A Regency Courtesan's Pride. Ann Lethbridge

might be a factor. Did she? He might be the handsomest man she’d ever seen, but he had an arrogance about him, a sense of entitlement, put there by wealth and position. There was also a coldness. It wafted from him like a chill wind. He’d judged her instantly and sensed his superiority. Perhaps he thought she should be honoured to fall at his feet. The thought jangled her pride. A need to take the wind out of his sails was pushing her into outrageous behaviour she could not seem to stop.

      Finished with their tasks, the servants withdrew.

      ‘Can I offer you some of this very fine aspic, Mrs Falkner?’ he asked.

      Caroline inclined her head. ‘Yes, please, my lord.’

      He raised his gaze to her face. ‘Merry?’

      She should not have given him permission to use her first name. It put her at a distinct disadvantage. ‘A small amount. Thank you.’

      He served Caroline first. He had large strong hands. The fingers were elegant, yet not at all limp or fluttery. Grandfather always knew a man’s nature from the way he shook hands. Most of the time, men bowed over hers, so she never got the opportunity to judge their grip. She’d found other ways to assess their worth.

      The way a man handled his knife and fork and the business of eating told her a great deal. This one used his implements with casual ease and ate with firm elegance and a pleasing economy of movement. The Marquis of Tonbridge exceeded all her standards.

      He’d been good with the horses, too, she recalled, firm, yet gentle. Not once had he pulled on their delicate mouths while keeping firm control.

      Was she letting her biases lead her astray in regard to this man? Was he merely following her lead out of politeness? If she truly believed so, she should simply bid him goodnight after dinner and retire. It would not be difficult to declare a headache or weariness from the day’s events.

      But she didn’t believe he was just being polite for a minute. He wanted to put her in her place. She could see it in his eyes.

      ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he said, raising a brow.

      Clearly, he needed a lesson in humility. ‘Why don’t we start with a wager?’

      He raised a brow. ‘Cards? Or do you prefer dice?’

      ‘Billiards,’ she said. ‘If you play?’

      He nodded. ‘Billiards it is.’

      The conversation passed on to more mundane topics and it was not long before Caroline was making her excuses, leaving Merry to deal with the fruits of her challenge.

      The billiard room was, without a doubt, the most comfortable room Charlie had entered so far. Linen-fold panelled walls of oak provided a warm background for comfortably heavy wooden furniture dating back to the last century. An equally impressive green baize-covered slate table stood in the centre of a red-and-green-patterned rug.

      Not a scrap of velvet or gilt in sight. A relief to his weary eyes. The only glitter beneath the overhead light was Miss Draycott herself. Merry. What an apt name for such an unusual female.

      She eyed the balls, running her palm up and down her cue. Her fingers were long and fine and the action brought other images to mind. Sensual images.

      The simmering arousal he’d been fighting all evening made itself known with a disgruntled jolt.

      He’d never before felt such instant attraction for such a—how did one describe this woman? Statuesque, certainly. Gloriously so. She didn’t have to crane her neck to see his face. He’d thought he liked his women small and delicate. Until now.

      He certainly wouldn’t worry about hurting her when romping around in a bed. His body stirred in approval. He tamped down his desire. The last thing he needed was a distraction like Merry Draycott.

      For an unprotected woman, she was far too bold for her own good. Many men would have no qualms about taking advantage. He had to admit he found the prospect tempting.

      Her behaviour had him thoroughly off kilter, too. On occasion, her manner of speech left much to be desired. At other times she seemed almost genteel. She confused him. And, unfortunately, intrigued him.

      For an instant at dinner, he’d suspected the two women of being more than platonic friends, that they might worship at the altar of Sappho, but as the meal progressed he had not sensed anything warmer than friendship.

      Not that he was averse to the special friendships some women preferred. It just put those particular women out of reach, and, in her case, he’d felt disappointed.

      The truth was, he wanted her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so urgent about having a woman. He fought to control the impulse to seduce her. As her guest, good manners required he accommodate his hostess’s wishes. A part of him wished those desires included more than a high-stakes game of billiards. The undercurrents swirling around them suggested they might. And no matter what he thought, his baser male nature wanted to oblige.

      A man about to become betrothed did not enter into an entanglement with another woman. Hell, he’d just got rid of his long-term mistress for that very reason.

      Meeting this particular woman on the road was, without a doubt, a confounded nuisance.

      She played a damned fine game of billiards, too. She’d won the first game, mostly because he had been focusing too much on her sweet little bottom when she’d leaned over the table. A quite deliberate ploy on her part, no doubt. Not unlike a Captain Sharp plying his mark with gin.

      He watched her saunter around the table with a jaunty swing of her hips and clenched his jaw. She was deliberately tormenting him with a gown that skimmed her breasts and revealed every curve when she walked. While her gown wasn’t any more provocative than many respectable married ladies of the ton wore to a drum or a rout, on her, it seemed positively decadent.

      The woman was a menace. Teasing a man came with consequences she might not like. Perhaps she needed a lesson in acceptable behaviour. A warning.

      He covered his mouth and yawned widely. ‘Excuse me. It’s been a long day. I think I am ready to retire.’

      She frowned. ‘Afraid you will lose again?’

      ‘Not at all,’ he drawled. ‘My interest is waning. I’m afraid I need more of a challenge.’

      She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Fifty guineas a point and a hundred for a win is reasonably challenging.’

      ‘I’m not trying to fleece you, Merry, but I think both of us can lose a few hundred guineas in a night and not turn a hair.’

      Her eyes widened a fraction. ‘Do you want to make it thousands?’

      He grinned and leaned on his cue. ‘That is more of the same, isn’t it?’ Oh God, he was going to hell for this. ‘In this next game, how about for each point we lose, we remove an article of clothing?’

      It was the kind of thing he would have proposed during his misspent youth, before his stint in the army. Before he became duller than ditchwater, more sedate than a spinster walking a pug. The sharp voice of his handsomely paid-off mistress rang in his head.

      Merry was staring at him wide-eyed, shocked to her toes.

      A rueful smile tugged at his lips as he waited for her to retreat in disarray and leave him to take his brandy to his empty bed.

      ‘An article of clothing per point?’ she said, a little breathlessly, her cheeks flushing pink, but her shoulders straightening.

      A breath caught in his throat. By thunder, she wasn’t going to back down. The naughty minx. Someone ought t o put her over their knee. He drew on every ounce of control, the kind a man needed going into battle.

      Clearly there was only one way to teach this young woman not to play with fire. Singe her eyebrows.

      ‘Anything on your person,’ he said as if the whole topic bored him.

      ‘Including