Page 33 of Marquess of Stone

“You are cheating!” she accused though her smile betrayed her lack of genuine outrage. “I simply have not discoveredhowyet.”

“Such accusations!” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “And here I thought we were developing a relationship built on trust.”

“Trust?” She arched a single eyebrow at him. “This coming from the man who spent the entire day pretending that we are nothing but mere acquaintances?”

He reached for the decanter, topping off her glass before she could protest. “Perhaps I was simply gathering my strength for tonight’s corruption of virtues.”

“Is that what this is?” She watched as he shuffled the cards once more, his fingers moving with a dexterity that was somehow fascinating. “A carefully planned corruption?”

“One thing I know for certain, Marian Brandon, is that nothing about you could ever be planned.” The admission carried more weight than his light tone suggested. “You seem to defy all attempts at… management.”

“How fortunate then,” she replied, picking up her new hand with growing confidence, “that I have no desire whatsoever to bemanaged.”

Another three hands later, she laid down her cards with triumphant flourish. “Ha! I believe that is what they call a ‘winning hand’, is it not?”

Nicholas’s expression of genuine surprise was worth every loss she had suffered. “Well, well,” he murmured, leaning back into his chair to study her with newfound appreciation. “It seems you have a natural vice!”

“Perhaps,” she said, gathering her modest winnings with exaggerated ceremony, “or perhaps you are simply not as clever as you think you are.”

“Oh, I am exactly as clever as I think I am.” His smile turned wicked. “Would you care to test that theory with another game? Double stakes, perhaps?”

“I think not,” she laughed, the brandy making her feel delightfully bold. “I prefer to retire undefeated. Though…” Her eyes strayed to the cigar box that had been tempting her curiosity all evening. “I might be persuaded to try another form of corruption.”

Nicholas followed her gaze, and something in his expression darkened. “Are you sure that is wise?”

“When has wisdom ever been a consideration between us, Nicholas?” She uncurled herself from her chair, noting with distant amusement that she’d somehow lost both her shoes during their card game. The carpet was sinfully soft beneath her stockinged feet as she approached the side table.

“Besides,” she continued, running a finger along the polished wood of the cigar box, “I believe sampling forbidden pleasures was rather the point of this evening, was it not?”

He moved with that same fluid grace she had come to admire about him, and suddenly, he was beside her — close enough that she could smell the complex scents of sandalwood and leather and tobacco and something else that was uniquelyhim. “Very well.” His voice had dropped into that dangerous register that seemed to bypass her ears entirely and settle somewhere around her navel. “But don’t say I did not warn you.”

She watched, fascinated, as he selected a cigar with the same care a general might choose his weapons before battle. The ritual of preparation was oddly compelling — the precise cut, the careful way he warmed it, the first testing draw that made his lips purse in a way that was entirely too distracting…

“Here,” he said finally, holding it out to her. “Though, I should warn you, it is an acquired taste.”

“Much like yourself, you mean?” The words slipped out before she could catch them, and she immediately blamed the brandy for the way her cheeks heated and flared at his answering laugh.

She took the cigar, acutely aware that her lips were touching the very same spot where his had been just moments before. The intimacy of it sent a shiver down her spine.

“Gently, now,” he instructed, his voice impossibly soft. “Draw the smoke into your mouth first, do not try to inhale it.”

She followed his instructions, or tried to, but something went terribly wrong. The smoke seemed to catch in her throat, and suddenly she was coughing — violent, greatly unladylike coughs that made her eyes water and her dignity disappear.

“That,” she managed hoarsely, thrusting the cigar back at him, “is absolutely vile. How do you manage to make it look so… so…”

“Sophisticated?” he supplied, accepting the cigar with poorly concealed amusement.

“Effortless,” she corrected, dropping back into her chair and pulling her feet under her. “You stand there looking like some sort of Greek god with your perfect smoke rings while I sound rather like a consumptive street urchin.”

His laugh was warm and rich. “A Greek god? My, my, the liquor has certainly made you generous with your compliments.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” Marian laughed, watching as Nicholas took another effortless draw from the cigar. “I simply meant to say that you have a way of making everything look so… natural.” She waved a hand vaguely in his direction, aware that the brandy had loosened her tongue more than might be wise. “Even your vices have an elegance to them.”

“Years of practice will do that,” he replied though something in his expression suggested that her words had affected him more than he cared to admit. “Though, I must say, watching you attempt to maintain your dignity while choking on smoke was rather… endearing.”

“Endearing?” She straightened in her chair, affronted. “I’ll have you know that nothing about me is endearing. I am formidable and thoroughly disagreeable — just ask my mother’s entire circle of acquaintances.”

“Thoroughly disagreeable women rarely blush quite so becomingly when they’ve had too much brandy.”

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