Virtue

17

Bernard Melville was puzzled. He was losing to Sebastian Davenport and he couldn't work out how it was happening. His opponent was playing with his usual insouciance, lounging back in his chair, legs sprawled beneath the table, a goblet of cognac at his elbow. He laughed and joked with those who stopped beside the table to watch the play, often seemed careless of his discard, and yet the points were adding up with a remorseless momentum.

Bernard had lost the first hand, won the second by a hair, and was clearly about to lose the third. The cards seemed to be running evenly, although Davenport had laughingly congratulated himself when he'd looked at his hand, counted thirty points, and declared a repique. But the earl knew his own cards were certainly good enough to give him the edge even against a major hand when playing with someone less skilled than himself. And Sebastian Davenport was a careless, inexpert player… wasn't he?

Sebastian watched his opponent. Gracemere was not aware of the observation, conducted as it was from beneath lazily drooping lids, but Sebastian was making a fairly accurate guess as to the earl's musings. He wondered whether to throw a guard that they would both know he should have kept. He would lose the hand, but he was ahead on points and could easily win the game with the next hand, after which he would rise the winner by a narrow margin. His fingers hovered over the cards, and a deep frown furrowed his brow. He reached for his cognac and drank.

Gracemere watched this performance of indecision with an inner smile. Despite his present success, the man was so transparent. When, with an almost defiant gesture of resolution, Sebastian threw down his only heart, the inner smile nearly broke 10 the surface. That was more like it. Careless, inexpert… positively bird-witted. Gracemere played to win the hand.

"Ah, I knew I should have retained the heart," Sebastian lamented. "I just couldn't remember what had gone before."

"I know how it is," Gracemere said with smooth reassurance, dealing the cards.

He lost the next hand so quickly, he could only put it down to the fall of the cards. "Your game, I believe, Davenport."

Sebastian smiled fuzzily as he began to count the points. "Not by much, but it makes a change, Grace-mere."

"You must allow me my revenge." The earl gathered up the cards.

Sebastian yawned. "You'll have to excuse me tonight. Three games is as much as I can manage at one sitting… too much concentration." He laughed in cheerful self-deprecation. "Think I'll have a turn at hazard. See how the dice fall for me. I've a feeling my luck's in tonight."

"As you wish," Gracemere said, finding it hard to hide his contempt. "But I insist on a return game soon."

"By all means… by all means… wouldn't miss it for the world." Sebastian stood up, caught sight of a friend across the room, and strolled off. Gracemere watched him weave his way through the tables, an occasional unevenness in his step indication of the cognac he had been downing so liberally. He played with a wealthy man's improvidence.

Gracemere smiled. Fleecing such a careless fool would be easier than taking cake from a baby. And as for the sister… she'd fallen into his hand like a ripe plum with the tale of her husband's pride and jealousy. Really, such innocents shouldn't be let loose upon the world. However, his plans for her were going to prove highly entertaining for both himself and Agnes, who had declared herself a most eager partner. And he would humble Marcus Devlin at last.

For a moment, his surroundings faded into a mist and he no longer saw or heard the men at the tables, the soft slap of cards, the efficiently bustling waiters replacing bottles of burgundy, refilling the decanters of port and cognac. The flame on the branched candlestick that had lit the piquet table blurred in front of his eyes. Now he saw again the chamber above the stables on that long-ago dawn, and he saw again the pitiless ebony eyes. So vivid was the image that he could almost smell the terror he'd felt when he finally understood what Marcus Devlin was going to do to him.

Gracemere shook his head clear of the vision and slowly unclenched his fists, absently massaging his bloodless fingers. Judith would help him erase the memories and the burning wound of that unendurable humiliation.

Once out of the card room, Sebastian's step steadied, his eyes focused, his shoulders straightened. They were little adjustments, so discreetly made as to be almost un-noticeable by any not on the watch for them. Only Judith would have seen them.

"Still playing with Gracemere, I see," Viscount Middleton observed as Sebastian joined him in the hazard room.

"Yes, and my luck was in tonight," Sebastian said, watching the fall of the dice, listening to the groom porter intoning the odds, calculating how much he was prepared to lose to chance in the interests of appearances. He was supposed to be an addicted gamester, who was nevertheless unworried about his losses, and it would become quickly remarked if he chose only to play games of skill.

"Well, it's your business, I suppose," Harry observed in a tone that was not altogether approving. He tossed a rouleaux onto the baize table beneath the brilliant light of a massive candelabra. "But don't forget what I said."

"I haven't," Sebastian reassured him, making his own bet. "And if I tell you not to worry about me, Harry, I can assure you I mean it." He realized he would have liked to have said more, to repay his friend's kindness with a degree of confidence. Friendship was a dangerous thing. Until now, he'd only had one friend-his sister-and they'd both been content to have it so. But as their world had expanded, it had become harder to keep to themselves. And he'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't enjoy these new relationships.

Soon after, he left Watier's, making his way to the soiree at Hartley House where he hoped he would find Harriet, although it was past midnight.

Judith was at the macao table when he entered the card room, having discovered that his beloved had been taken home by her mama an hour earlier. He strolled casually around the table to watch her play. Judith gave him a brief smile and returned all her attention to the cards. She knew her brother was watching with the eye of a critic. He would tell her afterward if he thought she'd made any errors, and he would be able to detail every one of them from an infallible memory for every hand played. It was a service they performed for each other, although Judith was the first to acknowledge that Sebastian was the better card player.

After a few minutes' observation, he gave her a short, unsmiling nod that told her she was playing well and wandered away, pausing beside the tables where Judith's pupils were playing. Sally looked up as he stood at her shoulder and gave him the smile of one amazed at her success. He saw that she had a substantial pile of rouleaux at her place. He watched her for a minute and, when she played a weak card, said quietly, "Stop soon. You're losing your concentration."

Sally flushed and looked put out. But then she bit her lower lip and nodded. A minute later she yielded her place to one of the spectators.

"Thank you, Sebastian."

He shook his head. "No need. It's as important a lesson as any other-stop the minute your play starts going bad."

There was little advice he could give Cornelia, whose play was wildly erratic. Sometimes it verged on the brilliant, but then she would forget everything and play like a rank amateur. Her winnings fluctuated as erratically as her play, and at no point could he advise her to stop because there was no certainty that she wouldn't win the next hand.

"How am I doing?" she asked in a loud whisper, dropping her fan.

He picked up the fan, saying quietly, "It's hard to say. How much do you want to win?"

"Two hundred guineas," she whispered at her original decibel level. The other players looked up from their cards, glaring at her, and she blushed, her arm jerked, knocking over a wineglass. A servant rushed forward to deal with the mess and in the confusion Sebastian said, "Let me take over your hand."

Cornelia stood up, apologizing vigorously for her clumsiness. "I do beg your pardon, but I seem to have wine on my gown. Oh, do take my place, Mr. Davenport. Thank you so much."

Sebastian winked at her and sat down. "If the table doesn't object."

There were no objections, and he increased Cornelia's winnings to the necessary sum within half an hour. Cornelia and Sally stood behind him, watching his play intently. He rose from the table and offered them both his arm with a little grin. "Did you learn anything, ladies?"

"Yes, you and Judith are the same when you play- you don't seem to notice anything that's going on around you," Sally said. "Your expressions are completely impassive, almost as if you've ceased to inhabit your faces." She laughed. "That sounds silly, doesn't it? But you know what I mean, Cornelia."

"Yes," Cornelia agreed. "And I suspect it's because Judith and Sebastian are not ordinary card players." She looked up at her escort. "You're true gamesters, aren't you?"

"And what's a true gamester, Mrs. Forsythe?" he asked, laughing, hoping to deflect her. Cornelia Forsythe had too sharp a brain for comfort, even if she was cow-handed and inclined to erratic thought processes.

Cornelia looked at him for a minute, then she nodded her head. "You know what I mean. But it's none of my business. I'll not mention it again."

"What are you talking about?" Sally demanded.

Cornelia laughed, breaking the tension. "Nothing at all. I'm teasing Sebastian. Let's go and see how Isobel is doing."

Isobel was flushed with success. "Just look at what I've made," she said, opening her reticule to reveal the pile of shining rouleaux. I'd have had to order Henley's favorite meals for a week, and sit on his knee and beg for hours to wrest this sum from him." Then she recollected Sebastian and blushed crimson. What one confided to one's women friends couldn't be shared with a man.

But Sebastian merely frowned and said, "How very unpleasant for you."

The three women exchanged a look of amazement. What kind of a man was Judith's brother?

"Let's see how Judith's doing," Sally said, to break the moment of startled silence.

"No," Sebastian said immediately. "She won't want to be disturbed. When she's won what she intended to win, she'll stop playing."

Cornelia smiled to herself and Sebastian caught the smile. Again, he reflected that friends could be hazardous when one had secrets to keep. He suggested they repair to the supper room while they waited for Judith.

She joined them there shortly. Her eyes were tired, Sebastian thought, and her face was drawn… much more than an evening's intense gaming would produce. In fact, it occurred to him that she'd been crying. He gave her a glass of champagne and sat quietly as she responded to her friends' eager accounts of their various successes.

"How much did you win?" Sally asked.

"A thousand," Judith said, as if it were nothing. "I don't owe 'the fund' anything for the horses, do I, Sebastian?"

"No, Pickering Street settled that, if you recall."

"Oh, yes, I remember."

"Fund?" Sally asked.

"Private language," Judith said, smiling with an effort.

"I'm going to escort you home," Sebastian said. "You look exhausted."

"I suppose I am a little." She stood up. "I'm glad the evening was a success."

"What about Charlie?" Sally asked. "Wasn't he going to play macao this evening?"

"Yes," Judith replied with a touch of constraint. "I hope he also profited from our sessions." She touched her brother's hand. "I don't need an escort, Sebastian. My chaise is waiting outside."

Sebastian knew she was telling him she wanted privacy, and he acceded without demur. He'd find out what was troubling her when she was ready to tell him. He escorted her to the waiting chaise with the Carrington arms emblazoned on the panels and kissed her good night.

Judith sat huddled in a corner of the carriage as the iron-wheeled vehicle bumped and rattled over the cobbles. She felt chilled, although there was a rug over her knees and a hot brick at her feet. Chilled and bone-weary, although she knew the weariness was of the spirit, not of the body. Intermittent moonlight flickered through the window, shedding a cold pale light on the dim interior… as cold and pale as her spirit, it seemed, in the fanciful reverie of her unhappiness.

Millie was waiting up for her, but the comforting warmth and soft lights of the firelit bedchamber did little to cheer Judith. "Help me with my dress, Millie, then you may go to bed. I can manage the rest myself."

The abigail unhooked the gown of emerald silk and the apple-green half slip embroidered with seed pearls. She hung them in the armoire and left, bidding her mistress good night.

Judith sat in her petticoat in front of the mirror, raising her hands to unfasten the emerald necklace and remove the matching drops in her ears. The connecting door opened with a shocking abruptness. Marcus stood in the doorway in his dressing gown, his eyes glowing like black coals.

"No!" he said.

Judith dropped an earring. It fell on the dresser with a clatter. "No what?"

"No, I do not wish we'd never met," he stated, striding into the room to where she sat on the dresser stool. Slowly she turned to face him.

His hands clasped her throat, his thumbs pushing up her chin. He could feel the slender fragility of that alabaster column warm and pulsing against his ringers. "No," he repeated softly. "Although you're an inflammable, brawling wildcat with a tongue so sharp I'm amazed you haven't cut yourself, I could never wish such a thing."

Judith found she couldn't say anything. His eyes burned into hers and the violent, jolting current of their sexuality ripped through her.

"And you?" he asked. "Do you wish such a thing, Judith? Tell me the truth."

She shook her head. Her throat was parched and she could feel its pulse thrumming against the warm clasp of his hands. "No," she whispered finally. "No, I don't wish such a thing."

He bent his head and his mouth took hers as his hands still circled her throat. The power of the kiss blazed through her like a forest fire, laying waste the barriers of her soul, the thin defenses she might have put up to save herself from extinction in the power of his passion. She was lost in the kiss, his tongue possessing her mouth, becoming a part of her own body, and her skin where it touched his seemed no longer to belong to her.

Without moving his mouth from hers, he drew her to her feet with his hands around her throat. She obeyed blindly, inhaling the rich scents of his skin, tasting him in her mouth. He moved her backward until she felt the wall behind her, hard against her shoulderblades.

And then he lifted his mouth from hers, and she seemed to be drowning in the great black pools of his eyes, existing only in the tiny image of herself in the dark irises.

"Raise your petticoat."

It was the softest command, yet each word rang with die force and promise of fierce arousal. Slowly she drew the soft cambric up to her waist.

"Part your legs." His hands fell from her throat, opening his robe, revealing the erect shaft, poised for possession.

Obeying the jolting charge of lust, swept along on the turbulent current of passion, she moved her legs apart. Still holding her petticoat at her waist, she braced herself against the wall as, without preliminary, Marcus drove deep within her. His eyes held hers as he moved himself inside her, his hands resting lightly on his hips. Only their loins were touching, only their eyes spoke.

The black eyes seemed to swallow her as his body took control of hers. Judith felt herself losing herself, her identity, all will, joined to a power outside herself. A power that pleasured as it mastered. Her head fell back against the wall, her throat arching, white and vulnerable above the scalloped neck of her petticoat. Marcus took his hands from his hips for just long enough to pull the top of the flimsy garment down so that her breasts were bared. He nodded, a small nod of satisfaction, as he gazed down at the exposed creamy swell. He felt her submission, the yielding of her body to the power and will of his. A wave of triumph crashed over him, taking his breath away, and he surged within her as if he would make her a part of himself, indivisible, transcending her separateness, the secret parts of herself that she kept from him. For this moment, he had tamed his lynx… for this moment he had her bound in the chains of a delight that was in his hands to give or to withhold.

Slowly he withdrew to the edge of her body, holding himself there. Her eyes pleaded for his return but she remained mute, locked in the deep sensual silence of this world they were creating. He disengaged, and her little gasp of loss broke the silence, but he placed his hands on her hips and turned her to face the wall, fitting himself against the small of her back as she shifted to accommodate him, positioning herself so that he could slip easily within her again.

Her breasts were pressed to the wall, her cheek resting against the cool, cream paint. Denied eye contact, she was now totally possessed, submerged into his being. And Marcus gloried in an ownership that grew and fed upon the sensual purity of this union.

It was as if he had limitless resources that night. His powers of invention were unbounded, his drive and energy infinite. He commanded without words; only his hands indicated what he wanted of her, and she followed direction as blindly and willingly as if she were bewitched. There were times when she knew herself to be entranced in some fairy ring. Again and again he brought her to the outermost limit of pleasure, to the fine boundary where pleasure bordered upon pain, so intense was the delight. Again and again she surged beneath his body, his mouth, his hands, as he showed her an internal landscape she hadn't known existed; and in showing it to her, he entered the secret chambers of her soul.

There would be other nights… other times when Judith would take the initiative, would make her own demands and in their satisfaction satisfy in turn, but for this night, Marcus was both inventor and master of their pleasure. Through the hushed reaches of the night until dawn grayed the sky they moved silently around the room, from floor to bed, chair to couch. Sometimes she lay beneath him, sometimes over him. Her skin identified the slight roughness of the carpet, the nubby brocade of the chaise longue, the damask smoothness of the bed sheets.

Finally he laid her down on the polished, cold wood of a long rosewood table. The flat surface was hard against her shoulder blades, unyielding beneath her buttocks as he raised her legs, lifting them high onto his shoulders as he plunged for the last time deep into her body, in a fusion so complete that she could no longer tell where her own bodily limits ended and his began. The long silence of the night was at last broken when their elemental cries of a savage and primitive fulfillment mingled in the room.

Judith flung her arms high above her head, her hips arced, holding him inside her through the wild, pumping, climactic glory, then her body seemed to collapse, to go limp and weak as a newborn foal's, and she lay unseeing, unaware, a sacrifice to passion upon the cold flat altar of the table.

It was a long time before Marcus had sufficient strength to scoop her from the table and carry her to the bed. He didn't know whether she was asleep or unconscious, so deep and heavy was her breathing, so limp and relaxed her body. He fell down beside her, sinking into the mattress, as sleep rolled over him.

Judith swam upward from the dark depths of exhaustion about an hour later. She lay in the graying light, neither asleep nor awake, as memory returned to make sense of the night's excess of sensual joy. Vaguely she remembered that at the last, Marcus had not withdrawn from her body. Had he intended it that way, or was it simply that the night's loving had not admitted of such pragmatic, pedestrian concerns?

Sleep reclaimed her.