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Authors: Dangerous Games
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silvery flaxen hair highlighted by the golden glow of stable lanterns.
“There are all sorts of entertainments,” Yarborne said. “Women need something to amuse them while their husbands and sons are racing and gaming.”
“Some of the men must be dancing, too,” Thomas pointed out, “or else the ladies would have no partners. Don’t dance much myself, mind, but someone must.”
Yarborne smiled. “True enough. But I’ve interrupted your play long enough, gentlemen. You ought to bring Vexford along to the Billingsgate one evening when we’re back in town, Thomas.”
Lord Thomas looked surprised. “You’ve played at the Billingsgate Club in St. James’s Street, have you not, Nick?”
“Once or twice.”
“I thought so, by Jupiter. It ain’t but a few blocks from Barrington House.”
Yarborne’s smile widened. “We must put your name up for membership, Vexford, though the powers that be won’t thank us for the gesture if you break their bank, I’m told your luck is quite extraordinary.”
“It is thought to be so only because I generally stake myself against the house, and don’t accept every wild bet that’s offered to me,” Nick said mildly.
“Is that how you built your reputation? Perhaps I should follow your example—though I’ve had very good luck of late,” he added with a glint of sardonic amusement. “Enough now. Get back to your cards.” And he vanished into the milling throng.
“What was that in aid of, I wonder,” Nick said musingly.
“Your father,” Thomas said, looking surprised. “Said so himself. Managed to be of service to Ulcombe, he said. Daresay he wants to pursue the acquaintance. Like my father said. Happens to him all the time. He’s surrounded by toadies.”
“But one can hardly think of Yarborne as a toady if he already has built nearly as great a reputation for good works as my father has.”
“Works too hard at it, and he’s dashed expensive, Yarborne is. He’s got his finger in a dozen pies besides his charities. I don’t like him much though, when all’s said and done. May be a warm man financially, but otherwise, he’s a cold fish if you ask me. Walks as if he’s soiled his smalls and can smell it. Ulcombe ain’t like that.”
“No, he’s not,” Nick agreed. “Have you aught to declare?” Thomas picked up the hand he had put down out of courtesy when Yarborne interrupted them, glanced at it, and said, “Point of five.”
“It’s good.” Nick sighed and poured a generous amount of brandy into his glass. His luck had clearly deserted him.
When Sir Geoffrey grabbed Melissa and pulled her across his knee, she went limp. She did not try to struggle or to fight him, focusing her energy instead on enduring the punishment, and on doing nothing more to fan his anger. Long ago she had learned that struggling produced dreadful consequences. In the terrible moments that followed, each stroke of the riding whip laid a line of fire across her body, but though she sobbed, she did not scream or cry, or stir from the humiliating position.
When he stopped at last, she remained exactly where he had placed her, tense and frightened, until he said grimly, “You may get up now, Melissa.”
She stood carefully, choking back sobs. Nine years had dimmed her memory of the pain he was capable of meting out. She had not remembered, either, how difficult it was to maintain an appearance of submission. She kept her eyelids cast down, knowing that to look at him would be foolhardy, since he might choose to read insolence or antipathy in her expression even if both were absent.
He said quietly, “I am sorry you forced me to be harsh with you, Melissa, but you ought to have remembered that I never tolerate disobedience.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“That is not a proper apology.”
“I am sorry I disobeyed you. P-please, forgive me.” She stared at the floor as she spoke, knowing that if she were to look at him now he would surely see her resentment. It was all
“There are all sorts of entertainments,” Yarborne said. “Women need something to amuse them while their husbands and sons are racing and gaming.”
“Some of the men must be dancing, too,” Thomas pointed out, “or else the ladies would have no partners. Don’t dance much myself, mind, but someone must.”
Yarborne smiled. “True enough. But I’ve interrupted your play long enough, gentlemen. You ought to bring Vexford along to the Billingsgate one evening when we’re back in town, Thomas.”
Lord Thomas looked surprised. “You’ve played at the Billingsgate Club in St. James’s Street, have you not, Nick?”
“Once or twice.”
“I thought so, by Jupiter. It ain’t but a few blocks from Barrington House.”
Yarborne’s smile widened. “We must put your name up for membership, Vexford, though the powers that be won’t thank us for the gesture if you break their bank, I’m told your luck is quite extraordinary.”
“It is thought to be so only because I generally stake myself against the house, and don’t accept every wild bet that’s offered to me,” Nick said mildly.
“Is that how you built your reputation? Perhaps I should follow your example—though I’ve had very good luck of late,” he added with a glint of sardonic amusement. “Enough now. Get back to your cards.” And he vanished into the milling throng.
“What was that in aid of, I wonder,” Nick said musingly.
“Your father,” Thomas said, looking surprised. “Said so himself. Managed to be of service to Ulcombe, he said. Daresay he wants to pursue the acquaintance. Like my father said. Happens to him all the time. He’s surrounded by toadies.”
“But one can hardly think of Yarborne as a toady if he already has built nearly as great a reputation for good works as my father has.”
“Works too hard at it, and he’s dashed expensive, Yarborne is. He’s got his finger in a dozen pies besides his charities. I don’t like him much though, when all’s said and done. May be a warm man financially, but otherwise, he’s a cold fish if you ask me. Walks as if he’s soiled his smalls and can smell it. Ulcombe ain’t like that.”
“No, he’s not,” Nick agreed. “Have you aught to declare?” Thomas picked up the hand he had put down out of courtesy when Yarborne interrupted them, glanced at it, and said, “Point of five.”
“It’s good.” Nick sighed and poured a generous amount of brandy into his glass. His luck had clearly deserted him.
When Sir Geoffrey grabbed Melissa and pulled her across his knee, she went limp. She did not try to struggle or to fight him, focusing her energy instead on enduring the punishment, and on doing nothing more to fan his anger. Long ago she had learned that struggling produced dreadful consequences. In the terrible moments that followed, each stroke of the riding whip laid a line of fire across her body, but though she sobbed, she did not scream or cry, or stir from the humiliating position.
When he stopped at last, she remained exactly where he had placed her, tense and frightened, until he said grimly, “You may get up now, Melissa.”
She stood carefully, choking back sobs. Nine years had dimmed her memory of the pain he was capable of meting out. She had not remembered, either, how difficult it was to maintain an appearance of submission. She kept her eyelids cast down, knowing that to look at him would be foolhardy, since he might choose to read insolence or antipathy in her expression even if both were absent.
He said quietly, “I am sorry you forced me to be harsh with you, Melissa, but you ought to have remembered that I never tolerate disobedience.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“That is not a proper apology.”
“I am sorry I disobeyed you. P-please, forgive me.” She stared at the floor as she spoke, knowing that if she were to look at him now he would surely see her resentment. It was all
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