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  Or touch it often. She hadn’t quite decided yet which was a more enjoyable state.

  Lord Reggard chuckled. “Maybe. But I don’t think so. I think the meat will age properly, patiently, and be quite ready for me when I come for it.”

  She gave him a wicked smile. “Or it will go rancid out of sheer boredom waiting to be devoured. Especially when there is no proof of intention.”

  His mouth quirked into a partial smile. “No proof of intention?”

  The giddiness in her head commandeering all good sense, Liv nodded.

  He leaned forward, the air around him swallowing her, wrapping her, becoming her whole world. He paused for only a moment before his lips found hers.

  For as large as he was, she recognized instantly his lips fit perfectly against hers—soft, slightly tangy from the punch he must have also sipped. It warmed her body down to her toes—in a way the punch could never hope to do.

  The kiss so quick and so very new upon her, she kept her eyes open, taking in every specific, individual sense—smell, sight, touch, sound, flutter in her belly—and locking it into her memory.

  His mouth opened against hers, his tongue slipping past her teeth, tasting her. Liv’s eyes closed, surrendering to his mastery. A kiss that reached so deeply into her soul, she could feel it mark her, for all of time, as his.

  He drew away slowly, that same smile that transformed his face playing along his lips. His eyebrow cocked in question. “Proof?”

  The edges of her lips curled up as her mouth opened, breathless. She opened her eyes to meet his and offered one nod to his question. “Proof.”

  { Chapter 2 }

  London

  November, 1822

  “Is that the woman?”

  Tieran’s look swung to his late wife’s great aunt. Aunt Penelope sat in the center of a settee upholstered with embroidered rosebuds, jabbing her cane in the air, her wrinkled hand clutching the gold gilded pigeon that topped the stick of wood.

  He blinked the bleariness from his eyes. “What woman?”

  Her eyes didn’t veer from the crowd across the room in Lady Desmond’s gambling house. “The one you were engaged to before leaving for the war.”

  Tieran swiveled on his side chair, his eyes jerking through the crowd, searching.

  The cane cracked against his shins, instant pain running up his legs.

  Damn her. She was uncannily strong for her advanced age.

  “Keep your head on straight, Reggard. You look the ostrich. And those are gruesome birds—nothing to recommend them.”

  “I understand their meat is tasty,” he said out of the side of his mouth, his eyes still mining through the crowd.

  There.

  Dark hair, pinned high to perfection and wrapped with a simple black braided band, bobbed above the heads of several men.

  His breath held, he followed the dark hair.

  The woman turned, her profile in view. Perfectly proportioned nose. High cheekbones. Full lips. Dark eyes.

  Hell.

  It was her. Liv.

  And Aunt Penelope knew exactly who she was.

  “You spotted her—I can see it in your eyes, Reggard.”

  Taking care to set his face to neutral, Tieran looked back to Aunt Penelope. “What do you know of her?”

  “I know who she is.” Aunt Penelope settled both of her hands atop her cane as she looked into the far crowd. “Rachel told me.”

  Tieran’s eyes flew to the ceiling, his words muttered. “Did my wife not keep any of our marriage private from you?”

  “Do not toss your eyeballs to the sky at me, Reggard. Rachel was nervous, that is all. What wife wouldn’t be with that beauty in the room?”

  He shook his head, refusing to turn and look into the crowd once more. “I never once spoke of her beauty to Rachel. I never would have disrespected my wife so. I didn’t even want to tell Rachel who the woman was.”

  “But you did. And my Rachel had eyes, dear boy. That is all it took to recognize the woman her husband once loved was Aphrodite reborn.”

  Tieran grunted. “Aphrodite with the heart of Judas.”

  Aunt Penelope cackled, pounding the tip of her cane on the wood floor. “Beauty can conceal much, Reggard. That was what I told Rachel.”

  He nodded, taking a long swallow of port, and then balanced the glass on the arm of the chair, two fingers holding it upright. He looked over to Aunt Penelope. “Did she believe you?”

  Dammit. Why had he even asked? Rachel was dead. Had been for two years. What did it matter if he had inadvertently hurt her feelings when they were first married? He loved her. She knew that. She knew it until her last breath.

  But still.

  That he had ever made her wonder or doubt that he adored her—the thought sent a bolt of guilt into his chest, making it tighten. He could not stomach the thought that he had ever made Rachel feel like less than the beloved wife she was.

  “She did.” Aunt Penelope tapped the toe of his boot with her cane to pull his attention back to her. “You know as well as I that, for as gentle as Rachel was, she was built with a stern backbone. But that is neither here nor there, God rest my dear niece’s soul.”

  Tieran lifted his glass again, tipping it back and draining the contents. He needed another.

  He hadn’t wanted to come to the blasted event with Aunt Penelope, but she had insisted. It fit his purpose for the evening, but he had hoped to find a dark corner where he could scowl away all but the densest acquaintances.

  But Aunt Penelope had been persistent. Lady Desmond only opened her gambling house once a fortnight, and Aunt Penelope insisted this was the night she was going to win so much coin at the tables that she would need an escort home, for fear of being robbed.

  As it was, she lost all her stash of money within the first hour.

  And now Tieran was stuck with her in the middle of the crush, moored in memories of the past.

  One more drink—maybe three—and then he could send Aunt Penelope home, no guard needed.

  Her cane lifted in front of him, pointing to the crowd gathered around gambling tables on the far side of Lady Desmond’s ballroom. “A shame about her husband passing. Lord Canton was a fine gentleman. And I am still waiting for the trollop to shed her widow’s weeds—I won’t get paid that enormous pot until she does.”

  Just as he was about to excuse himself to gather another drink, Aunt Penelope’s words stopped him. Tieran sank back into the chair, looking to her, his eyebrows high. “You bet on when Lady Canton would stop wearing black with the dragons?”

  “Do not look so incredulous, Reggard. It is common fodder amongst my friends—innocent entertainment to pass the time.”

  Tieran rubbed his eyes, clamping down on his tongue. Aunt Penelope was always going to do exactly as she pleased. “So why have you not won?”

  “I had Lady Canton pegged at one year and nine months to shed the black—I gave the tart the longest margin by far. Why Doreen, for heaven’s sake, had placed her coin on three months for her to move on to half-mourning—ridiculous. Lady Canton is keen on flaunting her disregard of society’s expectations, but even she would not stoop so low as to shed widow’s weeds at three months.”

  “Yet it has been three years since Lord Canton died, so why have you not collected?” Tieran asked, his voice dry.

  Her cane swung in a wide arc before hitting the floorboards. “Exactly, Reggard. Why haven’t I collected? We surpassed my bet long ago—so I have every right to collect—no?”

  Tieran shrugged, attempting to dismiss the sour taste settling into his mouth. He didn’t exactly want to be privy to the morbid fact that Aunt Penelope and her dragons were now betting upon lengths of grieving.

  “Yet Edith insists I do not officially win until Lady Canton sheds the widow’s weeds and officially moves to color—the old bat thinks to keep her coin by dragging this out—that I will die and be buried before Lady Canton appears in anything but black.”

  He rubbed his eyes ag
ain, looking up at a passing couple, the woman clinking coins in her hand as they scoured the room for their next game of chance. His eyes trailed after them—the woman’s hand tight to the crook of her husband’s arm as she looked up at him. Rachel used to look at him like that.

  His mouth opened. “Pray tell me you did not bet on the longevity of my grief as well, Aunt Penelope.”

  “Of course not, Reggard—and I would not allow the dragons to do so either. It is not amusing entertainment if you actually know the person.” She waved her hand in the air, the jostle shifting the orange turban on her head askew. “Besides, you have always worn black, and only black, so it would have been impossible to determine a winner.”

  His look snapped to her.

  “And I know you loved, Rachel, my boy. I would not cheapen that.” Her voice went gruff as she straightened her turban. “I am aware you would have gladly given your life for hers.”

  Her words as close to an apology as she would ever come, Tieran nodded. “You can tell that same fact to your nephew.”

  “Fletcher is still holding to his grudge? That boy is stubborn beyond belief.”

  “You raised him.”

  “Yes, and I apparently gave him far too wide a margin when he was young. But the curse limits his time on this earth, so what is the harm?”

  Tieran grit his teeth, holding back his response. What harm? Only a brother-in-law that wanted to kill him at every turn.

  “There is a woman Fletcher wants me to meet,” Aunt Penelope said.

  That got Tieran’s attention. “Who is she?”

  “I do not know yet. He is being very mysterious about her. The very first one he has ever brought to me. You should meet her as well when the time comes.”

  “I don’t see why. Lockston hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you, Reggard.”

  “I killed his sister.”

  Her cane slammed onto the ground. “You need to stop saying that out loud. Think it—fine. But never say it. It is a stupid sentiment. You say it enough times, it becomes truth. Truth for you. Truth for Fletcher.” She lifted the cane, poking his thigh with it. “Stupid is not truth. Stupid is stupid. What happened to Rachel is nature, boy—it happens hundreds of times over every day in this world. You think you are the first? The first to feel the pain of losing a wife? Losing a babe?”

  Tieran glared at her. Aunt Penelope had never held her tongue with him, and he had always admired her for it—until this very moment. She had no right to dismiss his grief. To dismiss his guilt with the flip of her cane. It was his unborn babe that had been too large for Rachel’s body. He had killed her just as sure as he had stuck a knife in her gut.

  “Forgive me for actually feeling the loss of my wife.”

  “Do not dare to pin me as callous, Reggard. I loved Rachel as my own.”

  “I think it is time we take our leave.” His voice growled, barely in control. “We have stayed for too long.”

  “And you have grieved for too long, Reggard.”

  His look pierced her. “Be very careful how you proceed at this moment, Aunt Penelope.”

  Her weathered cane flipped in an arc, dismissing his snarl. “I proceed as I see fit.” She smiled, spotting someone over Tieran’s shoulder. “And there is my auxiliary plan—the dowager duchess has finally arrived with reinforcements.”

  “Reinforcements?” Tieran glanced over his shoulder to see one of Aunt Penelope’s friends making her way through the crowd, carrying a swinging fat reticule that looked swollen with jingling coins.

  “Coin enough to last the night.” Aunt Penelope wobbled, her frail bones lifting her onto her feet, her cane digging into the floor in front of her. “Make yourself comfortable, Reggard, you cannot escape this torture quite yet.”

  She shuffled off, meeting the dowager duchess with a smile, pushing her turban into place.

  ~~~

  Liv stared at the dice on the purple velvet of the hazard table before her.

  She had gotten good at this.

  Making sure her fingers didn’t quiver when they picked up the small cubes of wood. Her face a mask of indifference. Her breath even, never a gasp of delight or disappointment passing her lips.

  She glanced up at Lord Fodler, the only other one left at the table. He masked nothing.

  Red splotches had exploded on his brow, magnified by the strains of sweat he kept rubbing at with the butt of his palm. His thin lips drew in again and again, smacking, impatient.

  His reaction alone told her he had no business betting off the last shreds of his estate against a woman. Yet there he was, the scraps of a five-hundred-year-old fortune sitting on the table in front of him.

  Her eyes demurely downcast, Liv elongated the moment as long as she dared. Let him writhe in his torture. The man deserved it. Deserved every piece of destruction she would deliver to him. Tonight, or the next night, or the next night. However long it would take. She would deliver it to him.

  She could afford to lose a fortune twenty times over. Lord Fodler could not.

  Liv’s fingers slid over the purple velvet—purple, because Lady Desmond liked to be different and thoroughly embraced with flair the running of a fortnightly gaming hall in her home. Liv wasn’t sure if, being a widow, Lady Desmond needed the extra income, or if she just enjoyed the drama, but either way, she was the fairest of hostesses. Members of both sexes were welcome at her tables equally, and Liv had waited a long time for Lord Fodler to come to gamble at one of Lady Desmond’s events.

  Liv picked up the dice, shaking them. They clinked effortlessly in her palm, slipping along the exquisite silk of her gloves.

  The murmurs of the crowd surrounding the table hushed, every breath held, waiting for the dice to roll.

  Liv flung open her fingers, freeing the dice to fly. The first landed solidly onto the six side.

  She swallowed the gasp in her throat. Odds against her, she had set on six only to draw Lord Fodler into his last bet. But now she was halfway there.

  The second die tumbled—three—one—five—and then fell into a spin on its corner until it wavered, slowly dropping.

  Six.

  Twelve combined.

  The table was hers.

  And with it, the entire destruction of Lord Fodler’s estate.

  The crowd, now six people deep in spots, erupted. Laughter, jeers, hisses. A cacophony of reactions, if ever there was one. Liv didn’t offer the slightest glance at the crowd.

  Her chest expanded with giddiness, yet Liv simply leaned over the table, her eyes still downward, her stoic face unfaltering, and she began to collect the notes and coins off the purple velvet. The board partially cleared, she did afford herself the tiniest peek upward at Lord Fodler.

  The red splotches had disappeared, not a speck of color left in his ashen face. His jaw had dropped, quivering. He was either overwhelmed with shock, or was attempting very hard not to fall into tears.

  Not only had he lost every last bit of his fortune—he had lost it to a woman.

  Ruin like no other.

  “Well played, Lady Canton. Most impressive.” The creamy bust of Lady Desmond dipped into Liv’s downcast view as she helped Liv to collect the far markers.

  With Lady Desmond between them, Liv stole another glance at Lord Fodler. His shock was quickly morphing into rage. She gave quick thanks that it was here in Lady Desmond’s establishment that she finally bested Lord Fodler. The widow’s gaming house was not only fair, it was also one of the safest places Liv had gambled in.

  Yet she knew she might be in trouble tonight. Fury had already mottled Lord Fodler’s face, and he had little regard for life—that she knew too well. She would do well to exit Lady Desmond’s townhouse with haste, before Fodler found a way to act upon his rage.

  “You have given the crowd quite a show, Lady Canton,” Lady Desmond said, setting a pile of coins and notes in front of Liv. “And I do have to thank you for that. My coffers will be more than brimming over the next months. Scandal does
breed good business, I have found.”

  Liv smiled up at Lady Desmond. “Then we have both been fortunate tonight.”

  Lady Desmond motioned to the pile in front of Liv. “Shall I gather these and secure them for you?”

  “Yes, please, that would be a help.”

  The whirlwind of chatter created a din in the enormous drawing room adjacent to the ballroom as the crowd began dispersing throughout the floor. Liv glanced up, noting the flush in the cheeks of the patrons, the animation of their hands. Gossip abounding. Lord Fodler’s humiliation building.

  Then she noticed it—one head high above the height of most of the crowd. A head, a body that did not move. Eyes. Eyes of blue that matched the deep, dark crevices of a sweet violet in springtime. Eyes that questioned her. Beseeched her. Judged her.

  Eyes she hadn’t seen in years.

  Tieran.

  She had spotted him several times throughout the years. Passing on the far ends of the same ballroom. A glimpse once, on Bond Street. In opposite boxes at His Majesty’s Theatre.

  But every time Liv had spied him, it was his back or the side of his face—and he was always turning away. Turning away as though he had already seen her and was well on his way to remove her from his sight.

  And Liv had never allowed herself to be disrespectful to Tieran’s wife by approaching him. She had married. He had followed suit. Both of them had taken oaths. Plus, she had seen Tieran with his wife—he was a happy, doting husband—and Liv refused to complicate his life or his marriage just to assuage her own regrets.

  But now, in that very moment—across the table and far above Lord Fodler’s shaking head—was the first time Tieran’s unmistakable blue eyes were pinned on her since he had left for the war. And they did not even begin to flicker away once she met his gaze.

  The harsh condemnation, thick in his look, twisted her belly. Ravaged it more viciously than the game of hazard she had just played.

  Lady Desmond leaned down, her voice low in Liv’s ear. “Lady Canton, would you like an escort to your residence? I can lend you several of my guards.”