Rules to Catch a Devilish Duke (9 page)

“Perhaps we could have that cup of tea?” Adam suggested.

“Oh, aye, Your Grace. My pleasure.” With that the tall fellow practically jumped over the shop’s counter and disappeared in the direction of the back stairs.

As soon as the cobbler left, Sophia walked toward the near wall and stood there with her back to him, ostensibly to examine a shelf of shoe sizers. Adam stayed where he was, giving her a moment to compose herself. Instead he turned his attention to the pairs of shoes tucked into wooden display boxes tacked to the nearest wall. And scowled. “Yorkshire residents evidently have very practical taste in shoes,” he said in a low voice, moving closer to her.

Though she kept her back to him, she nodded. “They look very solid,” she agreed, in the same quiet murmur. “And somewhat furry.”

“I imagine most of his customers don’t spend much time in London.”

She faced him. “Oh, I hope they don’t.”

He understood what she meant. She hoped none of the other residents of Hanlith had any more idea who she was than Mr. Jenkins did. “Do you see anything you like?”

Her gaze remained steadily on him. “Yes, I believe I do.”

By the time they left Mr. Jenkins’s cobbler shop, Sophia had a very sturdy pair of walking shoes and had been measured for an additional pair of what the cobbler had termed “shoes more appropriate for such a lovely, gracious lady.” Adam keenly wanted to see what such a miraculous pair of shoes would look like.

“I’m sorry that took so long,” Sophia said, as he tied the shoes to his saddle. “I know you must have better things to do than watch someone measure my feet.”

That had actually been a rather … invigorating experience, considering that she’d had to remove her borrowed groom’s boots. For a moment Adam had wished he’d become a cobbler, so he could have been the one wrapping the measuring tape about her bare ankle and across her absurdly dainty foot.

Luckily logic broke in before he could tell her that he would happily spend the remainder of the day following her into shops. If he said that he had no other plans, their next stop would be Mrs. Simmons’s house, and his gift of her green dress would be discovered.

“It was … interesting,” he said aloud. “I do need to see to some things at home, however. I apologize for cutting your trip short. We can return tomorrow, if you’d l—”

“You don’t need to grant my every wish and whim, you know,” she broke in, stopping beside Copper.

“I’m a duke, Sophia; as I believe I’ve already mentioned, I generally do as I please.” He finished tying off the sack and joined her. “Would you like to return tomorrow?”

“I would like to visit Mrs. Simmons and the bakery tomorrow. That bread smells heavenly.”

“Very well, then.” Adam slid his hands around her waist, pausing for a long moment before he lifted her into the sidesaddle once more. If they hadn’t been standing in the street with a dozen windows facing them, he would have kissed her again.

“If you’re not busy this evening,” she said as she gathered the reins in her hands, “I hereby challenge you to a game of piquet.” She regarded him for a moment. “The same wager as before.”

She was thinking of another kiss as well, then. He grinned. “You haven’t a chance.” And more than likely, neither did he.

*   *   *

“I can understand why you would learn to play faro or vingt-et-un,” Adam said, dealing them each twelve cards and setting the other eight into a pile beside the discarded ones. “Those games require a dealer or a banker. But no one plays piquet against a bank. It’s two opponents. And I’ve played it a great many times.”

“Is this where you attempt to rattle me, to force me to lose my concentration?” Sophia arranged her cards by suit to take a look at them.

“It’s a fair warning. I rarely give those.”

“Before the Tantalus opened, Lord Haybury taught us the rules and play of nearly every card or dice game imaginable.”

She thought his jaw tightened at the mention of the Marquis of Haybury’s name, but she couldn’t be certain. Everyone at the club knew the rumors of a falling-out between the two men, but it had evidently happened better than five years ago—well before the club opened. But if he was attempting to rattle her, it was only fair that she do the same to him.

“So you know the rules,” he said after a moment, glancing at her over the fan of his cards. “That doesn’t mean you can play.”

“Well, I’ve played it nearly every morning and on my days off for a year. As you know, there aren’t many places outside The Tantalus Club where I’m welcome. I therefore stay inside. And my friend Emily Portsman is an inveterate gambler.” They played for pennies, but he didn’t need to know that. Nor did he need to know that Emily Portsman wasn’t even her friend’s true name. No one at the club knew who she might actually be, but she was pretty, well educated, and had been in desperate need of employment. That was all that had mattered.

His mouth curved in that rare, attractive smile of his. “Please don’t tell me what you chits do when you aren’t working. You’ll destroy my imaginings of you all walking about upstairs naked and hitting each other with pillows.”

Sophia snorted. “That’s only on Thursdays.”

He laughed, a low rumble that tickled through her like fine champagne. “My new favorite day of the week.”

“What would you be doing tonight if Greaves Park were packed to the rafters with guests?” she asked, selecting five cards from her hand and setting them aside in exchange for five of the cards in the talon.

“Likely roasting chestnuts and singing carols.” Casting aside three of his own cards, he collected the talon’s remaining trio.

“Truly?”

Adam lifted an eyebrow. “Why? Does it sound too dull and domestic?”

“It sounds rather wonderful. But I can’t quite imagine you singing ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.’” Lowering her gaze to her cards, she pursed her lips. “Point of six.”

“Good.”

Silently she wrote down her score of six. “What else do you do for your holiday gatherings?”

“First of all, I sound very grand singing ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.’ Second of all, are you bored with playing cards and billiards?”

His tone seemed a bit … hard, as if she’d offended him.
Drat.
Sophia met the steel gray of his eyes. “I think the merits of domesticity aren’t appreciated enough by those who are accustomed to it. This is the best Christmas holiday I’ve ever spent.” And she was very glad of that, since the memories would have to last her a lifetime.

“Are you including the bit where you nearly drowned and lost all your luggage?”

“I put that in a separate category, which also makes this my most harrowing holiday.” Freeing one of her hands from her cards, she leaned across the table and tapped him on one knuckle. “I don’t want this to be
your
worst holiday ever.”

For a moment he gazed at her. “You may rest assured that this is not my worst holiday ever. Far from it, though that may change when the remainder of my guests arrive. Now. Are you going to continue trouncing me, or was that end of your attack?”

Well, he hadn’t directly answered her question, but what he
had
said was rather nice. “Ha. Prepare to be devastated. Sixième.”

“What? Damnation. Good.”

Chuckling, she added sixteen points to her total. “Oh, and tierce.” Still grinning, she added in three more points.

“Mm-hm.”

She shifted the three jacks in her hand. This was the point where he was likely to best her, but she did have quite a good lead at the moment. “Trio.”

“Equal.”

“Blast it. Jacks.”

“Not good.”

Sophia sighed. “Fine. What do you have?”

“Kings. Oh, and queens.” As she watched, he gave himself six points. Then he looked up at her again. “Finished declaring?”

“Yes, damn it all.”

“Quatorze,” he said.

“Take your blasted points.”

By the time they’d played the tricks and totaled the score, he was behind her by only two points. “What score are we playing to?” he asked, shuffling the cards for the next hand. “Or should we settle our wager hand by hand?”

She glanced toward the closed door of the drawing room. However little use she had for propriety, she did know that an unmarried woman did not spend any time unchaperoned in a man’s company without an extreme risk of ruination. Adam Baswich knew that, too. And neither of them had so much as batted an eye over playing billiards together or going riding together or playing cards together with only his two great dogs in the room with them, sleeping in front of the fire.

“Do you think I’m being absurd, refusing to allow you to purchase me things and yet sitting here alone with you?” she asked.

“I think you have found that there’s a difference between being seduced and being … kept,” he returned promptly. “I don’t think it’s about propriety, but I do recognize that it’s important to you. And no, I don’t find it—or you—absurd in the least.”

She watched the graceful flick of his long-fingered hands for a moment. Hands she’d occasionally daydreamed about back in London, and hands that she very much wanted touching her now. “I suggest a new wager.”

“I’m all atingle.”

So was she. “The loser of each hand removes an article of clothing.” She gestured from his very fine gray and black suit of clothes to her own footman’s attire. “We are dressed in a nearly identical fashion, after all.”

Setting the deck of thirty-two cards aside, he reached up and briskly unknotted his cravat. Then he slid it slowly from around his neck and dropped it to the floor. “Agreed.”

*   *   *

An hour later, she wondered if the Duke of Greaves knew what he’d agreed to. She sat, a small, delicious shiver of excitement running down her spine, as Adam took his shirt by the bottom hem and pulled it off over his head.
Oh, my.

As he’d lifted her in and out of the saddle and, even more tellingly, hauled her out of the river, she’d known he was strong and fit. He had the body of a born athlete, lean and muscular and just … perfect. A dark dusting of hair across his chest narrowed as it traveled downward to vanish beneath the waistband of his buckskin trousers, which she found at least as intriguing as the parts of him that she could see.

Once he’d discarded his white superfine shirt, he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. In response, Sophia stifled a scowl. She wasn’t finished with gazing at him, yet. As she returned her attention to his face, he was contemplating her coolly.

“Are you cheating?” he asked.

“I am not cheating. I warned you that I’ve played nearly daily for a year.”

“Yes, but I’ve played piquet since I was sixteen. That’s nearly
fourteen
years.” Momentarily straightening one arm, he brushed a finger across the paper he’d been using to tally his points. “You haven’t lost a single hand.”

Deciding it would be both poor form and dangerous to laugh, Sophia settled for nodding. “You’ve come quite close several times.”

“Don’t placate me, chit.”

She stifled a reluctant sigh. “Well, I suppose we can end the game, if you wish.”

“So you can call me a poor loser?”

“I’m not the one complaining.” She stacked the cards and cut them. “It’s your deal. I certainly don’t wish to cause an argument. That wasn’t the point of … this.” In fact, she was quite happy with the way events had unfolded, so to speak, but evidently he’d expected to see her removing clothes. Another thrill stirred through her.

“You suggested the wager,” he said, sitting forward to take the deck.

“I did.”

“You have no objection to being naked, then.”

Heat touched her cheeks as she realized that once again, this was not a conversation a gentleman had with a proper lady. At the moment, however, she didn’t care. “Your argument has a logical bent to it.”

For a moment he gazed at her. “Then I propose we change the game.”

Her breath quickened. “To what?”

Eyes still on her, he reached over to the edge of the table for the twenty cards they’d discarded before the beginning of the game. Without looking down, he shuffled them into the deck. “We cut the cards. High card wins.”

“There’s no skill at all in that,” she protested.

“I’ve been suffering here for a damned hour.” He slammed the deck onto the table between them. “Cut the cards.”

Even the Duke of Greaves could run out of patience, apparently. Fingers not quite steady, she reached out, lifted a section of the cards, and turned them faceup. Finally she glanced down. “Queen of spades,” she declared, utterly unable to help the twitch of her mouth.

He cursed. “Bloody hell.” The moment she set the cards back, he leaned in to grab the top card and flip it over. “Seven of clubs. For God’s sake.”

A laugh escaped her lips before she could pull it back. “Oh, dear. Perhaps we should try a diff—”

“Don’t you dare.” Shoving his chair back, he reached down, yanked off his left boot, and tossed it aside. “Cut the cards again.”

As he wore stockings, she reckoned he had four more articles of clothing to remove before he would be completely naked. And she still hadn’t even removed her scarf. The odds that he would be naked before she was even nearly so seemed very much in her favor. “Very well,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. And then she turned over the four of hearts.

“Aha! I have you now.”

She set the cards back. “This evening has tilted so far away from your favor that I have to caution you against premature celebration, Your Grace,” she said, attempting to keep a straight face.

“We’ll see about that.” Cutting deeply into the deck, he turned his wrist so only he could see the card he’d uncovered. And then, a self-satisfied and rather predatory grin playing attractively about his mouth, he showed the card to her.

The nine of hearts.
“Very well, then,” she said as evenly as she could, and with great ceremony untied her scarf’s loose knot and cast the pretty thing aside.

Adam glared at the scarf as if it had offended him. “Insufferable.”

“What? Did you think I would begin with something else?” she commented. “Or did you just realize which of us the odds favor to be rendered naked?” Deliberately, attempting to disguise the rapid hum of her pulse, she looked him up and down. “And what do we do once you’ve lost?”