Thunder and Roses (11 page)

His expression eased. “I’ll skip the port. I find you much more interesting—just as a mistress should be.”

“I don’t feel very interesting at the moment.” She got to her feet. “May I go to my room now, or is it part of my bargain to keep you company all evening?”

He stood also. “I don’t think it would be fair to force you to endure me all the time—but I would like it if you stayed willingly. It’s still early.”

There was a faintly wistful note in his voice. Perhaps he was lonely. She shouldn’t be surprised, since he had no friends or family at Aberdare, but it had not occurred to her that he might suffer from common sorrows like loneliness.

Empathy proved stronger than her need for solitude. “How do fashionable people amuse themselves in the evening?” Seeing a familiar glint come into his eyes, she said hastily, “No, I won’t do what you’re thinking.”

He chuckled. “Not only clever, but you can read my mind. Since you’re rejecting my first choice, let’s play billiards.”

“Don’t you know any respectable activities?” she said doubtfully. “Reading in the library would be a nice quiet way to spend the evening.”

“Another time. Don’t worry—there’s nothing inherently immoral about billiards. The only reason decent folk condemn the game is because of the risk of falling into bad company.” His mouth quirked up. “Since you’re stuck with me already, I don’t see how playing billiards can make your situation any worse.”

She found herself chuckling as he lifted a branch of candles and led her from the room. Wryly she realized that the real danger was not bad company, but laughter. It would be hard to give that up when the time came to leave Aberdare.

6

 
The billiards room was at the far end of the house. While Clare lighted the candles in the chandelier that hung from the middle of the ceiling, Nicholas built a coal fire to take the chill off the damp spring night. Then he removed the fitted velvet cover that protected the table. Dust flew in all directions and Clare sneezed.

“Sorry.” He folded the cover and dropped it in a corner. “Another failure of housekeeping.”

“I’m beginning to think my role as housekeeper won’t leave time for me to be a mistress.”

“I can live with dust,” he said swiftly.

Clare gave the involuntary, hastily suppressed smile that fascinated Nicholas. Coaxing that smile was like trying to lure a shy foal to his hand; patience was the key.

He took a set of ivory balls from the equipment cabinet and laid them on the baize-covered table. “Do you want to use a mace or a cue stick?”

“What’s the difference?”

He handed her the mace, which was a pole with a broad, flat head. “This is the old-fashioned way of playing billiards. The ball is pushed, rather like in shuffleboard, if you’ve ever played that. A player using a mace doesn’t have to bend over.” He set the mace against the cue ball and demonstrated, sending the object ball into a corner pocket.

“And the cue?”

He took off his coat so he could move freely, then bent over, lined up a shot, and stroked. The cue ball knocked a red ball into a pocket, then caromed off a second ball, which also dropped into a pocket. “The cue allows more flexibility and control. But I imagine you’ll prefer the mace—it’s more moral.”

Clare’s dark brows arched. “How can one piece of wood be more moral than another?”

“The mace saves a lady from bending over and exposing her ankles to whatever depraved males are present,” he explained.

Her full lips quivered, and she pressed them together.

Amused, he said, “Why don’t you go ahead and let yourself smile? It must be a tremendous strain trying to keep a straight face around me.”

His sober, pious schoolmistress giggled. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t heard with his own ears.

“You’re right,” she agreed ruefully. “You haven’t a serious bone in your body, and it’s very hard to maintain my dignity. But I shall persevere.” She lifted the mace in one hand and the cue in the other. “It won’t matter which of these I use, because I suspect I’ve fallen into the clutches of a billiard sharp.”

He rolled a red ball across the green baize toward a pocket. Halfway across the table, it hit a bump and skipped to the right. “This table is so warped that skill won’t count for much. I’m looking forward to seeing how the slate surface will work.”

“What are the rules?”

“There are a number of different games, and players can make up others at their pleasure. We’ll start with something simple.” He gestured toward the table. “I’ve put out six red balls, six blue, and one white cue ball. The cue ball is used to knock the others into pockets but mustn’t go in itself. Each of us will take a color. If you choose red, you will get a point for each one you pot, and lose a point if you accidentally knock in a blue. The person shooting continues until missing a shot.”

Clare set down the mace and walked to the other side of the table, then bent over and tried a stroke with the cue stick. The hard wooden tip hit the polished ivory cue ball off-center, and the ball rolled weakly to one side. She frowned. “This is harder than it looks.”
          

“Everything is harder than it looks. That’s the first law of life.” He came around the table to her side. “Let me demonstrate. I promise I won’t look at your ankles.”

The smile tugged at her lips again. “Liar.”

“Suspicious wench.” He lifted his cue stick and went through the shooting procedure step by step. “Put most of your weight on the right foot and bend from the hips. The fingers of your left hand support the stick. Sight along the cue and try to hit the ball dead center.” He demonstrated again.

When Clare bent over to try, he leaned back against the table, folded his arms across his chest, and blatantly studied her ankles. She ostentatiously ignored him.

The ankles were well worth watching, as was the rest of her. Clare didn’t have the kind of spectacular figure that attracted male attention from across a crowded room, and her clothing was designed to disguise rather than enhance. Yet her figure was trim, and when she relaxed, she had a natural grace that drew the eye. He looked forward to seeing what she would look like in more flattering garments. Even more, he would like to see her in no garments at all.

After Clare had learned the basics, they began a game. Nicholas gave himself a handicap: his shots wouldn’t count unless his ball caromed off two cushions before going into a pocket. The combination of that restriction and the unevenness of the playing surface kept them from being hopelessly mismatched.

To his amusement, his sober schoolmistress played like an enthusiastic child, scowling when she miscued, glowing with satisfaction when she potted a ball. He wondered how often she allowed herself to do something strictly for pleasure. Very seldom, he suspected; she had probably spent all her time on hard work and good deeds since she was an infant.

But she was clearly enjoying herself now. She had potted two reds in a row and was now stretched over the table as she carefully lined up a third. Several strands of hair had come loose and they curled enticingly around her face. Her position also emphasized the delightful curve of her derriere. He was strongly tempted to stroke it.

With regret, he suppressed the impulse so that the harmonious atmosphere wouldn’t be wrecked. When her bristles weren’t up, Clare was excellent company—intelligent and dryly witty, with an understanding of human nature that made up for her lack of worldly experience.

She took her shot, but didn’t hit the cue ball squarely. It squirted to one side. “Drat! Another bad stroke.”

He grinned. While billiards might not be inherently immoral, there was no denying that talking about balls, shafts, strokes, and pockets was pleasantly suggestive for those of lewd mind, like himself. Fortunately Clare, in her innocence, did not recognize the latent ribaldry of their conversation. “Strong language, Clarissima,” he said with mock disapproval. “Perhaps exposure to billiards really does weaken the moral
fiber
.”

She put her hand over her mouth to conceal her smile. “I suspect that the fault is the bad company, not the game.”

Nicholas gave her an appreciative glance, then leaned over the table and lined up his next shot. He moved with lazy grace, his white shirt emphasizing the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. Bad company indeed; dark and diabolically handsome, he was every romantic girl’s dream, and every protective father’s nightmare. She forced her gaze away from her companion to the table.

During the course of the evening he had learned how to avoid the worst of the table’s bumps. Even with the complication of having to bounce the object ball off the cushions, he managed to pot his last four balls to end the current game.

“It’s fortunate that we’re not playing for any stakes,” she observed. “You would have beggared me by now.”

Generous in victory, he said, “For a beginner, you’re doing very well, Clare. You’ve narrowed the gap with every game. With practice, you could turn into a billiards sharp yourself.”

She was absurdly pleased, even though it was a disgraceful kind of compliment. “Shall we play another game?”

The mantel clock began striking the hour. Glancing over to it, she said with surprise, “Eleven o’clock already.” The day was almost over, and the moment of truth was at hand. Clare’s relaxed mood evaporated instantly.

In the vain hope that he might not remember that he was entitled to a kiss, she said, “Time to retire. I’ve a great deal to do tomorrow—go into Penreith and find a cook, arrange for you to visit the pit, make sure that my friend Marged is managing all right with the school. All kinds of things.”

She set her cue stick on the rack and turned toward the door. Before she could take a step, Nicholas’s cue shot straight out, the hard tip banging into the wall beside her and barring her exit. He drawled, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

She flinched. “I haven’t forgotten. I was hoping you had.”

He was watching her with the expression of a charming predator. “Not when I’ve been waiting for my kiss all day.”

He lowered the cue and stepped forward. When he raised his arm she skittered back, then felt like a fool when she saw that he was only returning his stick to the rack.

When he had done so, he turned a thoughtful gaze on her. “Is being kissed by me such a terrible prospect? I’ve never had any complaints in the past. Quite the contrary.”

Her back was to the wall and she couldn’t retreat any farther. “Just go ahead and do it,” she said tightly.

Sudden insight lit his eyes. He put his hand under her chin and raised it so that she was looking directly at him. “Clare, have you never been kissed with … with amorous intent?”

Unable to deny the humiliating fact, she said flatly, “No man has ever wanted to.”

In this, as in billiards, he was generous, not ridiculing her inexperience or her fear. “I guarantee that there are men who have dreamed of kissing you, but you intimidated them so much that none dared try.” He began stroking her lips with his thumb. “Relax, Clarissima. My aim is to persuade, not terrorize.”

His rhythmic movements were profoundly sensual, and the effect was even more unsettling than when he had released her hair the day before. Her lips softened and parted slightly, and instinctively she touched her tongue to his thumb. She tasted salt and maleness, then flushed in embarrassment when she recognized the forwardness of her behavior.

Ignoring her subtle withdrawal, he said,

“If this is a first kiss, I’ll start simply. After all, we have three months ahead of us.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and bent his head.

Her face tightened as she steeled herself for his onslaught. But instead of kissing her mouth, he pressed his lips to the tender skin at the base of her throat.

Clare gasped as her pulse beat against the seductive pressure of his mouth. She had thought herself prepared, but she found that she had no
defenses
against this unexpected caress. Heat and a hint of moisture; melting sensations that flowed downward, weakening her and throbbing in secret, shameful places.