She trusted this man. He was a known liar and shameless rake, but she trusted him. Enough to fall asleep in his arms amid all this debauchery.
She blinked at the card table, trying to bring the confusion of cards and coins into focus. How much time had passed? It felt very late. Most of the players seemed to have already retired for the night. Only Colin and Halford remained.
She stared hard at the heap of shilling pieces in front of them. Had he increased their funds enough to continue their journey? Those coins had numbered twenty at the outset of the game.
Now she counted . . .
Four.
Her heart stopped. Oh, God. How could he? She’d trusted him, and he was losing everything.
Then she shifted her gaze to the cards in Colin’s hand. What she saw gave her reason to breathe again. His cards looked promising. She couldn’t make them out exactly—not without her spectacles. But she could see they were all red and they were all face cards. Simple logic told her, that had to add up to something good. A pair of knaves, at the least.
She looked to the center of the table, heaped with coins. More than enough money to replace what the highwayman had taken. Perhaps this was all part of Colin’s plan.
“A poxy pair of nines, that’s all.” The duke threw down his cards. “I’m sure you can do better, Payne.”
Yes! He could. She curled her fingers around the edge of his waistcoat pocket, faint with excitement.
Colin held his silence for a time. “Sorry to prove you wrong, Hal,” he said, “but you have me beat.” He laid his cards facedown on the table before him.
With a greedy laugh, the Duke of Halford gathered his winnings.
Minerva’s hand slipped from Colin’s pocket. She was stunned. Aghast. Four shillings. They were down to four shillings now. She had to get him away from this card table before he lost everything they had.
But how? She couldn’t even speak to him, thanks to his wild tales. These people all believed her to be Melissande, a refugee princess from some tiny Alpine principality. Or, alternatively, an assassin who just might garrote them all in their sleep. And in her spare time, Colin’s mistress.
His worldly, sensual mistress.
Minerva bit her lip. Perhaps there was a way to lure him from this betting table without words.
Adjusting her weight in his lap, she stretched up one hand to stroke his hair. The heavy brown locks sifted between her fingers, stroking like feathers over her palm. With her other hand, she teased loose his cravat knot until the entire length of fabric slid from his neck in a slow, sensual glide. She thought she heard him moan, a little.
She nuzzled into his neck. The scent of brandy clung to his skin, dark and intoxicating. Without her spectacles, at this close range, he was little more than an unshaven blur. But he was an achingly handsome blur, nonetheless. Craning her neck, she kissed his cheek.
His breath caught, and she almost lost her nerve to continue. But she’d started this, and now there was no retreating.
Tilting her head, she pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.
Across the table, the duke gave a dry laugh.
Minerva’s heart stalled. She froze, lips pressed to Colin’s unshaven throat. What had she been thinking? A brazen seductress? Her? Of course Halford wouldn’t believe it. No one in his right mind would believe it.
“Payne,” the duke said, “perhaps you’d care to sit out this round? It would seem the fetching Melissande needs putting to bed.”
Colin’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “She can wait.”
“Perhaps,” the duke replied, with a knowing chuckle. “But can you? I’ve never seen a man’s knuckles quite that shade of pale.”
Exhilaration swarmed through her body. Halford did believe it. Colin was affected. She was a seductress. But she still hadn’t succeeded in her goal—pulling Colin away from the card table.
Minerva redoubled her efforts. She wove her fingers tight into his hair. She licked his neck, dragging her tongue from his pulse to his earlobe. With the tip of her tongue, she traced his ear’s every whorl and ridge.
“Upstairs,” she whispered. “Take me upstairs. Now.”
Colin’s hand fisted in the back of her dress, stealing her breath with a swift yank. But the sharp, secret rebuke only inflamed Minerva’s rebellious nature. Whose idea had it been for her to play this role? He had no right to complain. Besides, a part of her was enjoying this. Judging by the hard, heated ridge pulsing against her thigh, a part of him was enjoying it, too.
This doesn’t lie.
She kissed his collarbone, dropping her fingers to his shirt closures. Slipping loose one, then two, and snaking her fingers inside to caress his smooth, muscled chest.
The duke observed, “You’re getting rather low in your stack, Payne. Since you’re so uninterested in enjoying Melissande yourself, perhaps you’d care to make a friendly wager. I’d lay a great deal of money against such obvious and abundant . . . charms.”
Minerva had to work, very hard, not to betray her understanding with a sour look. Or a violent heave of her stomach.
Colin tensed as well. “Tread with caution, Halford.”
“Why? It’s not as though she can understand a word we say.” The duke shuffled and dealt the cards. “One hand, one winner. You put your girl on the table, and I’ll toss in one of mine. Whoever wins can enjoy double the amusement tonight.”
Every muscle in Colin’s body went instantly hard as stone. One of his hands balled in a fist. The other went to the pistol tucked at his hip.
Minerva’s blood turned icy in her veins. These protective impulses were all well and good, but the last thing she needed was for Colin to start trouble with the duke. They’d be cast out from Winterset Grange—running through the night this time, with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
A matter of minutes stood between them and disaster. But she could tell from his stormy expression, Colin wasn’t thinking more than ten seconds into the future.
Lifting Minerva off his lap, he pushed to his feet. He leveled a finger at the duke. “Don’t you ever—”
Smack.
Minerva slapped him, square across the face.
Colin blinked at her, clearly stunned.
She lifted her shoulders. He’d left her no choice. She had to stop the men’s argument somehow. And Colin couldn’t start a fight with the duke if she started a fight with Colin first. So . . .
Smack. She used her left hand this time, whipping his head the other direction.
Then she stood back, seething as dramatically as she imagined a dark-haired Alpine princess-assassin with hot blood could possibly seethe. Adopting a nonspecific accent—something halfway between Italian and French—she narrowed her eyes and said, “Yoooo. Bass. Tard.”