Still Wicked Read online

  “I’m sure, but of no interest to me.” There, that should keep him from bringing up the topic. She regarded her plate. The lamb did look delicious, but she’d suddenly lost her appetite somewhere between the appearance of Mabel and Kelso’s reference to his previous lovers. Then there was the bed. The large, looming, ready-to-be-used bed.

  “Eat.” Kelso poured himself a glass of the spirits Mabel had left on the table. He took a sip, giving a small nod of approval, before spearing a bit of the lamb.

  She picked at her meal, pushing around the potatoes on her plate until Kelso made a loud noise of resignation.

  “Elizabeth, how much do you know about,” he waved his fork in the direction of the bed, “that?”

  “About beds? Quite a lot. I’m not nearly as knowledgeable on mattresses though this one appears to be comfortable enough. I do like the quilt. Very pretty.” She tried to swallow a sliver of a carrot.

  Kelso shook his head in exasperation. “Stop regarding me as if I’m some barbarian about to…pillage you.”

  “You pillage a castle, not a person.”

  “Whichever. Cease. I am trying to enjoy this delicious repast.”

  “I was regarding the lamb, not you,” she lied, picking delicately at a tiny piece of meat. “Tell me about your family. You know mine, obviously.”

  “Obviously.” He swirled the liquid in his glass.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Brandy. It was all Mrs. Campbell seemed to have available. Disappointing since I expected a good Scottish whisky. I should have gone out and purchased a bottle myself. She probably wasted her good whisky on that milksop and his wife I saw leaving earlier.”

  “The Hughes. And it is unkind to call him a milksop.”

  “He was cooing in her ear. Cooing, Elizabeth.”

  Kelso’s outrage made her smile. He was very good at distracting her. “You were telling me of your family.”

  His eyes narrowed, clearly annoyed she wasn’t allowing him to change the subject. “I met your brother once. I found his tales of exploring the jungles of Macao to be fascinating. He’s very accomplished.”

  “He is.” Quite a lot of people, mainly women, never got past her brother’s attractiveness. Even Mother Hildegard had blushed on the rare occasions Sutton had visited St. Albans.

  “Did Sutton ever tell you about Jonas? His monkey? Jonas liked to smoke a pipe.” Her brother had related such things to her. Sutton had written her at least once a week. He had tried to make up for lost time by describing at least one previous adventure per letter. She knew all about Macao, could even see the jungles and exotic people in her mind’s eye. “Have you seen his tattoo? His wife, Alex, tells me the dragon is gossiped about in London.”

  “No, I’m afraid we didn’t discuss anything so personal. He was visiting my cousin.” Kelso speared another bite of lamb. “Tattoos aren’t terribly unusual in Asia, though they are much rarer among titled gentlemen.”

  “Do you have one?” Elizabeth watched how the light caught in his amber eyes.

  “Yes. But not nearly as extravagant as your brother’s. Lord Cambourne did impart lots of useful information about that part of the world.” Kelso said. “Our discussion filled me with youthful exuberance and fired a passion for adventure.” A shadow crossed his face and he swallowed the remaining liquid in his glass. “I’m much more jaded now.”

  Elizabeth thought there was more to his time as a courier in India than Kelso was willing to share with her. He didn’t look jaded, so much as weary, making him look much older. She leaned across the table, peering at him in an attempt to discern his age. There were lines around his eyes, but not a touch of silver in his hair.

  Kelso put his elbows on the table and stared back at her. “Do I have parsley from the potatoes on my face? Or in my teeth?”

  Elizabeth blinked. “What? No. I was only trying to decide your age. I think you must be younger than Nick and my brother.”

  “I’m far older than you. Though possibly not wiser.” He tossed one of the smaller potatoes up into the air and caught it in his mouth.

  She waited for him to tell her. He didn’t. “We were discussing your family.”

  “I see we are back to that. Like a small dog with a bone.” He poured out another glass of brandy, holding it up to the light. “I tried to impress upon Mrs. Campbell that brandy is an after-dinner drink, not suitable to drink with dinner. But,” an exaggerated puff left his lips, “it was either brandy or sherry. I chose the lesser of two evils.”

  “Kelso.” Elizabeth gritted her teeth in frustration.

  “Very well. I have a younger brother, Brendan. The Earl of Morwick. My mother was serving as my younger cousin’s chaperone for some time, but now Arabella has married, so I expect Mother will become a force again in society. She is quite well known in the ton. Her current title is Lady Cupps-Foster.”

  Elizabeth managed to eat a portion of the carrot on her plate. His voice smoothed some of her agitation away. “Current?”

  “Mother has been married and widowed three times. She’s been Lady Kelso, Lady Morwick and now Lady Cupps-Foster.” His lips curled in distaste. “I detested Cupps-Foster. The man was a hot-headed idiot. Mother has been visiting my brother in the Peak District but will return to London for the holidays. She very strongly suggested I arrive home in time to celebrate Christmas with her and the rest of my family, so here I am. I was coming home anyway. How Mother convinced Brendan to come down from his beloved cliffs and peaks to venture to London is a mystery. My brother is rather fond of climbing things.”

  “Climbing?” Elizabeth ate an entire potato and a bit of the lamb. There was affection in Kelso’s words as he spoke of his family.

  “Trees. Hills. Rocks. I once found him dragging himself up the side of a cliff with his bare hands smiling like a bloody idiot. He’s fond of bringing home fossils and other dusty things. I can’t believe he’s found a woman to tolerate his nonsense. He married recently.” Kelso shrugged again. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

  “Agreed.” She gave him a pointed look and allowed her innuendo to sink in. “Tell me more.”

  Kelso snorted. “Many women find me to be…tasty.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve told you I’m not interested in hearing about your conquests. Go on.” She was enjoying this charming, more open, Kelso.

  For the next hour, he told her stories of himself and Brendan as children while Elizabeth enjoyed her dinner. Kelso was an amusing storyteller, his recollection of swordfights and climbing trees with his younger, chubby brother, whose pockets had often been full of bits of gritstone and dirt, gave her a glimpse of the boy Kelso had once been.

  Elizabeth could listen to him for hours and never grow bored. He spoke of defending his brother against a bully, the protectiveness he still felt toward Brendan apparent. She’d been a recipient of such protection herself.

  He tossed another small potato up in the air to land firmly in his mouth. Wiggling his eyebrows at her, Kelso shot Elizabeth a look.

  “Do not.” She tried to scowl and failed. It was difficult to be surly toward him when he was so bloody charming.

  “Open,” he commanded.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and opened her mouth. The potato hit her square in the forehead.

  Kelso burst into laughter. After a time, so did Elizabeth.

  18

  Spence watched Elizabeth pick at her food, something he hadn’t seen her do in their short acquaintance. He didn’t want her to be terrified of him. Truthfully, he was nervous as well. Virgins were unknown territory to Spence, a species of female he generally avoided.

  Spence was by nature a strategic thinker. He had to be in his line of work. He’d intentionally left Elizabeth alone after the wedding while he had tried to find a recent newspaper. There had been nothing of importance in the Edinburgh papers, only a brief mention of McDonnell. Nothing at all from the incident at the Wilted Rose. The only London paper he had found was nearly a wee
k old. While he had looked through the papers, he’d seen two men playing cards in one of the local pubs. Inspiration had struck.

  He wished it had struck before he’d been stuck with nothing more than a bottle of brandy. But the deck of cards now rested in his coat pocket.

  “Finished?” At her nod he cleared the table and opened the door to place the trays in the hall. He didn’t wish to be disturbed by Mabel at an inconvenient moment.

  Elizabeth stared at the open door, her fingers clenching against the arms of her chair, looking as if she wished he’d put her out with the empty tray. At least she’d eaten most of her dinner as he’d talked, the earlier tension leaving her slender form. But now the anxiety was back.

  She absently toyed with a bit of her hair that had fallen to her shoulder. The remainder of the glossy, ebony mass had been piled atop her head for the wedding. Spence longed to see it down.

  “Do you play cards, Elizabeth?” He shut the door and made a point of locking it.

  Her eyes flew to the lock and then back at him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  If his previous bed partners hadn’t been so effusive of his skills, Spence would have been insulted.

  “I will assume by your answer that you do not play cards.” He walked to his coat and pulled out the deck he’d purchased earlier, regretting again he’d not also purchased a bottle of scotch.

  Elizabeth pursed her lips. Her gorgeous, plump lips. “Actually, I do. My father taught me some games when I was a child. Simple games.” Her brow wrinkled briefly at the mention of the late marquess. Elizabeth carried a fair amount of guilt for her father’s death. It was so obvious to him and anyone else who cared to look.

  “We played several times a week.” The pain ebbed from her features. “What does card playing have to do with…bollocks. Can’t we just get on with it?”

  Good lord, he was insulted. And frustrated. He’d been walking around with a cockstand, and Elizabeth viewed bedding him as a terrifying chore. Like emptying a chamber pot. He reminded himself of the primary reason for wedding Elizabeth—namely for leverage to secure his freedom from his servitude to the Crown. It shouldn’t matter if she found the act a chore.

  Yes, but I want her.

  He did. Every terrified, nervous, no longer nun, bit of her. He thought of the way she would taste. The feel of her skin beneath his lips. The warm, feminine scent which clung to his clothes driving him slowly mad with the need to have her. Even now, it was all Spence could do to keep his distance.

  “I learned a very interesting game while I was in India,” he said, “from an American diplomat and his friends. It’s called poker.”

  The American’s friends were actually several young ladies in one of the more exclusive brothels catering to the influx of British in the province of Bombay. The American went by Smith, a common enough name and unlikely to be his actual one. Spence had been at loose ends that evening, bored with his very existence. He had only wanted to forget for a time the face of the Belgian’s son and wife. He had asked Smith to deal him in while the young ladies giggled with anticipation. He’d no idea at the time why they’d been so excited about playing cards with him and Smith. The evening was one of his fonder memories of India.

  “Poker?” Elizabeth didn’t seem convinced. “I’ve never heard of such a game. Are you sure you aren’t making it up?”

  “Possibly it hasn’t made its way across the pond yet. I told you, poker is a game from America. But I assure you it is a legitimate card game. The Americans prefer poker to say…whist or faro.”

  Elizabeth possessed a keen intellect, much wasted in her time at St. Albans. Spence could see she was intrigued. She took a deep breath and cocked her head, obviously trying to discern if he was joking. “This won’t be like the potato, will it?”

  Spence rolled his eyes. “You moved and my aim was off.”

  Elizabeth started tapping her fingertips against the table. The tops of her breasts, a swath of lovely pearl-colored skin, swelled above the modest neckline.

  Spence swore under his breath. He should be nominated for sainthood.

  He set the deck of cards on the table. The cards were tattered and worn with discreet markings on several. “My wife should know how to gamble, don’t you think?” He winked at her. “Unless you are concerned you might lose? I’m willing to bet your card playing skills are rusty. I can’t imagine Mother Hildegard allowed a game of faro at St. Albans, where you could only bet the profits of the honey business.” He shuffled the deck.

  Elizabeth had a reckless streak. He was counting on that.

  “I’m very good at cards,” she said, clearly affronted. “And Mother Hildegard only allowed dicing on rare occasions.” She looked up from beneath her lashes and gave him an impish look.

  Bloody saucy little nun.

  The desire for her was so great he nearly tossed the cards and his careful seduction aside. Instead he dealt her five cards, explaining to her the different combinations of cards and how to bet. Spence intended to keep things simple.

  “What does brandy taste like?” she asked. Her teeth worried her lush bottom lip.

  Christ. “I find it reminds me of ginger. Would you like some?”

  “I would.” She nodded with resolve. “I do.”

  Spence poured out a finger of brandy and slid the glass across the table, wondering if she would actually drink the stuff or only wanted to appear brave. They played a few hands, Spence deliberately allowing the cards he held to dictate his emotions. Elizabeth didn’t need to know he was allowing her to win, at least not tonight. Given the chance, Elizabeth would grow into a decent poker player.

  “Are we going to truly gamble? Play for…buttons or something?” She finally managed a sip of the brandy. A flush spread over her cheeks as her lovely face contorted. Eyes watering, she slammed one slender hand down on the table. “I’m fine.” She blinked sideways at him and took a sharp breath.

  Reckless little nun.

  Elizabeth was such a delightful bundle of contradictions. “Are you certain?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She was still sputtering.

  “What should we bet? Something simple. Not buttons.”

  She took another swallow of the brandy, and this time her eyes didn’t water. “This is really quite good once you get over the shock. I quite like it. What did you use to bet with your American friend?”

  “In American poker, you play for each other’s clothing.” Spence tightened his lips to keep from laughing at the consternation on her lovely face. Another strand of her hair, so carefully styled by Mabel, had loosened further from her first taste of the brandy. A fat, heavy curl bounced down one shoulder.

  Spence’s gaze followed the curl until it landed on the top of one breast. He swallowed back the remainder of his brandy. This could be a very long night.

  “Clothing?”

  “The players losing the hand must remove an item of clothing as designated by the winner. Those are the rules.”

  “A biscuit. We should play for biscuits.” She stuttered and pushed her brandy glass in his direction, motioning for him to fill it. “Those can’t possibly be the rules.”

  “Do you know so much about poker, then? You, who have spent the last few years cloistered with nuns?”

  “Well…no. I mean, even the Americans wouldn’t come up with such a game.”

  Spence gave a shrug. “They have. I’m not sure what you’re concerned about. We are both fully clothed and you are winning. If you prefer, we could retire for the evening.”

  Elizabeth snuck a peek at the bed, then returned her gaze to him. “Fine.” Her chin tilted mulishly and she drained her brandy. “We’ll play for clothing. Why wouldn’t you tell me such a thing before teaching me the game?” She slid over her empty brandy glass again, daring him to say anything.

  Spence splashed a finger of brandy into her glass. Elizabeth was full of surprises, one of which was a decent tolerance for alcohol. The other was her resolve to never allow
Spence the upper hand.

  He dealt the cards. This time she won on her own, fairly, with no help from him. Elizabeth impressed him with her quick grasp of the game.

  “You’ve lost,” she said with satisfaction.

  “I have. What will you have me remove?” He’d deliberately discarded his coat before they sat for dinner and Spence’s neckcloth had disappeared at some point during his errand at the Wilted Rose. His thought at playing poker with Elizabeth was not only to take her mind off the obvious, but also to give her a sense of control. She’d been made powerless far too often by the people in her life, including him.

  The blue of her eyes deepened to indigo. “Your left boot.”

  Clever girl. Spence removed his left boot. He allowed Elizabeth to win the next hand. Off came the right boot. Two hands later, his stockings came off.

  Elizabeth laughed, a deep throaty sound that sent razor sharp bolts of lust through him. “You’re a poor poker player.” The tops of her cheeks were flushed. Another strand of hair fell from her coiffure and landed on her collarbone.

  Spence’s fingers twitched with the need to pull the remaining pins out, sending the ebony mass tumbling about her shoulders.

  Elizabeth wiggled her empty glass before him.

  “I think you’ve had enough.” He didn’t want her completely foxed.

  “Just a bit more, Spence.”

  The way she purred his name, the first time she’d done so, had his cock swelling in response. If he could make it through this game, it would be a miracle.

  “You’re much better at this game than I supposed.” He gave her a small pour of the brandy and dealt another hand.

  “I am.” Her eyes gleamed as she laid down her next winning hand, so excited to continue to best him again she clearly hadn’t considered the consequences of winning.