Wicked Angel (26 page)

After three hours, Paul and Alex had argued about every conceivable social topic under the sun, had drunk enough liquor that both men were blurry eyed, and still had not resolved the unspoken question of Lauren hanging between them. Paul was unyielding on that front. With every glass of port, his duty to his sister became more entrenched. Alex was prepared to camp on the settee if he must, but as that was no solution, he came up with the drunken notion of a bet.

"All right, Hill," he said, grinning, the contents of his glass sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he struggled to perch on the edge of the settee, "you think you have such a way with cards, why not put your mouth where your money is?"

"Put it wherever you like, Sutherland, but I will put my money in my mouth," Paul tried to correct him.

Alex frowned and waved a hand at him. "No, no. A wager. Here it is." He paused to stifle a drunken belch, wiping the palm of his hand across his dangling neckcloth. "All right. Here it is," he repeated.

"What is the wager?" Paul asked, as if he had missed it.

"I am
thinking
," Alex castigated him, and closed his eyes tightly shut, trying to recall the perfectly brilliant idea he had just had. It suddenly came to him, and he opened his eyes, grimaced at the wave of dizziness, and gave himself a moment to focus. "Here it is. I want to attend the opera. Shall we cut cards?"

"For what?" Paul asked, clearly confused.

"For the
opera
."

"I do not want to attend the opera with you!" Paul said disdainfully, and took another long drink of his port.

"Good
God, not you. Lauren
," Alex exclaimed with horror.

"You are awfully familiar with my sister, sir," Paul snapped.

"Obviously not as familiar as
Madgoose!
Bloody hell, how many times can one carriage circle that damned park?" Alex shouted.

Paul chuckled. Alex glared at his young adversary, steadying himself against the arm of the settee until the room stopped spinning. When he could at last focus, he glared at Paul. "Cut cards?" he repeated.

"Let me get this straight," Paul slurred, and attempted to lean forward, only to fall backward again. "If you win, I should take Lauren to the opera."

"
No!
" Alex roared, and mumbled an impatient curse under his breath. "If
I
win,
I
shall take Lauren to the opera," he said, thumping himself on the chest. "The highest card wins. It's all very, very
simple
, Hill."

"But what if
I
win?" Paul demanded.

That gave Alex pause. Busily trying to fit a bottle stopper in the whiskey container, he wavered, frowning at the bottle. "You should get something," he agreed.

"Yes! I should!" Paul exclaimed, bobbing his head in furious agreement.

"Well… do you like my horse?" Alex asked.

Paul dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. "No use for it."

"I have some fine hunting dogs at Sutherland Park," he offered. "Do you like to hunt?" Paul sighed, looked pointedly at the cane propped against his chair, then at Alex. "Oh," Alex muttered sheepishly,

"that wouldn't do, would it? Let me think… I have money."

Paul's face lit up. "Yes! Money! Two thousand pounds!" he exclaimed gleefully.

Alex frowned. "Two thousand pounds? My God, man, it is only the opera!" he scoffed.

"But it is my sister!"

"Good point," Alex agreed cheerfully, and fit the stopper in the neck of the whiskey bottle. His triumphant smile faded rapidly when he noticed his glass was empty.

"Then we are agreed," Paul said firmly. He stood up—a little more smoothly than would be expected—grabbed his cane, and staggered to a writing desk. "Best two out of three?" he called over his shoulder as he searched for the playing cards, which were stacked neatly on top of the desk.

"Two out of three," Alex agreed. Paul found the cards after a moment, made some remark about the housekeeping, and pitched to the settee, sitting heavily next to Alex.

"You had best hope you not lose, Sutherland. Two thousand pounds is very, very… much… money," Paul mumbled.

"Not to me," Alex blithely admitted, and reached for the cards. He made a great show of cutting them, going very deep into the deck, and lifted a two of diamonds. He groaned and fell against the back of the settee, draping one arm over his eyes with exaggerated flourish.

"Ha!" exclaimed Paul an instant later, laughing gleefully. Alex peeked out from beneath his arm; grinning like an idiot, Paul danced a six of spades in Alex's face. Bloody hell, he needed a miracle.

Paul went next, drawing an eight of clubs. This time, Alex abandoned any pretense at flourish and closed his eyes to cut the deck. He drew a ten of diamonds. Hill's expression did not change but for the single quirk of a brow. "I assume you will accept a bank draft," Alex said dryly.

"Naturally," Paul agreed amicably.

As Paul clumsily shuffled the deck, Alex suppressed the urge to laugh. He would lose, he knew it in his gut, but to come this close to winning was, at the moment, terribly amusing. He grinned at Paul. "Nine o'clock tomorrow evening," he said easily, tossed back the last of his whiskey, and cut the deck, drawing the queen of hearts. Paul's eyes flicked to the card. With a moan, he stared at the cards for a long moment before reaching to cut what was left of the deck. He slowly turned the card over in his hand. He and Alex gasped simultaneously and lifted startled gazes to one another.

The three of spades.

Alex had gotten his bloody miracle.

"You cannot take her without chaperone!" Paul shouted angrily.

"No, no, of course not. Paddy, she goes, too," Alex muttered, stunned by his luck.

The room grew silent as both men stared at the three of spades in Paul's hand. At length, Paul spoke, his voice ragged. "Give me your word."

Even in his state of inebriation, Alex did not have to ask what he meant. "You have it," he responded

quietly. Paul tossed the losing card onto the floor and pushed himself to his feet. Once he had steadied himself on his cane, he looked down at Alex without emotion. "I have your word," he reiterated.

Alex nodded mutely and watched as Paul made his way from the parlor. Only then did he fall back against the settee in complete elation, reminding himself not to forget his horse on the way out.

Wrapped in a hooded cloak, Lauren stared out through the door of the barouche at the brightly lit windows of the opera house. She expected Ethan to pawn her away like some worthless trinket, but
never
Paul. He had tried to justify his actions by blaming it on the port, and when that had not worked, by insisting it was not good to provoke the duke, who had, after all, won this night fairly. Lauren had vehemently objected to being bartered, for which Paul had again apologized. But then he had insisted she attend, adamant that whether she liked it or not, the Hills honored their debts. Ethan, damn him, had chortled his agreement, excited at even the remote possibility of a duke as a suitor. So here she was, stuffed into a coach with
him
and a chatty Lady Paddington, forced to honor Paul's foolish,
foolish
bet!

Faint strains of music drifted to her ear as Alex helped her and Lady Paddington from the coach. She could not deny that in spite of being
completely
humiliated by the drunken wager, she had desperately longed to see him. At the moment, however, all she wanted was to give him a good piece of her mind, maybe even wipe that lazy smile from his face. She bounced up the stairs behind him and Lady Paddington and stalked inside, pausing to push away the hood of her cloak.

Lady Paddington, adjusting her fat little ringlets, exclaimed loudly when she saw Mrs. Clark. "Wait here,"

Alex said low, his voice carrying a hint of warning. With a pointed look, he swiftly proceeded to escort Lady Paddington to a corner where Mrs. Clark and another elderly woman stood. By
God
, he was a scoundrel! She lifted her chin and angrily jerked at the frog of her cloak. She yanked it from her shoulders and shoved it at an approaching footman, pausing to apologize for almost punching him in the chest before leveling a heated gaze on the wretch as she smoothed the skirt of her blue-green satin gown.

Oblivious to the crush of people hurrying to their seats, she glared at him as he conversed with Lady Paddington's friends. She suddenly realized that Lady Paddington was walking away with Mrs. Clark.

Where in the hell was her chaperone going? Did he honestly think she would sit alone with him? The man was too arrogant by half! She impatiently shifted her weight onto one hip, waiting for him to come and explain himself. He turned toward her as Lady Paddington disappeared into the corridor, and smiling, gestured mildly for her to join him. The lout was going to make her walk across the grand foyer to
him!

He was not only arrogant, but also crass, and
dammit
, so bloody handsome!

Furious, Lauren marched across the expanse of the grand foyer. Alex extended his hand as she reached him. She glanced at his hand, then settled a scathing glare on him, punching her fists on her hips. "You, sir, are a… a
reprobate!
"

He lowered his hand and bowed. "And you, madam, are a vision." Lifting his other hand, he offered her an elegant gardenia corsage.

Where had
that
come from? Shrugging, Lauren folded her arms across her middle and glanced away, swallowing hard against the feeling that simple gardenia gave her. It was difficult to make eye contact with him; his gaze was so penetrating, she felt completely raw. Even now she could
feel
his eyes on every inch of her. She wondered if he was comparing her to Lady Marlaine. Self-conscious, her gaze slipped to the marble floor and the tips of her blue green slippers. His silent perusal seemed to go on for an eternity until

she thought she would scream. Finally unable to bear it another moment, she jerked her head up. "Well?

Do I pass your inspection?" she snapped. Naturally, his lopsided grin made her knees weak.

"More than you know," he replied, and motioned toward the gardenia he held.

She rolled her eyes. "See here," she blurted impatiently as she took the blasted flower. "That little
wager
between you and Paul should be disqualified on the grounds that the
object
of the wager was not a willing participant!" She succeeded in piercing her flesh with the corsage's pin. Grimacing, she added,

"There should be a
law
against such stupid, stupid bets!"

Obviously enjoying her efforts to pin the corsage, he merely lifted a brow. She managed to secure it, and angrily folded her arms across her middle. "Happy? Honestly, I don't care if you are!" she rushed on before he could answer. "If you even
remotely
resembled a gentleman, you would not force me to come here tonight like… like some
booty
. Please, concede that my brother's debt to you is satisfied and allow me to return home!"

"I am afraid that is not possible," he said pleasantly, his green eyes sparkling with unconcealed mirth.

"And why not?" she demanded, tossing an uneasy glance behind her.

"Because you are hardly in a congenial mood to hear anything I might say. No, I rather think we shall wait until you are quite disposed to converse with me like a lady."

Lauren stilled at the insult. "
Swine!
" she gasped.

"Oh, now that's terribly original." He grinned at her.

Speechless, she dropped her fists to her sides. "I have never,
never in my life
, met a more arrogant, outrageous,
rude
man!" she choked out.

He cheerfully inclined his head in concession of that assessment. "And I have never met a more intractable woman in all of mine. Shall we?" He offered his arm as if were the most natural thing to do.

"And just where is Lady Paddington?" she demanded, refusing to take his proffered arm.

"She would like to sit with Mrs. Clark for a bit. She'll join us later." Lauren glared hatefully at his arm, unmoving. With a devilish grin, he shook his head. "Lauren. You know very well to leave now is not practical. Your brother wagered your presence tonight and lost. It was a legitimate wager, and a gentleman always honors his debts. If you persist in this temper tantrum, you will cause quite a lot of unwelcome attention—not only tonight, but also when I demand satisfaction for Hill's debt. So let me ask you again. Shall we?"

Oh, dear
God
, she wanted to claw that self-satisfied smirk from his face. "
Fool!
" she muttered.

"I beg your pardon, was that a yes?" he asked, clearly amused. With a glower that would have sent most men running, she slapped her hand down—hard—on his forearm. Grinning in that omniscient way of his, he escorted her up the great staircase, chuckling at her efforts to keep as much distance as possible between them by stretching her arm out as far as she could without toppling over.

At the end of a long, carpeted corridor, a footman stepped ahead of them and opened a carved door onto a richly appointed box. There were four velvet chairs, a small occasional table with two crystal flutes and some chocolates, and a bottle of champagne chilling in a stand. His hand landed on the small of her back. He guided her into a chair at the polished brass railing, taking her hand in his to seat her. She hated him for touching her and sending an unwanted jolt up her spine. He seemed to know it; with a graceful

flip of his coattails, he seated himself next to her and grinned unabashedly.

"Where is Lady Paddington?" she asked, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

"Just there," he said, nodding to his left. "Don't fret so. She can see you at all times, so you are quite safe." Lauren glanced uneasily across the crowded house. Lady Paddington and Mrs. Clark waved their fans; Lauren smiled and lifted a gloved hand in return.
Foolish, foolish wager!
She glanced at the ornately decorated ceiling, at the orchestra, even her corsage—
anywhere
but him. They were in one of the largest boxes in the house, directly across from a gentleman she recognized as the Duke of Wellington. To her great surprise, he inclined his head in her direction, and she smiled brightly before she realized he was nodding to the brute who accompanied her. Embarrassed, she surreptitiously glanced around. Other patrons were watching them closely, too. Despite her deep flush, she tried to maintain an expressionless facade.