Page 42 of For a Scot's Heart Only
She adjusted her mask, a silk creation trimmed with black feathers. Her eyelids were heavy. The buzz under her skin, constant. Layers of reserve were melting off her. Her chin tipped as she watched MacLeod fade into the ballroom with a loose-limbed stride. A laughing harlot swished her tail feathers against him. MacLeod spun her around, ending their circle with a playful kiss by glass doors which led to the garden. He produced a cheroot from his pocket and angled his head at the garden as if he’d take himself outside for a smoke.
The pouting bird slinked away, and MacLeod slipped off into the night.
The Highlander had thought of everything. His clothes, his cheroot, his blending in. Even his lighthearted kiss.
“Lost another man, did you?”
Mary turned, her limbs more fluid than they should be.
The taunt came from a tawny-haired harlot drawing near. She was garbed as a lioness, the same woman who’d smirked at her for being in the wrong room two nights past.
“He’s not mine to lose.”
The harlot’s laugh was throaty and lax. “Ease up, love, and you might find what you’re looking for.”
Mary blinked. What was she looking for? Excitement?
Treasure?
Or something better than gold?
The lioness strode boldly on and linked arms with a bewigged gentleman. Drawn-on whiskers and a long, tufted tail were her costume’s convincing objects. Mary had a few of her own. A treasonous coin nestled between her breasts, certainly. And keys to the Red Rose room. She shouldn’t have brought them with her.
But she had.
She reached into her pocket and found those keys, warm against her hip.
Five years since you kissed a man.
Her heart cratered, a horrible shudder from years of keeping herself in check. Of near-perfect restraint, always composed. Couldn’t she take what she wanted... just this once?
Across the ballroom, another torch was tossed high, the flames spinning. The fire controlled. No one was harmed, and the entertainment, pure joy.
Eyes shut, she touched the keys. Years of loneliness stretched so far behind her that she’d lost count how many there were. Before her were two free hours. She could spend them any way she pleased. Looking at the ballroom again, she was decided.
It was time to play with fire.
Chapter Nine
Ranleigh’s faux circus was a headache in motion. The noise abominable, the crowd bloated, the costumes garish. A sickening effect, the same as gorging on nothing but sugared sweets. Thomas had made that mistake once as a boy and paid the price.
Why was he doing it again?
The gaming room, at least, was less affected by the flagrant excess. Fewer costumes to be found. Whatever Ranleigh spent in the rest of Maison Bedwell, he more than made up for in here. And he’d corralled his best and most distracting dealer to service Thomas’s table. Miss Trevethan, lovely as always. She dealt two cards to each gambler with an elegant hand.Vingt-et-unwas the game. At stake was a pile of guineas and Thomas’s pride.
At twilight a messenger bearing a note had arrived at West and Sons Shipping. Ranleigh’s missive had practically demanded his presence at Maison Bedwell and that alone irked him. He’d dashed off a terse answer.This evening is doubtful.
The ink had barely dried when he knew—no matter how late the hour, he’d go.
His father had raised no fool. A riskier game was in motion. A clash of wills between the son of a whaler and the son of a duke. Thomas tugged his cravat. An untangling was required. More money might be lost.
Miss Trevethan laid her second card face up. The queen of spades.
“Gentlemen, do you wish to increase your bets?” was her purr.
Thomas pinched his cards. A pair of nines. A capricious hand.
Across the table, Lord Ranleigh tossed in ten guineas. An exorbitant sum.
