muttered.
“He doesn’t speak much English,” explained Henry.
“Neither does Quincy.” The dealer’s comment drew a good deal of laughter. “Half the time I can’t understand a bloody thing he says.”
“Kroner, crowns—as long as the lad has ready blunt, he is welcome to play,” replied the dealer.
The others nodded in agreement, and after a brief round of introductions, a new game began.
“It’s damnably close in here,” remarked Northinger. “Why the hat and gloves?”
“For luck,” answered Henry quickly.
“ Ja. Luck,” echoed Alexa.
The reply was accepted with naught but a slight shrug. Without further ado, the group settled in for some serious play.
Grateful for the silence that descended over the table, Alexa soon fell into the rhythm of the cards. Undistracted by the flow of spirits or the occasional female who stopped to watch the action, she paid strict attention to every nuance of the unfolding hands. Such diligence soon paid off. The banknotes began to pile up in front of her.
“I’m done.” After yet another loss, Northinger slapped down his cards with a grunt of disgust. “Come, Haddan, let’s see if the females in the other room will prove more accommodating than the bloody Queen of Spades.”
“No, no, m’luck’s bound to come ’round.” The marquess waved for more brandy. “I’ll stay a bit longer.”
Northinger laughed. “That’s what you always think, Gryff. Especially when the few wits you possess are fuzzed with drink.” He turned and clapped an arm around Henry. “I know I can count on you to be up for a little fun.”
“Well, er…” stalled her cousin, trying to slip out of the embrace. “That is, I shouldn’t leave Lars alone—”
“Ballocks!” With Henry still firmly in his grasp, Northinger moved toward the doorway. “The lad doesn’t need a nursemaid. Doing fine on his own.”
Alexa, emboldened by her string of successes, waved Henry on. “ Ja. Go.”
Seeing no way out, her cousin allowed himself to be ushered away, but not before shooting her one last look of reproach.
She restrained the urge to stick out her tongue. How glorious it felt to be wickedly, wantonly irresponsible. Like the other free spirits in the drawing room, she wanted to dance a little jig.
The pair tottered through the doorway. But as they rubbed shoulders with a lone figure making his entrance into the room, Alexa felt her stomach do a sudden, skidding slide into her ribs.
Chapter Four
A pproaching the smoke-shrouded table, the Earl of Killingworth nodded a greeting to the players. “Who’s the puppy,” he growled, his gaze lingering for a moment on Alexa.
Ducking her head even lower, she made a show of studying her cards.
“Lars—he’s a friend ’f Sir ’Enry,” answered Gryff, sloshing more brandy into his glass.
“Lars appears to be a lucky lad,” remarked the Wolfhound, flicking a quick look at the pile of banknotes piled in front of her.
“Nipping at our balls, that’s for damn sure,” muttered Quincy. “Next he’ll be gnawing on my prick.”
Leaning a hip against the back of her chair, Connor crossed his arms. “How very embarrassing,” he drawled. “I, for one, would never dream of letting such an inexperienced mouth anywhere near my privy parts.”
The remark elicited a round of guffaws.
Alexa was suddenly hot all over. Her cheeks flamed, her fingertips burned. But the worst of the flames seemed to be licking at a small spot just below her left shoulder. Beneath the layers of her clothing her skin felt scorched.
The Wolfhound shifted slightly and the fall of his trousers grazed against her.
Dear God. Dear God. As if she needed any reminder that he was a distinctly male animal.
“Your turn to discard, Lars,” chided Quincy.
She threw down a random card.
“Ha! Knew it!” With a slurred smile, Gryff scooped up his winnings. “Lady Luck’s finally going to kiss my hand.”
“Kiss my arse,” grumbled Quincy.
“Perhaps,
“He doesn’t speak much English,” explained Henry.
“Neither does Quincy.” The dealer’s comment drew a good deal of laughter. “Half the time I can’t understand a bloody thing he says.”
“Kroner, crowns—as long as the lad has ready blunt, he is welcome to play,” replied the dealer.
The others nodded in agreement, and after a brief round of introductions, a new game began.
“It’s damnably close in here,” remarked Northinger. “Why the hat and gloves?”
“For luck,” answered Henry quickly.
“ Ja. Luck,” echoed Alexa.
The reply was accepted with naught but a slight shrug. Without further ado, the group settled in for some serious play.
Grateful for the silence that descended over the table, Alexa soon fell into the rhythm of the cards. Undistracted by the flow of spirits or the occasional female who stopped to watch the action, she paid strict attention to every nuance of the unfolding hands. Such diligence soon paid off. The banknotes began to pile up in front of her.
“I’m done.” After yet another loss, Northinger slapped down his cards with a grunt of disgust. “Come, Haddan, let’s see if the females in the other room will prove more accommodating than the bloody Queen of Spades.”
“No, no, m’luck’s bound to come ’round.” The marquess waved for more brandy. “I’ll stay a bit longer.”
Northinger laughed. “That’s what you always think, Gryff. Especially when the few wits you possess are fuzzed with drink.” He turned and clapped an arm around Henry. “I know I can count on you to be up for a little fun.”
“Well, er…” stalled her cousin, trying to slip out of the embrace. “That is, I shouldn’t leave Lars alone—”
“Ballocks!” With Henry still firmly in his grasp, Northinger moved toward the doorway. “The lad doesn’t need a nursemaid. Doing fine on his own.”
Alexa, emboldened by her string of successes, waved Henry on. “ Ja. Go.”
Seeing no way out, her cousin allowed himself to be ushered away, but not before shooting her one last look of reproach.
She restrained the urge to stick out her tongue. How glorious it felt to be wickedly, wantonly irresponsible. Like the other free spirits in the drawing room, she wanted to dance a little jig.
The pair tottered through the doorway. But as they rubbed shoulders with a lone figure making his entrance into the room, Alexa felt her stomach do a sudden, skidding slide into her ribs.
Chapter Four
A pproaching the smoke-shrouded table, the Earl of Killingworth nodded a greeting to the players. “Who’s the puppy,” he growled, his gaze lingering for a moment on Alexa.
Ducking her head even lower, she made a show of studying her cards.
“Lars—he’s a friend ’f Sir ’Enry,” answered Gryff, sloshing more brandy into his glass.
“Lars appears to be a lucky lad,” remarked the Wolfhound, flicking a quick look at the pile of banknotes piled in front of her.
“Nipping at our balls, that’s for damn sure,” muttered Quincy. “Next he’ll be gnawing on my prick.”
Leaning a hip against the back of her chair, Connor crossed his arms. “How very embarrassing,” he drawled. “I, for one, would never dream of letting such an inexperienced mouth anywhere near my privy parts.”
The remark elicited a round of guffaws.
Alexa was suddenly hot all over. Her cheeks flamed, her fingertips burned. But the worst of the flames seemed to be licking at a small spot just below her left shoulder. Beneath the layers of her clothing her skin felt scorched.
The Wolfhound shifted slightly and the fall of his trousers grazed against her.
Dear God. Dear God. As if she needed any reminder that he was a distinctly male animal.
“Your turn to discard, Lars,” chided Quincy.
She threw down a random card.
“Ha! Knew it!” With a slurred smile, Gryff scooped up his winnings. “Lady Luck’s finally going to kiss my hand.”
“Kiss my arse,” grumbled Quincy.
“Perhaps,
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