One Night Is Never Enough (3 page)

Her tormentor leaned against the splintered doorframe of her imprisonment, arms crossed, head cocked, amusement about his mouth, but something unreadable in his eyes.

“Run to the street, Anna,” Charlotte murmured over her shoulder, letting her maid free. Anna’s hand jerked and disappeared from her dress, and Charlotte heard her maid’s footfalls and the yanking of the door, the jangling of the bell, and the crash as it closed.

Charlotte continued to back away, never taking her eyes from the man. But he didn’t come any closer. Simply watched her as she wrapped her bare hand around the cold handle of the door behind her.

“Farewell, little bird,” he said, his voice cultured marble on top of jagged rock.

She pushed through, whirled, and ran after her maid, up the street to Bond. To call the watch. To get far, far away from here. From him. From the strange and dangerous thoughts he had engendered.

Chapter 2

R
oman Merrick tapped the cards on the table as they were dealt to him, treating them more recklessly than he normally would.

A hundred decisions awaited his judgment that eve, and yet all he could picture were lush lips parting, pulse jumping under a long, smooth column of flesh. On a different night, he’d be out there, finding her at one of the half dozen events she might be attending.

Waiting for her to walk into the garden to cool her heated flesh. Lounging back on a bench in the shadows, scaring the devil out of her with a lazily uttered, “Good evening.” Seeing her eyes widen as she recognized him, watching her chin rise, her hand clench.

Women came easily to him. But he had a feeling that this one would require a unique form of persuasion. That she wasn’t used to men like him had been quite obvious.

He smiled slowly. Thoughts of what he could do with her pride and innocence tumbling in quick succession.

His smile grew as he examined the intoxicated man seated across from him. If the man only knew what he was thinking, he’d likely drop dead of apoplexy right there, face forever embedded in the wood of the tabletop.

“Charlotte is a good girl,” the man said. “Sometimes thinks too much. Not her best trait, but she can be broken of it. Her beauty would pardon heavier sins.”

It was the twentieth such thing Bennett Chatsworth had uttered. Roman felt he could adequately reel off Chatsworth’s daughter’s likes and hobbies, sterling characteristics and faults, like a dossier on a war criminal. John Trant and Chatsworth had been circling each other for hours, playing a game both on the table and through words.

“You plan to have her betrothed at the end of this season then?” Trant asked.

“Yes. Can’t keep holding my girl in. Too many interested parties for her hand. Been holding off for too long as it is.” Eyes widening, Chatsworth could barely contain his drunken glee as he looked at his first three cards.

Roman would rather be out there right now, watching those lush lips—or even better,
feeling
them against his. But when he had seen the players at this table form, he had felt the draw. The tug of his gut that said he needed to be a part. And so he’d smiled charmingly and invited the four men to join him at one of the back tables used for special games and the wealthier clientele.

People always accepted the invitations. For to retire later to a club and casually mention that one had been playing in a Merrick anteroom was a much-sought-after thing.

But that meant that he had been detained here for the past two hours when he’d much rather be
elsewhere.
And as with anything, when he was doing something that wasn’t
the
something on his mind, it chafed and rubbed, the pull to do what he wanted tugging relentlessly.

Andreas had tried to rid him of the trait long ago, but even Andreas had to admit that sometimes it was bloody useful. Roman’s intuitions were always important, even if they didn’t seem so at the time. His muddied Rom blood never failed to come in handy, especially hidden behind his decidedly antithetical blond hair and blue eyes.

“You have been holding out for a long time, Chatsworth. Heard that Binchley was thinking of coming up to snuff soon,” Lord Pomeroy said at his right. “You willing to part with your daughter for the marquess?”

And now there were two tugs. The one assaulting him with what he wanted to do—find the gold-crowned girl he had chased away that afternoon—and the one that his gut said was the more important at the moment—stay in the game.

He impatiently tapped the edges of his cards against the table in front of him, uncaring for once if the sharp man on his left noted the actions. It was going to be a bad hand anyway—an easy choice to throw in once he was dealt his final card. He’d spotted the card he needed toward the bottom of the deck, out of play. Pomeroy had never been a stealthy shuffler. And Roman was simply going through the motions of playing, his mind on other games.

“Might be, might be. Think she could go even higher”—like a parcel being bid on—“but the marquess has much to offer. Have a few other offers already coming in this season—
good
offers”—Chatsworth shot a biting look to Viscount Downing, who only lifted a brow in return—“so the marquess will need to express himself well.”

Chatsworth was a fool. Still holding out for a bigger title—and a bigger pot of gold—when he was in such dire financial straits. Dangling his beautiful fish on his barbed hook. Not realizing that the bait had stopped swimming. That she might even be torn from the hook completely if he wasn’t careful.

Swallowed by a shark, if
she
wasn’t careful. Forever separated from the rest of the silver school.

“Your daughter is a lovely woman,” Viscount Downing said coolly, at Roman’s left. “I expect you will make her a fine match. Perhaps even utilize her tragic use of
thought
and allow her some choice in the matter.”

Downing’s wife was a close friend of Chatsworth’s daughter. And Downing had nearly been betrothed to the lady in question two years ago. It would be hard not to know such information, as Chatsworth had been sending Downing darker glances and uttering more sarcastic jabs as he’d gotten increasingly drunk. He was obviously piqued that Downing had escaped being his son-in-law.

“Fine eyes, she has. Heard one of the puppies wrote a sonnet to them last week,” Pomeroy added.

The edges of Downing’s eyes pinched, as if in pain. “And read it to the assembly at the Peckhursts’. My wife delighted in repeating the lines at every opportunity for three days. Gave me nightmares of which I am not yet rid.”

Roman felt a tug at the edges of his mouth. He’d always rather liked Downing. Before the viscount’s marriage, he’d been a marvelous customer. Even if he won more than he lost, he had an innate ability to pull others to and with him, and that was worth any loss to the coffers Roman and Andreas might suffer. Because rarely were Downing’s acquaintances so lucky.

The only reason Downing was at the hell tonight was because of a ladies’ party to which he wasn’t invited. Roman thought that sounded as good an excuse as any. He shuddered to think what might happen at a party for ladies only.

Though he might find
her
there. Or else at one of the other events, dancing with some stringy cad just out of Oxford, unable to tell which of his two left feet should be leading.

He wondered what she looked like as she danced. He bet her skin warmed, pink blooming just beneath the creamy surface. She had reacted so beautifully earlier. The pulse at her throat. The lift of her chest. With her proud posture and determined eyes, those very feminine reactions, the stirrings of desire, made the whole encounter incredibly potent.

That he hadn’t been able to purge the earlier encounter from his mind wasn’t surprising.

“Going to need to offer a great amount for her hand to beat out Binchley’s title,” Chatsworth slurred. “And any shortcomings will need to be compensated.”

Compensated monetarily, of course. Bennett Chatsworth had high standards—he had outright said that he wanted no less than an earl for his daughter—but he would need money, lots and lots of money, to cover his debts.

Downing was the heir to a marquessate, and exceedingly wealthy, so he had been a good match. Trant had no title to claim—at least not yet, though there had been interesting rumors lately—but the man, too, had money to spare.

“I wonder that you aren’t looking at the larger scene, Chatsworth,” Trant said casually.

Unlike his positive feelings toward Downing, Roman had mixed regards concerning Trant. The man’s deep pockets and outrageous wagers made him a good client. He lost about as much as he won, so he wasn’t a liability to their businesses. In fact, he seemed to frequent the tables more out of a desire to gain a social edge than to add to his own wealth. He played with those who could provide value. Whether that was to gather information or plant seeds. The man hadn’t become a brilliant politician by chance.

“I’m looking at the prospects perfectly well,
Mr.
Trant. Binchley is at the top of the list at present though that could change provided circumstances change.”

Maintaining a smooth expression, Trant tipped his head. A tick of irritation pulsed under his jaw, the only tell that betrayed otherwise calm equanimity.

Roman frequently encountered men like Trant in his line of work. Ruthless. Cutthroat. Determined. But coupled with Trant’s deep need to climb ever upward, crushing anyone in his path, the qualities, while making Trant an interesting associate at times, at others made him decidedly predictable and boring. After all, a ladder contained a single directional path. Someone like Trant rarely tried the twisting vines, tree branches, and handholds to the side.

Trant had insinuated to Roman that he’d be interested in purchasing Chatsworth’s debts if the price were right. Had danced around the issue on two separate occasions in so many weeks. But Trant hadn’t been willing to commit to the high sum that came along with commissioning the collateral exchange and, frankly, although Trant was wealthy, he didn’t have enough money to acquire all of Chatsworth’s debts. Trant would have to gamble and purchase
just enough
of Chatsworth’s debts if he decided to go that route.

Roman had never agreed to
take on
the project though.

Roman watched the man tuck his final card in with the others before Trant pulled the hand toward his chest.

It was little wonder what Trant would do if Roman chose to purchase Chatsworth’s London debts, combine them together, then relinquish the lot to Trant’s possession. What Trant could force Chatsworth to cede. Charlotte Chatsworth was a diamond of the first water. Even with her father’s pockets to perpetual let, she sparkled like a gem amidst paste.

A wedding gem. Which Bennett Chatsworth counted upon—
bet
upon. That she would restore the family fortunes
and
increase their status.

Roman thought about her confident chin, about what the flesh of her jaw would feel like when he put his fingers beneath to watch the emotions tumble through her dark blue eyes.

He would put his money on Charlotte Chatsworth succeeding.

There was something about her. A proud tilt to her head, some survival spark that he seldom found in the wealthy.

At least not the
ton
wealthy.

Those like him, self-made men, tended to have it in spades.

That she was beautiful and obviously intelligent didn’t hurt. He wasn’t above a pretty face or a witty repartee. But there was always a pretty face to be had. And there were plenty of well-read and sharp courtesans who intermingled with his establishment’s clientele.

No, there was something else about her that stuck with him. Like the points of her little pin.

He had seen her fleetingly in the market a month past. Just a glimpse of her face and the expression upon it as she’d looked at the cages filled with fowl, the penned creatures shoved together with barely room to breathe. But it had been enough of a glimpse to ignite something inside him. He had seen her before that, as beauty such as hers stood out, but it was that particular glimpse of her that had attached some sort of invisible cord to her within him.

He rarely emerged during the day, except for the rare occasions like that afternoon. His world was that of dark, soaked nights and the blurred eyes of early morning. Quite the opposite of the girl who was the toast of the social scene.

The dove of London.

The feel of the metal bird echoed between his finger pads.

He’d heard all about her, of course. She was in the papers frequently, for her charity work and her beauty, and the patrons or her father spoke of her at the tables—as happened with many of the people of society. Roman could run his own gossip column with the amount of information he casually collected.

And he knew exactly how much financial trouble Chatsworth was in. Deeper than he let show. He was liable to do something stupid soon.

That Roman felt a spark at the thought was troubling. He closed his eyes, his thumb and forefinger going to the bridge of his nose, then pushing over his eyelids, rubbing in opposing directions. He really needed to get the girl out of his thoughts.

Else
he
was liable to do something stupid.

“Turning it in already, Pomeroy?” Trant said, the edge of a sneer mixed with something approaching excitement in his voice.

Roman didn’t look up to see what was going on with the two men at his right. Instead, with his open fingers resting in a bridge over his brows, the weight of his head pressing down to his elbow on the table, he looked across the table to observe Bennett Chatsworth more closely. The slope of the man’s nose. The set of his eyes, which at the moment were gazing at his cards in undisguised, drunken glee—more so the fool to continuously drink true spirits when desperation clung fiercely and pots grew large. A once-distinguished man, though more hunched and furtive now, there was a hint there, a promise, if one looked closely enough, of the beauty held by the girl this afternoon.