Virginia Henley (16 page)

“The Earl of Liverpool was War Minister before he became Prime Minister.” Nick, about to add something, changed his mind.

“Apparently the earl lets nothing stand in the way of ambition.”

“Ambition in a man is an admirable trait, Alex.”

She arched a brow. “And what would you consider an admirable trait for a woman?”

“Loyalty . . . something you have in abundance. Courage . . . something else you display when you deliberately choose to sit with me.”

“Utter rot! I simply have a defiant nature and enjoy spitting in the
ton
’s evil eye.”

His mouth curved. “Hellion.”

Oh God, Nick, don’t look at me that way. Why the hellfire can’t you set your stupid scruples aside and marry me?
Alex curbed her thoughts and lowered her lashes, before he could guess how lovesick she was. When the gentleman sitting to her right spoke, she had no idea what he said. She gave him a polite smile and feigned interest, while her emotions ran riot throughout the entire meal.

When she turned her attention from him, Nick was thankful. Her closeness played havoc with his senses, and her lush breasts exquisitely displayed in the empire gown had so physically aroused him that his breeches were stretched to the bursting point. By the end of the meal, the dull ache in his groin had spread up to his heart.

Lady Harriet Granville ascended the dais and asked that everyone repair to the music room, where cake and cordials would be served. There was to be no dancing tonight, though the Devonshire musicians would play in the background while most of the guests socialized by conversing, currying favor, or cutting up their acquaintances.

“There you are.” Hart Cavendish had obviously been searching for her. “I wanted you to sit with the family for dinner, Alexandra. Hary-O and I were so looking forward to your company.”

“Nicholas and I were perfectly happy back here in the cheap seats,” she teased, wafting her fan.

“Forgive me, I thought you were Christopher,” Hart apologized, relieved that she was not with her rumored betrothed.

“Thank you for rescuing me; the Hattons are naught but Harm and Hazard.” She took his arm. “Shall we repair to the music room?”

Hart bit his lip and looked torn; the rest of the evening at Devonshire House would be one long yawn from start to finish.

Nick laughed. “The little hellion is teasing you unmercifully, Hart. She knows damn well we are on our way to White’s. If you’ll round up Kit and Rupert, I shall escort the lady to her carriage.”

Alexandra went to get her wrap and returned to find Nick awaiting her at the top of the marble steps. With his firm hand at her elbow they descended to the courtyard and walked to the black berline coach in silence. He signaled to Todd to keep his seat on the box and opened the carriage door himself. She broke the silence. “You’re not being the least gallant. You just want to make certain I’m packed off home to bed.”

“Yes.” He stood gazing down at her, imagining her in bed. His bed. She made no move to get into the carriage, and the silence stretched between them. They swayed slightly toward each other, then away. The noise of the street beyond faded, and the darkness enfolded them for a moment in their own private world. Swiftly, he gathered her in his arms, dipped his head, and covered her mouth in a demanding kiss. She opened her lips and melted against him.

“Good-bye, Alex.”

He was gone before her thoughts became coherent. In a daze she climbed into the carriage and was halfway home before she realized he had said “good-bye” rather than “good night.”

The quartet of gamblers left Devonshire House and hired a hackney to take them the short distance to St. James’s Street. White’s Club, number 37 on the east side of the street, was opposite Brooks’s and distinguished by its big bay window. Hart Cavendish forked over twenty guineas, the entrance fee for all four of them, and the porter took their top hats and canes to the cloakroom. Since they had already dined, they went straight into one of the card rooms, which was crowded with men in formal attire. The air was redolent with blue cigar smoke and the chink of drinking glasses as the four friends waited for chairs to become vacant.

Nick sat down at the baccarat table to the left of Lord Sefton, who was the dealer, which ensured that he would be next in line to take over the “shoe,” the dealing box. Rupert quickly offered to be the croupier, to assist the players in making their bets, so that he would not have to participate in the gambling. The object of baccarat was to reach a count of nine with either two or three cards. On the first deal Nick drew a four and a five, giving him a “natural.” He showed his hand immediately, and the dealer paid his bet. On the second deal Nick drew a three and a six, giving him another natural, and with a sniff, Lord Sefton again paid his bet. Nick decided to stand on his next two hands, while most of the other players drew.

“Devil’s own luck, Hatton,” Lord Sefton muttered, though he had no notion which Hatton twin he was addressing, and voluntarily gave up the dealing box to Nicholas.

Nick shuffled and cut the cards, dropped them back into the shoe, placed the fifty guineas he had won in the bank, and dealt the cards. Lord Worcester immediately called out, “banco,” accepting Nick’s entire bank as his wager. Using only his index finger, Nick dealt Worcester one card facedown, then one to himself, and repeated the procedure. When both men turned over their cards, the dealer had eight, Worcester only seven, giving Nick the win again. Nick spotted a vacant chair at the faro table, raked in his counters, which now totaled more than a hundred guineas, and turned over the bank to a grinning Hart Cavendish seated on his left.

Nick sat down at the faro table next to his brother, and Rupert came up behind them to watch the play. He secretly admired the risks Nick Hatton took, wishing he could emulate them. He was in the same penniless boat, though no one knew it, but didn’t dare wager money he didn’t have, or he’d end up in dun territory. “The list of new members should be posted. I’ll go and take a look.” Hart Cavendish had submitted his friends’ names when they were about to turn twenty-one, and a list of those who had been accepted was posted every three months.

When Rupert returned to the table with a paper in his hand, his cheeks were flushed. On the list of new members he had found his own name beneath that of his dearest friend, Lord Hatton, but glaringly conspicuous by its absence was the name of Nicholas Hatton.

Kit drained his glass of whiskey, glanced up at Rupert’s face, and jested, “What’s the matter, old man? Didn’t you make the cut?”

“No, I’m right here, but, er, perhaps the list is incomplete.”

Kit, who had lost three hands in a row while his twin had consistently won, grabbed the paper from Rupert and scanned it. “Well, I’ll be a dirty dog’s dinner!”

Nick looked from one to the other, then plucked the list from his brother’s fingers. His glance quickly went down the names; there was no need for him to read it twice. He handed the paper back to his twin and slowly gathered his winnings. “I’m sure you gentlemen will excuse me,” he said with utmost civility.

“For Christ’s sake, sit down, Nick. You can stay as my
guest;
there’s no need for you to leave,” Kit assured him.

“There is every need,” Nick said quietly.

He cashed in his counters, which came to almost two hundred pounds, then he retrieved his hat and cane and gave White’s porter a generous tip. Outside, a fine drizzle had begun to fall, but Nicholas barely noticed as he put on his top hat, pushed it rakishly forward over one eye, and sauntered down St. James’s Street. He ran his stick along the iron railings to produce a satisfying racket and whistled carelessly through his teeth.

He turned into Pall Mall and headed for Champagne Charlie’s. A sudden cloudburst turned the drizzle into a downpour, but Nick didn’t quicken his pace. By the time he strolled into the establishment, he was soaked to the skin. The nymph who came forward to greet him had an amazing pair of breasts, and as he tipped his head to gaze down at them, a trickle of rain water from the brim of his top hat splashed down upon her glorious globes.

“Ooo, that’s cold! Come in to get warm, did you, luv? I know a game that’ll make you hot as fire!”

Nick grinned down at her. “I didn’t come for that sort of game. I’m here for a game of chance.”

As he headed toward the gaming parlor, Charlotte King spotted him. “You’re drenched to the bone! Get upstairs, for God’s sake, before you ruin my Axminster carpets.”

“You are guessing that I am Nick.”

“I don’t need to
hazard
a bloody guess. I’ve been expecting you.” She took his cane from him and pointed it upstairs. “You’re the talk of the sodding town!”

The moment they entered her private bedchamber, she stripped off his evening coat and hung it over the tall brass fender in front of the fire. Nick unfastened his soggy muslin neckcloth, while Charlie removed the studs from his evening shirt. She decided to let him undress himself, for already the glimpse of black curls on his muscular chest was making her greedy, and she knew she must put his needs before her own tonight. “I’ll get you a towel.”

When Charlie returned, she found him standing naked with his back to the fire. “Ah, that feels good.” He held out his arms to her and she went into them, cupping his buttocks with her palms and massaging them. “That feels even better.” He took the elaborate feathered ornaments and pins from her hair and set them on the mantel. Her champagne-colored curls fell to her shoulders, and he threaded his fingers into them to bring her closer.

She gazed up into his gray eyes, expecting to see them stormy, but all she saw was calm, as if he had come to a decision and was at peace with it. “So, what will you do? Will you marry?”

He cocked a dark, amused brow. “Is that a proposal?”

Her easy laugh was full-throated. “I’ll make you another sort of proposal. We could be partners in a gambling venture.”

His sharp bark of laughter rent the air. “Ha, as if my name isn’t blackened enough!”

His hands were busy disrobing her, and she knew better than to argue with Hazard Hatton. He was a man who knew what he wanted, and no power on earth would keep him from his goal. Charlie doubted he’d ever marry for money, for that would give a woman the upper hand over him. The lion would never bow his proud head. He was cloaked in a devil-may-care attitude even when he was naked. Especially when he was naked.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“Fuck you, of course.” He lifted her onto his cock and carried her to the big curtained bed.

Much later, when Charlie came out of her dressing room wearing a chamber robe, she found Nick with the towel about his hips, reclining on her bed, smoking a cigar. Now he was ready to talk.

He blew a smoke ring. “I’ve decided to join the army.”

“My God, you can’t!” She came to the bed and knelt before him. “There’s a war on with the French. . . . They’ll send you to Spain!”

“Charlie, that’s the whole idea. You know I like risk, adventure, challenge. Actually, I can’t wait.”

“Will you at least buy yourself a commission?”

“I shall try.”

“The Duke of York’s mistress sold commissions, but after the Parliamentary scandal, Frederick had to resign as Commander-in-Chief.”

“The Regent has restored his brother as Commander-in-Chief. Frederick has an office at the Horse Guards. I’ve been advised to speak with his private secretary, Sir Herbert Taylor.”

“Oh, Nick, is there any way I can make you change your mind?”

He winked and held his arms wide, “You’re welcome to try, luv.”

 

When the coach drew up outside the house in Berkeley Square, the well-trained butler hurried out with an umbrella. “Oh, thank you, Hopkins. You are so very considerate.” Alex wanted to tell him that she liked rain, but it would have diminished his thoughtfulness.

Upstairs, the maid awaited her in her chamber to help her get ready for bed. “This is absolutely unnecessary, Sara. I am perfectly capable of undressing myself. Promise you won’t wait up for me again?”

Sara bobbed a grateful curtsy. “Your grandmother asked if you’d pop in and tell her about your visit to Devonshire House.”

Alex put on the nightgown and robe Sara had laid out for her. She found Dottie reading in bed, propped up by half a dozen lacy pillows and drinking Madeira.

“Ah, there you are, darling. I hear it’s pissing down outside.” She held up her glass. “I did the wise thing tonight; Berkeley House has a very good cellar.”

Alexandra’s eye was caught by a painting over the fireplace. As she drew closer, she saw that her suspicions were correct; it was an erotic painting of a nude female lying seductively upon a black leopard skin. Alex blinked; the red-gold curls framing the familiar face and upon the female’s high mons gave her pause. “Death and damnation, she looks exactly like me!”

“Naturally, darling. It was one of your ancestors who posed for the painting.”

“Who?” Alex asked, wide-eyed.

“Well, actually, it was me,” Dottie admitted.

Alex was stunned. “But it’s so . . . racy.”

“Raciness is quite acceptable. A little sin in the soul makes a woman irresistible. I have done a dreadful job of bringing you up, if you think nudity is shocking. The artist left out the tattoos on my bum cheeks that say BOTTOMS UP!”

Alex spun around to look at her grandmother, but when she saw the arch look of amusement on her face, she knew she was embroidering the facts. “I had no idea I got my coloring from you.”

“Ah, yes, once I was as dazzling as you are, darling. I’ve worn wigs so long, you don’t remember. Speaking of dazzling, how did you enjoy Devonshire House?”

“It was opulent beyond my wildest dreams. The Kentdesigned reception rooms are particularly sumptuous. There were more than a hundred and fifty people seated. It was like a royal dinner.”