Page 4 of A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

She was good at the game, Vingt-et-un, had been winning steadily since she'd sat down a quarter hour before, but she seemed distracted now. . . bored, glancing toward the players at the loo table even as she played her hand.

"What do you know about this Lady Denmore?" Hart asked of the man next to him.

Lord Marsh chuckled. "Ah, she's a tempting bit, isn't she? Married to an old man for a year and now she's free to pursue more interesting interests."

"An old man?"

"Yes, Baron Denmore must have been seventy at least, a recluse, and she no more than nineteen when they married. She'd never even been presented."

Hart's mind turned over the possibilities. "And who intro­duced her to London?"

"Ha! No one. She arrived in October, of all times, and still in mourning. The Mathertons were practically the only people left in town. And the Osbournes, of course. She's rather become their pet."

Hart watched her collect her winnings and rise. She made her way immediately to the loo table, inviting several of the men already playing to wince.

"She's an accomplished player, I gather?"

"Mm. That coward Brasher is already fleeing the table. See the men tremble at her feet."

Hart allowed himself a small smile. The men were, indeed, unhappy to see her. Lady Denmore, on the other hand, was all gracious good humor. "She seems a woman who enjoys taking risks."

"Indeed." Marsh grinned. "And I am hoping that will translate to other habits as well. Did you get a good look at that mouth?"

Hart pressed his lips together. He knew his own reputation with women, but it was just as well known that he preferred privacy above all else. He disdained to speak of women like whores on the bartering block, just as he expected not to be evaluated like a stallion on parade.

"Well, old man," Marsh continued, oblivious to Hart's anger, "I do believe I'll join the play. Perhaps I can divest her of her coin and move on to other trade."

Lord Marsh approached the table, and when Lady Den­more looked up, her eyes slid to meet Hart's. They widened as if the sight of him surprised her. Odd, considering he'd followed her into the room. She blinked, a strange flutter of her lashes, and turned away from him to glare at the cards she'd been dealt.

She reacted to him almost as if she knew him. Perhaps it was only his reputation that made her so nervous. She was a country miss, after all, despite that her voice gave one vi­sions of tumbled sheets and sweat-damp hair.

A seventy-year-old husband. Hart shook his head and pushed away from the bookcase he'd leaned against. She stiffened when he passed her table on his way to the door, her awareness of him tempting him to stop and stand over her shoulder. . . but he walked on.

She was a bit young for him, perhaps. But he preferred widows, after all, and he was presently unattached. Still, well-bred, proper innocents rarely offered up much excite­ment in bed, unless one counted declarations of love as ex­citing. Hart did not. Not that he'd had much experience with innocents, but one did hear things.

He moved at a quick pace toward the ballroom, ignoring the dozens of people who tried to catch his eye as he passed. Being a duke was very much like being a prized stud, and as an eligible duke . . . He suppressed a cringe of disgust even as he spied his quarry at the edge of the dancing.

"Osbourne," he started, planting himself next to the old gentleman.

"Ah, Somerhart! On your way into town?"

"Yes. Lady Matherton was kind enough to offer a room so I wouldn't have to fight this damned snow."

"Well, thank God none of the new crop has arrived. If it were April you'd be awash in eager mamas."

"As you say. By the way, I made the acquaintance of your friend, Lady Denmore."

"Ah, where is Emma? In the card room, I suppose?"

Emma. "Yes. The men cower in fear."

"As they should. By God, she's livened things up for us this winter. Taught me a thing or two about whist, I can assure you. Do you play brag? Do not go betting your estate on a game with her. She will divest you of more than your pride."

Hart smiled at the man's hearty laughter. "I was not ac­quainted with her late husband, Denmore."

"I wasn't acquainted with Denmore either! When I knew him he was plain old Mr. Jensen. He never expected to in­herit the title, you know. We ran about town together long ago. I hadn't seen him in . . ." Osbourne shrugged. "Must have been fifteen years now."

"Really? So you had never met Lady Denmore?"

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