Untamed (6 page)

She’d wanted to kiss him in plain view.

In the grip of that shocking, titillating thought, she admitted that never before had she felt such a powerfully physical reaction. Even the diamond winking at her from his left ear appealed, if only because it made her think of a pirate—bold and sexual and dangerous. When he’d called her pretty and remarked upon her eyes, she’d pretended affront, but she’d been secretly pleased. No doubt he made a habit of doling out such blandishments to women all too ready to lap up his praise like hungry cats presented with a dish of cream. And yet the manner in which he’d run his gaze over her, his eyes darkening to deep emerald, she could almost believe he’d meant it, if only a little. And to have finally found a man who could not only flatter but banter, what bliss!

But like all good things in life,
hers
at least, the exhilarating interlude had ended far too soon. She’d chanced to look over Mr. O’Rourke’s shoulder—his thrillingly broad, powerful shoulder—and glimpsed her father leaving the ballroom with his crony, Lord Haversham. She’d pulled the pair from any number of gaming clubs that past year. A few hours in Lord H’s dubious company invariably left her father’s purse lightened and her burdens increased tenfold.

As always, duty took precedence over pleasure. She had to find her father. His departure from the ballroom in the company of that particular gentleman could only mean one thing—trouble of a particularly costly kind. Fortunately she didn’t have to waste valuable time wondering where they would go. Having volunteered on the event-organizing committee, she recalled that a casino meant to be a miniature of the famous gaming rooms at Monte Carlo had been set up as part of the evening’s program of entertainment.

In the case of her scapegrace parent, anticipating the worst wasn’t paranoia. It was a survival skill hard learned over the years. They’d enjoyed a full month’s respite, during which her father had kept his promise and stayed away from the gaming halls. She’d even made some small headway in paying the monthly household accounts. But if she didn’t wrest him from Haversham in the next few minutes, the vicious cycle would commence anew, and all her hard work would be for naught—again. Her father would pick up where he and Haversham had left off months ago—the heavy drinking, the deep play, and the staggering sums lost. Invariably it would fall to her to come up with a plan for setting the situation to rights, for raising the required funds quietly, discreetly. She’d been most creative so far, but still, she was not a magician. She couldn’t make money grow on trees or pull it rabbit-fashion out of a hat, more was the pity.

Outside in the lobby, she flagged down a passing server and asked for directions, then headed right down the sconce-lit hall. By the time she reached the suite of rooms transformed into a casino for the night, she was herself once more, Capable Kate, perennially out-of-sorts shrew who could plot and plan as bloodlessly as any man.

She stood on the threshold, surveying the scene inside. Sconces were anchored at intervals on the flocked wallpaper, and a cloud of cigar smoke hung low over the room. Across the carpet, a dealer in a white shirt and silk striped vest presided over a Trente et Quarante table, doling out red and black chips to the clutch of dark-suited gentlemen ranged about the brass rail. A roulette wheel occupied center stage, presided over by a pretty young woman in black feathers, opera gloves, and a low-cut gown, her throat glittering with a collar of paste diamonds and pearls; otherwise Kate was the only female in the room.

Aware of heads turning her way, she hesitated, and then, remembering herself, hoisted her chin. Tonight was hardly the first time she’d entered a gaming establishment with the purpose of finding her father and leading him out. In the present case, gaming was but one of several entertainments offered, the guests all top-drawer, the monies marked for charity, the surrounds imminently more respectable than the seedy, smoke-filled gaming halls on Leicester Square; the latter she’d been obliged to enter more times than she cared to count.

“Can I assist you, miss?” Kate turned to see the tuxedo-clad casino clerk, betting book in hand, draw up beside her. “If you wish to take part in the play, the entry fee is twenty pounds.”

Twenty pounds.
Kate mentally calculated the quantities of mutton chops, cartons of eggs, and bottles of milk twenty pounds would purchase. The wages for Hattie, their maid-of-all work, amounted to a mere twelve pounds per year inclusive of bed and board, and even that pittance was embarrassingly overdue.

Still, she couldn’t find it in her heart to begrudge Lady Stonevale’s fallen girls the funds to make a fresh start in life. The charity, for which she served as a volunteer, was near and dear to her heart. She only hoped her father hadn’t gambled away their futures to the point where she and Bea would have to seek out places in the parish poorhouse for themselves.

“Players agree to divide any winnings equally with the house, which in the present case is Lady Stonevale’s charity school.” The clerk’s explanation ended Kate’s woolgathering. “May I conduct you to a private table, or would you prefer to try your luck at the roulette wheel?”

Spotting her father at one of the circular card tables, she shook her head. “Neither, I’m afraid, but thank you.”

She started down the narrow aisle between tables, navigating her way around the butler circulating with a tray of brandy snifters and a box of cigars. Coming up on her father’s table, she took in the pile of chips heaped upon the green baize-covered tabletop and felt her spine stiffen and her hackles rise. She lifted her gaze and locked eyes with Lord Haversham. The last time her father had been lured into deep play by his dissolute friend, her mother’s pearl choker had gone missing.

Tamping down her anger, she said, “Lord Haversham, I see you have once again blown across our path like an ill wind.”

Unlike her father, sagging in his seat, the fifty-something viscount appeared clear-eyed and lance straight. He pushed back his chair and rose. “Lady Katherine, you are as sweetly disposed as ever I remember you and even lovelier with that becoming flush to your cheeks.”

Kate glanced at the diamonds winking from his French cuffs and had no doubt where the money had come to pay for them. Lord Haversham might be a peer of the realm, but he was also as canny a card shark as they came.

“I have your measure, sir.” Rather than say anything further and risk a scene that would be gossip by the morrow, she turned to her father. “Come away before you lose any more. I will find a porter and call for our carriage.”

He twisted his head around to look at her, his bleary gaze confirming he was three sheets to the wind—no great surprise there. “Not now, Kate. Havy and I are playing a friendly game of euchre. ’Tis for charity, mind.”

In the popular gambling game, the twos and sixes were removed from the deck, and each player was dealt five cards. To be euchred was to get fewer than three tricks. By the looks of things, her father had played at least one hand—and lost.

Resuming his seat, Lord Haversham chimed in with, “Indeed, Artie, those poor fallen women need all the aid we can render.” His ironic tone suggested he’d helped a girl or two to her fall from grace and was proud of it.

Seething, Kate didn’t bother stripping the scold from her tone. “Given our situation, I dare say charity begins at home, which is where I am taking you.”

He lifted shaking hands and batted her away as though she were an insect of which he wished to be rid. “Have someone flag down a hansom for you if you must, but the carriage remains here until I am ready to leave.”

“You would have me take a hack?” Even by the low standard he’d set, this was bad behavior, indeed.

She glanced down to the beaded reticule, a slight weight dangling from her wrist. In it she carried a handkerchief, small pocket comb, and her house key, but nary a coin. Just like the rest of her life, the accessory was a shiny display with little of substance.

Dropping her voice several decibels, she admitted, “But I haven’t any money with me.”

He shrugged. “In that case, return to the ball and enjoy yourself until I am prepared to leave.”

Shame heated her cheeks. He addressed her as though she were a child—and before her nemesis, no less. She was humiliated. Worse still, she was trapped. She couldn’t go back to the ballroom and risk encountering Mr. O’Rourke. After her hasty and, yes, rude departure, he was the very last person she felt up to facing. Nor did she feel inclined to pick up the thread of the inane prattle perpetuated by Dutton and his set, something to do with fox hunting and the latest cut of riding coat. Under the circumstances, there was only one place a woman of her pedigree and position might go to pull the thorn from her paw and lick her wounds.

The ladies’ retiring lounge, otherwise known as the loo.

atching Lady Katherine peel off toward the lobby doors, Rourke hesitated and then started after her. The little snob had drawn him out and then cut him, and he wasn’t having it.

But more than his pride stood at stake, and in the dim reaches of his soul he owned it. Lady Kate was different, he could feel it. Despite her recent rudeness and generally sharp tongue, she both intrigued and moved him. Before deserting him on the dance floor, she’d looked almost as though she might cry. No, something had happened to send her haring off, something far more serious and distressing than suffering through his abominable dancing.

Cutting his way through the throng, he was halfway to the doors himself when a hand landed on his shoulder, hauling him back. For a few dizzying seconds, instinct took over, and he was once more a purse snitch pursued by club-wielding officers of the law. He swung about, fists at the ready. A half-dozen furious male faces glared back at him, Lord Dutton and his porcine friend, Wesley, leading up the pack. Remembering where he was and, more importantly,
who
he was now, he unclenched his hands and dropped his arms to his sides.

Sweat prickling his collar, he summoned a chuckle. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” He honed his gaze on Lord Dutton.

Glancing down at Rourke’s hands, dangling benignly from his sides but still big as hams, the lanky lord swallowed hard. He cast an over-the-shoulder glance to his companions, as though making sure they were still there to back him up.

Apparently assured of their support, he turned back to Rourke. “That waltz was promised to me.”

Rourke shrugged. “You may have bespoken the dance but no the lady. She’s no your property, mind.”

Wesley, piped up. “As a matter of fact, they were promised only … Well, the nuptials have been put off in deference to … Lady Katherine’s shy sensibilities.”

“Shy sensibilities, indeed.” Rourke couldn’t help it. He tipped back his head and laughed. “I’ve no met a less shy woman in all my days.”

His mind left that thought and pivoted back to the principal point. Dutton was one of the jilted fiancés. Small wonder the man seemed so peevish. Jaysus, what a wean he was. Small wonder Lady Katherine had given him the heave-ho. What surprised him was that she’d apparently considered marrying him at all. Rourke wondered if the other two would-be grooms were also present. Fashionable London, he was discovering, was a wee world.

He made the rounds with his gaze. “But with all respect, Lady Katherine is a wilding. If a man hasna the—” balls, guts “—
skill
to tame her, ’tis best he step aside and set her free.”

Dutton lifted his thin upper lip and snickered. “And I suppose you fancy yourself the better man for the job?”

Not wanting to give away his matrimonial intentions so soon in the game, Rourke mustered a nonchalant shrug. “Who’s to say?”

“Care to make a small wager on it?”

Intrigued, Rourke answered, “That depends upon what you have in mind.”

This time Dutton shrugged. His expensive evening clothes hung from a scarecrow’s frame, putting Rourke in mind of a more polished version of Johnnie Black. “You have the next five days to coax a kiss from Lady Kate, a kiss in public, with at least one reliable witness present. The loser forfeits a hundred pounds. To keep things aboveboard, we’ll inscribe it in the betting book at White’s.”

Since coming to London, Rourke had passed by White’s famous bow front window while strolling St. James’s, but a glimpse from the sidewalk was as far as he’d gotten. Membership in the legendary gentlemen’s club was exclusive, meaning closed to the common likes of him.

“And you can’t force yourself on her,” Wesley interjected. “She must kiss you of her own accord.”

Rourke regarded the baronet with an icy eye. “I have never forced myself on a woman in my life, and I dinna mean to begin now.”

“So you accept, then?” Dutton asked, narrow eyes gleaming like a rat’s in the night.

Rourke hesitated. He had no need of money, and a hundred pounds was a pittance these days. Beyond that, despite her less than civil treatment of him, he had no real wish to humiliate the lady.