Confessions of a Scoundrel (8 page)

B
rand waited until the crowd that had gathered to greet Verena had dispersed somewhat before he moved into her line of sight. There was a moment's hesitation, a faint coloring of her cheeks, and then she broke into that fascinating smile. Brand lifted his glass toward her in a silent toast.

A flicker of surprise showed in her face, but no embarrassment. She even returned the favor, inclining her head in his direction. He had expected that she'd avoid him, but he'd not counted on her natural brazen temperament. She soon broke away from the small group and made her way to his side.

“Mr. St. John. How delightful.” Her tone dripped with ill-concealed humor.

The room seemed dressed in dark browns and reds, while Verena in her white dress drew all the light and held it. Brand couldn't help but smile—
her choice of gown was brilliant. “Lady Westforth, it is always a pleasure seeing you.” He looked down into her upturned face, aware of a stirring of unmistakable lust. Her hair was pulled back, twisted in a braid and fastened around her head like a crown. She didn't try to ape fashions that wouldn't compliment her, but wore what suited her.

Brandon had to agree that she looked fresh and bright, soaking the color from every woman in the room. His gaze flickered to her shoulders where they showed above the white gauze rosettes that decorated the neckline of her gown. A silver necklet rested against her throat and drew the eye. He saw the necklet and looked away, only to return his gaze immediately.

She placed her fingers on the silver chain and dimpled up at him. “Do you like it? I had it made just last week.”

“So that's where my draft ended.”

“Alas, yes. The signature was all I had left after Lady Farnsworth got butter on the rest of it.” She peeped at him from beneath her lashes, a delicious laugh gurgling in her throat.

He should have been angry. But instead, his blood quickened. By God, he would enjoy this little contretemps. More than he'd enjoyed anything in a long, long time. “You, madam, are incorrigible.”

“Only when forced.”

“I'm sorry if you feel that I have forced you into anything.”

“Ha! You've never been sorry for a single thing you've ever done. Have you?”

“I hate apologizing so I make it a point to always be in the right.”

She tilted her head to one side and regarded him with mock seriousness. “Mr. St. John, you are certainly taking this in good part, which is most unfortunate.”

“How so?”

“Because if you insist on being such a good sport, then I shall have to cease and desist in my efforts to make everyone laugh at you. I would truly hate to do that, so do you think you could work up a nice glower? Or a stern frown, like a displeased tutor? Just one will do. Then everyone who is watching to see what is going to occur between us, mortal enemies that we are, will realize that I was perfectly within my rights to mock you.”

“Lady Westforth, I don't know who taught you such brutal tactics, but I applaud them.” Brandon captured her hand and kissed it, brushing his lips lightly over her skin. He was aware of an instant ripple of attraction, like the hint of movement along the surface of a pond. His body heated as his attention fixed on her lower lip. God, but she was a tasty morsel. One he would enjoy devouring, one delectable inch at a time.

It was strange, but he'd never before experienced this combination of powerful physical attraction combined with an innate appreciation for a dauntless spirit. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Not that it would interfere with his plans. Will she, nil she, the luscious Verena was about to be thoroughly and completely seduced.

Some of his thoughts must have been visible,
for her fingers trembled against his. She tugged her hand free, her color high.

Her companion joined her then, a strikingly handsome man with gold coloring that strongly echoed her own. She turned to the man as if she were a drowning victim finding a rope within reach. “Ah! Mr. St. John, allow me to present Mr. Lansdowne. He is an acquaintance, recently come from Italy.”

Another victim. Brand should have felt some pity for the fool, but somehow all he could think about was that the man before him was now standing beside Verena. He'd drawn her hand through his arm as if he knew her intimately.

Irritation inched along Brandon's shoulders. “Do you plan on staying in London long?”

“As long as Lady Westforth allows me to.” The gentleman arched his brows toward Verena, who returned his smile.

The bounder. “I hope you conclude your business swiftly and profitably,” Brand said. “In the meantime, perchance you will join me in a game. Faro, perhaps?”

Lansdowne brightened, his brown eyes alight. “Faro! I'd love to play, though I'm not very good.”

“Neither, apparently, am I. I was losing just before you entered.”

“A temporary lapse, I'm certain.” Mr. Lansdowne was so excited by this offer that he seemed to forget Verena stood at his side. “Perhaps we can set our own terms. The house has limits, you know, but for men like you and I, there's no need to waste our time playing for so little. We can raise
the wager to—Ow!” He clutched his arm where Lady Westforth had been resting her hand.

“Poor Mr. Lansdowne!” she said smoothly. “Is your arm acting up again?” She looked at Brandon, all innocent concern. “Gout, you know.”

“At such a tender age? Mr. Lansdowne, I'm sorry to hear that.”

The man rubbed his arm glumly. “Not as much as I am.”

Lady Westforth sent him a perfunctory smile. “I suppose this means you can't play cards. Not with your arm bothering you.”

“Can't play ca—Oh!” He smoothed his sleeve over his arm. “Yes, that could be difficult. Well. Mr. St. John, it was pleasant meeting you.” He bowed, sent a dark glance at Lady Westforth, and then walked away.

“How long have you known him?” Brand asked as soon as the man was out of hearing.

Verena managed a shrug, though Brandon thought he detected a faint color to her cheeks. He was just going to ask her a more pointed question when an elderly gentleman appeared at Verena's elbow.

“Lady Westforth and Brandon St. John! I'd have never thought to see the two of you together, especially after—well, it doesn't matter, does it?” The old man peered from one to the other. “I take it you've cried peace?”

“Indeed we have,” Brand said. “In fact, we have become so close that Lady Westforth now wears my name on her necklet.”

Verena blinked, her fingers resting on the necklace. “Unfair,” she murmured.

“Not in this game,” he answered beneath his smile.

A reluctant smile touched her lips. “You're incorrigible. I think I like that.”

Jameson leaned closer. “Since you are friends now, I hope you are up to a game. I've a table saved. Mr. Cabot-Lewes is waiting us there.”

Verena looked at Brandon, that damnable smile in her eyes, and also a touch of something else…was it triumph? “A game of cards. I would enjoy that ever so much. Shall we?”

Brandon bowed. “Of course.”

They were soon ensconced at Jameson's table, which was tucked into a corner, partially hidden by a set of large, leafy plants. Mr. Cabot-Lewes was introduced and Brandon garnered that the man was a cit who'd made a huge fortune in the tea trade. The man was short and thick and completely bald except for a thick fringe of white hair. He was also effusive in his admiration of Verena to the point of idiocy.

Brandon was beginning to realize what Marcus had meant when he suggested that Lady Westforth was the darling of the demimonde. Everyone seemed to know her, and she them.

“Shall I deal?” she was asking now. The light from a candelabrum shone directly over her head, touching her crown with silver and limning the delicate lines of her shoulders. Her silver necklet caught the light and revealed Brand's name and made him smile. She'd branded herself, whether she realized it or not.

She picked up the cards, her movements graceful and unhurried, and dealt them.

Lord Jameson watched her with an air of satisfaction. “Perhaps your beautiful hands will put some magic back in the cards. God knows they were going flat.”

Mr. Cabot-Lewes nodded his approval, his fleshy chin jiggling noticeably. “Good to have you with us, Lady Westforth. And you, too, St. John. We need some fresh blood this evening.”

Jameson chuckled. “Fresh money, you mean.” He gathered his cards and tossed a gold coin to the center of the table.

Brandon looked at his own cards. He could feel the attention of the two men. They were like sharks circling an especially fat fish.

Jameson played a card. “It's an honor to be playing a St. John.”

“Is it?” Verena said, disbelief in her voice.

Brandon grinned at her, but she pretended not to see.

Lord Jameson gestured at him. “St. John, tell Lady Westforth how you not only have the devil's own luck, but you can spot a Captain Sharp a mile away.”

Verena faltered, and a card fell from her fingers to the table. Her color high, she shook her head. “I'm sorry. It slipped.” She collected her card.

“Don't worry, my dear,” Jameson said. “We all make mistakes. All of us, except your friend, that is. I'd sooner try to cheat the devil at cards than Brandon St. John.”

The faintest hint of breathlessness touched Verena's voice as she turned to Brand. “How can you tell if someone is playing foul?”

Cabot-Lewes cackled. “The same way we all
tell when someone's playing foul—by how often they win.”

“If that's the case,” Jameson replied, “then you've never cheated a day in your life.” He watched as Brand played his card. “What's the real pity is that no one would ever believe that I've cheated a day in my life, either.”

Verena managed a faint smile for this witticism. How she wished she'd taken James's advice now. She'd taunted St. John into attending her only to discover that he possessed the one mystical penchant she'd rather he didn't—that of discerning foul play.

She glanced at him from beneath her lashes and found him watching her, his blue eyes intent. He sat slightly out of the light, as if he disliked being the center of attention, his dark hair falling over his brow in a way that made her itch to brush it back.

She fixed her gaze firmly on her cards. It was silly to think that he could spot a cheater. Lord Jameson was renowned for his teasing manner and he was not averse to making up a rumor just to amuse his listeners.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to be cautious. Especially since she'd quite decided to make St. John's purse her own. Verena lost one game. Then two. All the while, she was watching Brandon, but she could see no sign that he was more capable of spotting someone fuzzing the cards than anyone else.

If anything, he seemed far too focused on her to pay much attention to the game, often staring at her with a speculative gaze that made her frown.
Despite his earlier gallantry, he seemed very serious this evening.

She played the third game straight as well, and tried not to wince when she lost yet again. Her pile of guineas had thinned noticeably, as had the stack in front of Brandon. It almost hurt when he negligently tossed a marker onto the table when he ran out of coins.

Verena ran her fingers over her last guineas, catching James's eye from where he stood across the room. He read her expression immediately and frowned.

This really could not continue. If she was going to help her brother out of his predicament, Verena was going to have to take some chances. Risks. The very thing Father and James lived for and she avoided. Even though the blackmailer hadn't asked for money, Verena was certain she and James would need it—Father always said there were few problems a handful of gold could not fix.

James stopped a passing servant and spoke quietly. Within moments, the servant arrived at Verena's table, three bottles of port on his tray. “From Mr. Lansdowne. In celebration of Lady Westforth's beauty.”

Verena sent James a grateful smile. “Oh my! How generous!”

Brand's sharp gaze raked over the bottles. “Indeed.”

Lord Jameson held out his empty glass. “I don't even know the man, but I think he's a prince.”

Mr. Cabot-Lewes agreed, allowing the servant to fill his cup to the rim. “If I ever meet him, re
mind me to thank him for his largesse. Port is my favorite.”

Brandon frowned at Verena. “Shall I order you something else? Some sherry perhaps.”

“Oh no! I love port.” She allowed the servant to fill her glass as well.

Verena played the next two hands more aggressively, winning one and losing one. She made sure everyone's glass remained full, including her own, though she drank little. She couldn't afford to drink, not if she wanted to play this game well. When no one watched, she poured her port onto the dirt of one of the large plants that sat at the sides of their table.

Time passed and the servant, heavily bribed by James, continued to refill their glasses. Soon, Lord Jameson showed serious signs of inebriation. He caught Verena's gaze and smiled, a woozy, unfocused smile that set her nerves at rest.

She glanced next at Mr. Cabot-Lewes. He was squinting at his cards, blinking as if his eyes wouldn't focus. Verena hid a smile.

Last, she glanced at Brandon. The light from the candelabra warmed his black hair and touched his cheekbones, giving him a harsh appearance. She noticed that the glass at his elbow was almost empty—again. She nodded to the servant, who immediately refilled the glass.

Brandon looked up then, his gaze resting on hers. There was something insolently possessive about him, as if he thought he had but to crook his finger and she'd fall into his lap.

That might be interesting, falling into his lap
, her unruly imagination told her. Or it would have
been interesting, if she hadn't been so determined to show him that she was completely unaffected by his presence.