Sylvia Day - Passion for the Game

“Yes, exploitation was your only aim,” Philip said dryly as he leaned against the mantel. “The Lord forbid that my well-being should be the result of a momentary bout of generosity. A recurring bout, I should mention, as all of us under this roof seem to have stumbled upon it at some point.”

Christopher snorted and drained his glass. “Please refrain from casting kind aspersions upon my character. It’s quite rude to malign me so.”

Philip had the temerity to roll his eyes. “Your fearsome reputation has been hard earned and proven many times. Taking in the world’s strays will not raise sunken ships from the ocean’s depths, replace stolen cargos, or revitalize those foolish enough to have crossed you. You’ve no cause to worry. My undying gratitude shan’t diminish your infamy.”

“Cheeky bastard.”

The young man smiled and then the moment was broken by a soft knock at the door.

“Come in,” Christopher called out, bowing his head slightly in greeting as a statuesque blonde and petite but voluptuous brunette joined them. “Ah, lovely. I have need of both of you.”

“We missed you,” Beth said with a seductive flip of her loose blond hair. Angelica simply winked. She was the quieter of the two, unless she was fucking. Then she cursed like the crudest of his sailors.

“Pardon me,” Philip interjected, frowning. “How did you know Welton would not have a preference for red-haired wenches?”

“How do you know they are not here for me?” Christopher countered.

“Because I am here and you are focused. You never mix business with pleasure.”

“Perhaps pleasure is the business, young Philip.”

Philip’s gray eyes narrowed behind his spectacles, a physical sign of his mental exertions. It was that tendency to reason out everything that had first captured Christopher’s attention. A bright mind was not to be wasted.

Setting aside his glass, Christopher then sank into the nearest wingback chair. “Ladies, I have a request of both of you.”

“Whatever you need,” Angelica purred, “you know we will provide.”

“Thank you,” he said graciously, having known they would agree to whatever he required. Loyalty worked both ways in his household. He would fight to the death for any one of the persons under his care, and they offered the same courtesy to him in return.

“The modiste will come by tomorrow and measure you both for new garments.” The rapacious gleam in their eyes made him smile. “Beth, you are about to become Lord Welton’s most intimate confidante.”

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 carefully 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 hallmarks 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.

“Can I tell you all the many things I adore about you, mhuirnín ?”

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 alleviate 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, mhuirnín . 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.

“Tell 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 tell 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. Hopefully, he will tell 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 follow, I shall make certain you are not disturbed.”

“Simon, you are a blessing.”