Page 23 of The Scoundrel and the Lady

“My lady, Lord Ashby for you,” the housekeeper said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds, you may retire for the evening,” Iris said, coming to her feet.

The housekeeper questioned nothing, she merely curtseyed and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Lord Ashby pointed behind him. “Do you trust her?”

“Implicitly. She’s protective of me and my brother.” Iris gave him a smile. “She likely won’t go far on the off chance that you try to rob me and I scream.”

“I can think of far more pleasant ways to make you scream, my dear lady,” he said.

It was on her tongue to inquire as to what he meant, but she thought better of it. “Will this room work? I wasn’t certain what we’d be doing this evening.”

He did not take his eyes off her. “For this evening, this room shall suffice.”

It was then that Iris noticed he carried a small trunk with him.

“I brought everything we need for tonight’s instruction.” He motioned her back to the settee. “Go ahead and sit.”

He carried the small trunk to the occasional table in front of her and opened it. He withdrew two glasses and a decanter of amber colored liquid and set them down. Next came a small deck of cards, which he laid on the table before he poured them each a glass.

“We have brandy here,” she said.

“Well, I wanted to be certain you had the appropriate drink. And since you’re so opposed to your brother imbibing, I wasn’t confident you’d have any on hand.”

“I never said I opposed him imbibing.”

He handed her one of the glasses. “Didn’t you?”

“Not precisely. I do not care for indulging in spirits for the sake of indulgence. It is my understanding it can cloud your judgment and bring about potentially dangerous behavior.”

His dark brows rose ever so slightly. “Cheers.” He held up his glass to hers.

She clinked hers against his and suddenly felt as if she’d just sealed her fate.

Good heavens. Her mother had been right; she did have a flair for the dramatic. She took a slow sip, and the brandy burned her tongue and throat.

He grabbed the deck of cards, separated them, and then shuffled them back together. Again and again he did this, until they were to his liking, then he dealt them each a hand. “I’m going to teach you to play faro. It is the most popular card game at most gambling establishments.” He dumped a handful of coins onto the table, then divided them up. “These are your checks, though at a gaming hell, they’ll be chips, not actual money pieces.”

“Who taught you how to play?”

He looked up at her, then cleared his throat. “My father did.”

“Was he a good man?”

Lord Ashby smiled. It was equal parts wistful and fond. “He was a very good man. Made his fortune as a merchant and taught me much.”

“My lord—”

“I think it is past time that we stop using such formal ways to address each other. You may call me Merritt, and I shall call you Iris,” he said.

He poured her another drink, and this one she found didn’t burn nearly as much as its predecessor, so she took a bigger sip. It warmed her all the way down her stomach to her feet. She wiggled her toes inside her slippers.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said. “You might think I don’t, but I’m rather clever.”

A grin slid onto his face. “I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re talking about,” he said.

She waved a hand and made some sort of noise with her mouth. “You…” She poked one finger into his chest. “Are trying to scare me off. You”—again she jabbed him in the chest—“are not taking this bargain of ours seriously.”

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