“He’s ill. Bowed out. I had to find a replacement. You’re lucky I discovered that Lord Foxton fits your requirements. Looking for a wife, possesses an unentailed house he does not care for.Is younger than forty. I tire of repeating myself, but”—her sigh was so gusty, so put upon, it wafted her veil forward—“if you consider dropping just one of those requirements, then—”
“No. I say again, all requirements are essential. But Felix—Foxton—must give up his place at that table. Now.” He might recognize her. Hewouldrecognize her.
Mrs. Dove Lyon’s hands hit her hips. “You are being stubborn again.”
Caroline shrugged. “And I will not stop being stubborn. Not on this matter.” It had been years since she’d seen him. She could not remember the date. Remembered only the moment—eyes locking across a crowded ballroom, his devilish wink, how he’d held her gaze as he’d dropped low to whisper something in a lady’s ear then take her earlobe between his teeth. Daring Caroline to react.
She’d not given him that satisfaction. But she’d been unable to keep a shiver from rippling up her spine. Her earlobe, untouched by his teeth, had tingled. She tugged that earlobe now. He reduced her to a damngirl. Why couldn’t time have eroded her body’s reaction to him? Why had his callousness not banished it?
“You’ve no choice,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Lord Foxton remains at the table tonight.”
“Onlythreemen will play.”
“Those men agreed to a game of wits with four total players,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice was low and hard, the voice of a woman who rarely compromised. “And, if you must know, there are others betting on the outcome of this game. Odds are not to be tampered with. But more importantly. You promised me three houses in addition to the price for my matchmaking services. Do you think to cheat me?”
No escape. Caroline would have to sit at a table with Felix and pray he didn’t recognize her. Pray he didn’t win.
Wait… Hewouldn’twin. They’d played games together as children. He hated riddles. As much as she loved them.Marvelous.“Very well. I concede.”
The widow went still. No doubt beyond her veil she was shocked. A concession? From the most stubborn lady in London?
Enjoy it while it lasts.Caroline swept past her and reentered the room. Took her seat once more at the table, not looking back as the widow’s skirts swept inside and the door clicked softly closed.
“About the game,” Felix drawled, one gloved finger tap, tap, tapping in a measured movement. Controlled. Yet annoyed. Simultaneously. She’d heard just that tone before, seen just that unconscious action. “Are we ever to learn what it is?”
Caroline reached for the paper in her pocket and gestured to the pencils and stark, blank rectangles of paper set before each man at the table. “Of course. Are we ready to play?”
Three of them said they were. Simple as that. No pacifying smiles. No contradictions. No one pointing out that a woman should not be giving them orders. This little disguise, no matter how thin over her curves, had its benefits.
Felix, leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his back. The fine wool of his jacket stretched taut across his biceps. His bottle-green waistcoat threatened to pop a button with each breath that expanded his broad chest. The light of competition made his blue eyes glow. Whoever had determined tight clothing fashionable for gentlemen had not been thinking of Felix.Clearly. If they’d known he would merely breathe and rip his shirt seams, giving all of London a show sure to make the ladies swoon and the men burn with envy, that fashion paragon would have put men in the baggiest jackets and loosest trousers. To preserve the moral tenor of society.
Felix could burn morality to ash with a single brooding look, an unconscious flex of his bicep.
And he could burn her down with less than that, with a memory, a single moment of recognition.
But he didn’t recognize her. If he did, he wouldn’t look so confident.
“The game we play tonight,” she said in a low voice not her own, “is a game of wits.” She unfolded her paper, read it in the dim light. “Now, gentlemen, I hope you’re good at riddles…”
Chapter Two
If Felix hadknown he’d be asked to play a child’s game to win a wife, he would not have answered the black widow’s summons so quickly.
“Do not look so sulky, Lord Foxton,” the dame herself said from a chair in the corner. “’Twill not win you a wife. Only cunning will do that.” With her black clothing and veil, she seemed part of the shadows.
Yes, cunning. This sort of game required all of one’s wits. That was the very reason he liked the Lyon’s Den. Its games were challenging, unlike in other places where the usual games had become a bit boring. This game… annoyingly childish, yes, but still… a battle of wits. All to win a wife he’d never met.Fascinating. Risky because who the hell knew who she was, what she’d look like, how she’d behave.
She would not be terribly offensive. The widow would not have that. The women she helped wed possessed… quirks… but they were not fools. Still, the allure of the unknown made the game irresistible. Thank God he’d not indulged in a drink before coming. Life buzzed through him more potent than a dram of whisky would have.
So too did memory. He’d probably forgotten more riddles than he knew, and he knew them all. Thanks to Caro.
“What are the rules?” Felix asked.
“Five riddles,” the dealer said, his voice odd, low yet… high at the same time. “The man to answer the most riddles correctly wins.”
“And what if there is a tie?” Lord Quinleet asked. The young fellow was just out of university and eager to prove himself a man.
The dealer kept his gaze on the table, hat brim low. What Felix could see of the man’s face above his lips was masked. “If there is a tie, then I offer another riddle, to be answered only by the two gentlemen who have tied. The winner gets a wife. Everyone else loses a house.”
