My Lady's Dare. Gayle Wilson

and occupied positions of authority within the current government. Talk of politics and war flowed as freely at these tables as did the Frenchman’s wine, which made this house an excellent source of information.

      Bonnet was openly contemptuous of the Corsican upstart who occupied the throne of France. Reportedly the descendent of a family prominent in the ancien régime, Bonnet had come to England at the height of the Revolution. With no skills and little money, the former aristocrat had opened a small gaming house where, he had proclaimed, there would never be a betting limit.

      His establishment had become the most popular gaming hell in the city and was now housed in this magnificent Palladian town house. And there was still no limit on what could be staked on the turn of a card or the spin of the wheel.

      “Would you care for wine, my lord?” Bonnet asked.

      Looking up, Dare realized that the servant who seated him had disappeared. A woman now stood beside his chair, holding a silver tray on which stood a decanter of claret and a single goblet. The light from the candles which illuminated the room was refracted from the crystal, turning the wine a rich ruby red.

      The woman’s gown, expertly fashioned from a heavy satin of almost that same hue, was cut straight across and very low over the swell of her breasts. In contrast to the jewellike tones of the fabric, her skin was luminous as pearl, shaded with gold by the flattering candlelight.

      Looking up into her eyes, Dare realized they were as blue as his own. As she waited, they rested on his face with a patent disinterest. Dare’s features had evoked a myriad of responses from women through the years. Disinterest, however, had never been one of them, and it intrigued him.

      To his very experienced eyes, it was apparent her face had been painted, although it had been done with an expert hand. The use of cosmetics, which no respectable Englishwomen of his class wore, of course, told the earl a great deal. Her hair, silver-gilt in the candlelight, was dressed very simply in a style that any hostess of the ton might have worn. Loose curls, tumbling artlessly above the flawless oval of her face, had been threaded with a single strand of what appeared to be genuine rubies.

      “My lord?” she inquired softly. One fair eyebrow arched with her question.

      “Of course,” Dare said, realizing that in his fascination he had never answered Bonnet. Even to his own ears, his voice as he did sounded unnatural, almost husky, touched with emotion.

      Surprisingly, he found himself still watching the woman as she handed the tray to the manservant. She removed the decanter with a graceful economy of motion and poured wine into the goblet, which she had set on the table. She never looked at Dare during the process.

      As she bent over him, however, the earl was suddenly surrounded by the subtle scent she wore. Not the familiar rose or lavender waters favored by the women of his set. This was something darker, heady with musk, sensually evocative, and almost certainly French.

      When the woman straightened and began to turn to put the decanter back on the tray, Dare spoke, his accent deliberately no better than the average Englishman’s, although he had been fluent in French since childhood. “Merci, mademoiselle.”

      “But Mrs. Carstairs is a countrywoman of yours, my lord,” Bonnet corrected, his tone verging on amusement.

      “Indeed,” Dare said, pretending to study her features as if her nationality might somehow be revealed by them. “I’m sure I should never have guessed. My compliments, madam.”

      At his words, she turned back, the decanter still in her hands. From the look in her eyes, the earl could not be perfectly certain she wasn’t about to throw it at his head.

      “Your…compliments, my lord?” she asked.

      “For being English, of course,” the earl said, his lips tilting. “Why, whatever did you think I meant, Mrs. Carstairs?”

      “I thought you were complimenting me that I didn’t appear to be English.” Her eyes challenged him a moment before she added, her tone conciliatory, as befitted someone in her position. “Obviously, I was mistaken. Pray forgive me, my lord.”

      “Had I meant that, madam,” Dare said smoothly, “then I should be the one to beg your forgiveness.”

      “There is no need for your apologies here, Lord Dare,” Bonnet said laughing. “Whatever your meaning. Elizabeth is here to serve you. If there is anything you should require during your visit, anything at all…” The Frenchman paused and again gestured expansively, this time seeming to include the woman and the servant behind her, who was still holding the tray. “Please don’t hesitate to make your wishes known. Any of my servants will be pleased to accommodate so welcome a guest. In any way you desire,” he added, his voice soft, and his eyes on the woman.

      There had been an obvious undercurrent in the suggestive words, and Dare found himself interested in Elizabeth Carstairs’ reaction. Her eyes met Bonnet’s. Dare was unable to see what was in them, but there was no doubt about the rush of color that ran beneath the translucent skin of her throat and spread upward into her cheeks, far more pronounced than the rouge.

      The intent of Bonnet’s offer had probably been clear to everyone. Mrs. Carstairs’ “services” were available to the Earl of Dare, and perhaps even to the rest of them. Given the character of women who were usually employed in a gaming hell, there had been nothing particularly startling about the Frenchman’s offer. What had been surprising was Mrs. Carstairs’ response. Seldom had the earl encountered a demimondaine who had the capacity to blush. Or, he admitted admiringly, the courage to parry wits so openly with one of her employer’s guests.

      “You are too kind, sir,” Dare said, inclining his head.

      The gambler had introduced her as Mrs. Carstairs, but that title was almost certainly a sop to convention. In England, any unmarried woman living under a man’s protection was referred to in such a way. It was a ridiculous pretense, but then much about the conventions of their society was ridiculous.

      At Dare’s expression of gratitude, Elizabeth Carstairs had turned her head. Her eyes met his. In them, quite clear, was rage. And beneath that unspoken anger was pain, an agony perhaps as deep as that which he had seen in the eyes of the man whose tortured body he had held today as he drew his last breath. For a moment the force of her anguish was so strong and communicated to him so forcefully that it literally took his breath.

      It had not been an appeal. He had no doubt that the revelation had been unintended. Perhaps if he had not had so recent an experience with suffering, he might not even have recognized what he had seen.

      Breaking the contact that had briefly flared between them, Elizabeth Carstairs turned, calmly replacing the decanter on the tray and stepping away from the table. Dare heard the fabric of her gown whisper as she moved, and the hint of her perfume lingered in the air, but he could no longer see her face.

      And he found he really wanted to. A discovery that was almost as shocking to the Earl of Dare as Elizabeth Carstairs’ unexpected reaction to Bonnet’s offer had been.

      “Gentlemen,” the Frenchman said, “shall we begin?”

      It was almost dawn. A thin, watery daylight was beginning to creep between the folds of the thick velvet curtains that had been pulled to keep it out. A pall of smoke, floating a few inches off the floor, hung over the Turkish carpets. Several of the candles had guttered and gone out, and there was no more conversation.

      No one had yet left the table, although now only two men were playing. And it was obvious that very soon one of those two would be the victor.

      The heap of notes piled carelessly before the Earl of Dare had steadily grown during the last few hours. The stack that stood before Bonnet had conversely shrunk until only a handful of what had been there at the beginning of the evening was left. And the fickle cards, like a woman enamored with one gallant, continued to favor the earl.

      “Capet,” Dare said. “Forty points, and my game, I believe.”

      There was no tally sheet beside his long-fingered hands