Read Desire Becomes Her Online
Authors: Shirlee Busbee
Desire Becomes Her (35 page)
“Gentlemen. Gentlemen,” soothed Nolles. “Let us not carry this any further.” He exchanged a look with Stanton. “You’ll have to forgive my friend. He is not himself. Canfield’s death was a terrible shock to him. You were not there and cannot know how horrible it was to see a friend lose his life, and then having to relate the whole unfortunate event at the Coroner’s Inquest ...”
“Of course,” said Stanton. Forcing an apologetic note into his voice, he said, “I apologize. My remarks were uncalled for.”
For a moment, Simon didn’t think Townsend would back down. The balance hung by a thread until, his pale green eyes boring into Townsend, Nolles murmured, “It would be foolish, dear Squire, to carry this further. We don’t want further violence, now do we?”
Townsend shuddered and shook himself as if coming out of a trance, his gaze dropping to his brandy snifter. “No. No. No more violence.”
“Very good,” said Nolles. “And now, gentlemen, I have some business to attend to and must leave you for a while. Why don’t you retire to one of the private rooms? I’ll have a tray of liquors and refreshments sent in for you.”
Padgett stood up. “Excellent idea.” He glanced at Nolles. “I assume our regular room is ready?”
Nolles bowed. “Indeed. As always.”
Padgett strode off, Stanton on his heels. Townsend rose from the table, and walking behind him as he followed Padgett and Stanton, Simon was relieved to see from his movements that Townsend wasn’t as fuddled as he feared. Which made, he decided, Townsend’s behavior all the more puzzling. Townsend had backed down quick enough, but just the fact that Emily’s cousin had spoken to Stanton in such a fashion worried Simon. Mayhap, Townsend
was
drunk, after all.
was
drunk, after all.
Simon needn’t have feared that Townsend was drunk. As Simon watched him throughout the evening, he noticed that Townsend’s drinking slowed. As the evening progressed and the snifter by his elbow remained untouched, Townsend played considerably better than Simon had ever seen him play in the past, and since he was partnered with him against Stanton and Padgett in game after game of Whist, he could only be glad.
Time passed as usual, gambling and drinking, Nolles coming in now and then to see how they were faring and stopping to visit for a few minutes before disappearing back into the main room. After several hours and hands of Whist, during which Simon and Townsend resoundingly bested Padgett and Stanton, the losers wandered out of the room, leaving Simon and Townsend alone.
Simon was thinking of leaving, when Townsend cocked a brow and said, “A game or two of piquet before we call it a night?”
Reluctantly, Simon agreed. He was curious about Townsend’s manner this evening and saw no harm in lingering.
The two men began to play and while Simon knew himself to be a good player, he was surprised at Townsend’s increasingly erratic play. If Simon hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn that Townsend was throwing the game, and yet, just when he was about to accuse Townsend of such, Townsend would suddenly win the trick.
Simon tried to end the evening, aware that Townsend was drinking heavily now that Stanton and Padgett were no longer in the room. Each time he mentioned the lateness of the hour and Townsend’s increasing losses, Townsend would insist that they continue playing and allow him a chance to recoup the losses.
Sighing, Simon would agree to another game, hoping that Townsend would win so he could go home and get some sleep. Townsend went down hard in the next round and Simon had had enough.
To his relief, Nolles glided into the room and gave him the excuse he needed to call an end to it.
Standing up and uncomfortably gathering up the pile of money in front of him, Simon said, “Luck is not with you. Let us call it a night.”
“Never tell me, that Townsend has lost again?” purred Nolles, with a lifted brow. “Not after sending Stanton and Padgett home with empty purses?”
Townsend took a big swallow of his brandy. “I had help from Simon. With piquet I have only my own skill to rely upon, and as Simon said, luck was not with me.” He smiled crookedly. “Perhaps this is the way it should end.”
“How melodramatic,” said Nolles, an unpleasant note in his voice.
Townsend glanced indifferently in Nolles’s direction and shrugged. “My choice.” He laughed without humor and sent Nolles a speaking look. “The first choice I’ve had in many a day.”
“You’ve had too much to drink,” said Nolles coolly.
Sprawled in a chair across from Simon, Townsend looked at Simon, and something in that gaze increased Simon’s uneasiness. The certainty that he was being manipulated increased, but he couldn’t see to what end. It made no sense for Townsend, known to be in desperate financial straits, to deliberately play badly, and yet that’s exactly what Simon suspected the man of doing. But why?
Townsend smiled and a chill slid down Simon’s spine. There was no humor in that smile and the expression in Townsend’s eyes ... “One cut of the cards,” Townsend said, shuffling the cards. “Winner take all.”
“Have you gone mad?” Nolles demanded. “You’ve lost enough tonight.”
Townsend waved him aside and his eyes locked on Simon, he repeated, “One cut. Winner take all.”
“I do not mean to be indelicate,” Simon said gently, “but I believe that I have already won more than you can afford to lose.”
Townsend shook his head. He reached inside his waistcoat and brought out an envelope manufactured of heavy paper and tossed it into the middle of the table. The envelope was sealed, but when Simon reached for it, Townsend’s hand stopped his.
Staring intently into Simon’s eyes, Townsend said, “If I win, I take everything you’ve won tonight. If you win, you get this.” His gaze steadfast, Townsend added, “I would ask one indulgence ... if you win, you do not open the envelope until you are at Windmere.”
“What rubbish!” snapped Nolles, his face tight and frustrated, not liking this at all. “Mr. Joslyn would be a fool to take such a wager.”
Ignoring Nolles, Townsend’s eyes never wavered from Simon’s. “Will you do it? One cut of the cards. Winner take all.”
Simon’s gaze dropped to the envelope. It wasn’t very thick. Obviously, the envelope wasn’t filled with bank notes. He frowned, staring at the envelope. He looked at Townsend again. What sort of game was the man playing? There could be blank sheets of paper in that envelope for all he knew. Why should he risk a small fortune on the turn of one card to find out what was in the envelope? On the other hand ...
Simon sat down. He stared hard at Townsend. “One cut each. Winner take all.”
“And if you win, you wait until you have reached Windmere to open the envelope?”
“Very well,” said Simon, wondering which one of them was mad.
Townsend smiled faintly. “Then we are agreed one cut each. Winner take all.”
Simon nodded curtly.
Townsend pushed the cards toward the center of the table, leaving them in a tidy stack. “Do you wish to reshuffle?”
Simon shook his head. “Which one of us goes first?”
Townsend glanced up at Nolles. “Shall we allow Nolles to make the choice?”
Simon shrugged.
Nolles laughed angrily. “You’re fools, both of you.” He shot Townsend a suspicious look before saying, “Mr. Joslyn shall go first.”
Simon’s fingers closed around the deck and he made his cut. Turning the portion of the deck he held in his hand upright, he saw that he had exposed the nine of hearts. Since the piquet deck consisted of only thirty-two cards, ace through seven, the odds favored Townsend.
Nolles grinned when he saw the nine, realizing the same thing. Almost rubbing his hands together in anticipation of Townsend winning, he eyed the two men.
Looking at the nine, Townsend smiled faintly and made his cut. A seven of clubs.
Townsend sighed, but there was an odd smile on his face, almost, Simon thought, of relief. “Your win, I think.”
Nolles cursed, his hands clenching into fists and the look bestowed upon Townsend was lethal. “I trust,” he snarled from between bared teeth, “that there is nothing in that envelope that you will have cause to regret, my friend.”
Townsend glanced at him, his expression hard to define. “Nothing whatsoever.”
Standing, Simon picked up the envelope, and stuffing it inside his vest, he muttered, “Perhaps luck will be with you another night and you can have your revenge of me.”
An odd smile curved Townsend’s lips and there was a curious light in his eyes. “Perhaps,” he returned mildly.
Nolles wasn’t happy at the outcome and did his best to delay Simon’s departure, pressing another round of drinks on him, but Simon refused. Edging out of the room, Simon was glad that Padgett or Stanton were not present, feeling that if they had been, the likelihood of him walking out of The Ram’s Head with that envelope was scant. Striding out the main door, Simon mounted his horse and, with the envelope burning against his chest, rode toward Windmere as if the devil were at his heels. The contents of that envelope worried Nolles. The question that had Simon alert for danger was whether Nolles wanted to know the contents badly enough to send someone after him?
The road to Windmere had never seemed so long, and twice Simon thought he heard the sounds of pursuit and pushed his horse hard. How much of a head start he had he couldn’t guess, but if Nolles had sent his henchmen after him, they wouldn’t be far behind. Simon was as brave as the next man, but he admitted he was damned happy when he saw the gleam of the lamps of Windmere before him and knew he had reached safety. Fear wasn’t something he was familiar with, but he could not deny that fear had been his companion from the moment he’d picked up that blasted envelope of Townsend’s.
Luc, too, was aware of fear, but his had nothing to do with the contents of any envelope. His fear had everything to do with the small woman lying asleep in his arms, and it was a fear like nothing he had experienced in his life. The growing realization that his happiness, his reasons for living, his whole world was wrapped up in this bundle of exquisite femininity terrified him.
Propped on one elbow, in the darkness of his bedroom at Ramstone, Luc stared down into her sleeping face. The waxing moon shed scant light, but Luc needed no light to see Gillian’s face. Her features were stamped on his brain, as was every tempting line of her seductive little body. After nearly five days of marriage, spent almost exclusively in each other’s company, the curve of her lips, the arch of her brows and the shape and color of her eyes were now as familiar to him as his own.
He knew her moods, when she was pleased, annoyed or aroused. His body quickened. Oh yes, he knew how she looked aroused. She fascinated him, from the sparkle that lit the golden-brown eyes to the way she had of tilting her head when she was puzzled or uncertain. Unhappily he admitted that he loved her more than life itself, and yet, beyond knowing he pleased her in bed, he had few clues about the state of her heart and it was driving him mad.
She appeared to be delighted with the house and had been eagerly drawing up lists of furnishings; she had a sure hand with the servants and already he saw the signs of change throughout the house, in the meals that were served. And in his arms she transformed from an industrious wife into a passionate woman whose lightest touch sent his senses stampeding out of control. She was everything he wanted in a wife, a woman. So why, he asked himself, wasn’t he deliriously happy? Why was he lying here awake, aware of a gnawing fear?
His gaze swept over her. He could see in his mind the long sweep of her dark lashes lying against her cheeks and the relaxed curve of her mouth, and the need to snatch her into his arms, to crush her to him was nearly overpowering. And there in the blackness of the night he admitted his fear. He feared that she did not love him. She might have a fondness for him. Even affection, but love? The realization tumbled through him that if she did not love him, if in time he could not win her heart, that their life together was doomed and he would be condemned to misery.
Sighing, Luc sank back down, his dark head resting on the pillow beside Gillian’s. He loathed this feeling of helplessness, of no longer being in command of his life, of knowing that another held his fate in her slim hands. For a proud man who had always gone his own way, it was galling to find himself in this position. If I am not careful, he thought savagely, like a man besotted, I’ll be on my knees begging her to love me.
Zut!
Zut!
It was inevitable that his thoughts would turn to her first marriage, wondering if she had loved Charles Dashwood. Wondering if the ghost of Charles Dashwood would stand between them. So far, the subject of her first husband ... and the manner of his death had not been mentioned. It wasn’t, Luc admitted, something one would discuss easily and certainly not within the first few days of a new marriage. His mouth twisted. Their marriage, he reminded himself, had not been her choice. She had been compelled by circumstances to marry him, and like the blade of knife twisting in a wound, the terrible suspicion that she was still in love with her first husband crossed his mind.
Luc snorted. That made no sense, not when she had been all but accused of murdering Charles. But again, as had happened so often lately whenever the question of her guilt in the murder of her first husband arose, he rejected it. Call him a fool blinded by love, but he did not believe that she had murdered anyone. There had to be a logical explanation why she had been at one of Welbourne’s notorious parties that night. And as for her murdering her husband ... Through the darkness his gaze slid to her. Gillian was no murderess. But someone had murdered Charles Dashwood... .
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