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He didn't bother answering. Her eyes glinted her lack of goodwill. She wasn't surprised to see him.
"Carry on, gentlemen," Lady Denmore laughed in the face of his silence. "We've a match to finish." The men didn't move. "My turn then?"
She fetched a new bottle from the rows near the wall and replaced the broken one. She repositioned all of them into another neat triangle before she fetched the ball and walked jauntily back to the table. "Good luck?" she suggested, but no one complied. The men's eyes darted toward Somerhart.
Nothing untoward had happened as far as Hart could tell, but all of them had been thinking about it. Their guilty eyes spoke volumes.
Lady Denmore shrugged and held the ball up to her own mouth for a kiss. Her lips brushed slowly over the stitching and, one by one, the men's eyes shifted back to her. Hart felt his face stiffening. He couldn't quite tell what his expression was, but he knew it was unpleasant. She was deliberately dancing along the edge of scandal, creating an aura of wickedness that would fuel the talk about her into fire. And she was dragging Hart deep into the flames. He should never have set foot in the room. He should have turned his back on her and walked away.
The bottles clinked. Four fell to the carpet without damage.
"Four!" she cried and Richard Jones offered halfhearted congratulations.
"Who will challenge me?" Her lips curved into an enticing, flirtatious smile. "No one? Mr. Jones?"
He looked around at the others before he shook his blond head and bowed in her direction. "Your match, Lady Denmore."
"I think," Somerhart growled, "it's past time you men found your beds for the morning."
"Just so," Marsh agreed, with an overloud laugh that the other men echoed as they each collected their winnings. The largest pile remained when the group quit the room. Someone closed the door.
Lady Denmore calmly went to collect the empty bottles of wine. After she'd placed them back into the line against the wall, she began to fold up the edges of the thick rough-spun cloth that had been laid out for the game. Broken glass shifted and clinked.
Somerhart forced his jaw to unclench. "Will you do anything for money?"
Her mouth held its impersonal smile as she continued her work.
"Because you seem quite hungry for coin. And I have a lot of it."
She gave a nod and dusted off her hands. "And?"
"And if you will do anything for it, you should simply tell me. I'm sure we could come to an arrangement."
Her smile widened until her teeth showed, but the woman refused to look at him. She stared down at the mess she'd made. "Do you think I find it charming to be called a whore, Your Grace?"
Goddamn it. Somerhart looked around, but there was no wall close enough to punch. "I waited for you at breakfast," he growled instead. "I did not expect to find you hidden away with a group of young bucks making a spectacle of yourself."
"No? Well, I think I've told you before that you are quite naive when it comes to my behavior."
"I am not naive, damn it. I am disgusted. You will drag me down with you."
"Oh, my. I suggest you remove yourself from my presence then. There will only be more of this. Gambling. Flirting. Wine before luncheon. Keeping company with rakes and fortune hunters. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if I were utterly disgraced long before the Season even begins. And I will drag you down with me, Your Grace. I promise you that."
She finally met his gaze, and her hazel eyes flashed scorn. That smile, that damned smile, mocked him in every way.
"You were a very different person yesterday," he said.
"As were you. Charming. And kind."
Somerhart winced and shook his head. "Is that what this was? A lesson?"
"Not for you, Your Grace. For me."
"How so?" he asked her, but his stomach felt hollowed out.
"Yesterday you meant to be charming and you were. But charm is not character, and I will not be seduced by pretense."
"No? What will you be seduced by then? Youth? Drunkenness? A ridiculous game?"
