if he’d chosen to remarry. But he didn’t. How can you blame yourself for that?”

“B-Because Papa b-blames me,” she whispered through her tears.

A surge of protectiveness made Rosalind clutch her sister tightly. “Do you mean Papa has told you it is your duty to marry Mr. Knighton because—”

“No, of course not!” Juliet rubbed the tears from her cheeks with her small fists. “Papa would never say it like that. But I know he blames me. It’s in his
face and voice whenever he speaks of Mama, whenever he speaks of my marrying to save Swan Park. He doesn’t have to say it—I know what he feels.”