Chapter Sixteen.

Jarret had spent the past hour preparing for his meeting with Annabel. While changing into attire more suitable for a clandestine meeting with a lying harpy, he'd worked hard to wall off the part of himself that she'd softened over the past few days. He'd fought to obliterate from his memory all the things that had made him admire her-her patience toward Mrs. Lake and Geordie, her obvious loyalty to her family ... her seeming vulnerability that day in the barn.

That was the point-she'd seemed vulnerable, but she wasn't. Ever since dinner, he'd been going over the events of their trip, and he'd realized just how far she'd taken her subterfuge. Not only had she lied to him, but she'd convinced the rest of the family to lie, as well. She'd coaxed him into believing her scheme would work, all the while knowing that it rested on the uncertain state of her drunken brother. She'd even manufactured that little scene with the doctor at their home.

She'd made him believe in her. Worse yet, she'd made him out to be some untrustworthy rogue, when all the while she was the one who was untrustworthy. The more he'd thought about it the more his heart had frozen, until he was sure he was now immune to her smiles and half-truths.

Yet here she was, looking fragile and tired, her pet.i.te frame practically dwarfed by a wool cloak and her eyes haunted-and it threatened to destroy every wall he'd so carefully built.

d.a.m.n her to h.e.l.l. Why did she affect him like this? Why had he not yet learned that everything she said and did was for the benefit of her family's cursed brewery?

"You're early," she said in a low voice as she walked past him to the door.

"I am eager for the night's festivities to begin," he clipped out. "I want to have plenty of time to enjoy my ... winnings." He swept her with a deliberate glance to remind her of how he would take his revenge.

Instead of rousing a blush in her pale cheeks, it made anger flare in her eyes. "a.s.suming that you win, which is by no means certain."

She was always a fighter, and d.a.m.ned if that didn't arouse him.

He came up close behind her, taking petty satisfaction in the way her fingers fumbled with the keys. "It's certain enough."

Removing the key from her gloved hand, he bent past her to unlock the door. He could feel her tremble, which tugged at his conscience. With a muttered curse, he handed her the key and moved back.

"I beat you before," she said. "I can beat you again."

He snorted. "Do you know what they call me in the gaming h.e.l.ls of London?"

"c.o.c.ky?"

He suppressed a laugh. "The Prince of Piquet. I almost never lose."

She pushed the door open. "Then it sounds to me as if you have an unfair advantage. That's hardly gentlemanly of you."

"No, it's not," he agreed without an ounce of guilt as he entered behind her.

Shutting the door, she picked up a nearby flint and got the candle lit, then wedged it into a sconce. When she took off her wool cloak, he dragged in a harsh breath. She still wore her dinner gown, the one he'd wanted to rip off her with his teeth.

She faced him with a brittle expression, and it was all he could do not to shove her against the wall and kiss the coldness from her. But that would give her too much power over him.

"Perhaps we should choose a more level playing field." Defiance lit her features. "If you don't like two-handed whist, we can play Irish whist, as your friend Mr. Masters suggested. It can't be much different from regular whist, and if you explain the rules, I'm sure I could follow it."

A caustic laugh burst out of him. "Oh, I'm sure you could follow it very well." Giving her no warning, he caught her by the hips and hauled her close to press against his rapidly hardening c.o.c.k. "This is Irish whist, my dear." He thrust himself suggestively against her. "Where the jack takes the ace."

If he'd hoped to embarra.s.s her, he'd failed. She merely looked perplexed. "I don't understand. I can figure out what 'jack' refers to, but-"

"'Ace of spades' is cant for 'wh.o.r.e,'" he said bluntly, "because a spade resembles the triangle of dark hair between a woman's legs. Ergo, jack takes the ace."

Appalled, she shoved away from him. "Why is it called Irish whist?"

He shrugged. "h.e.l.l if I know. Probably because we English blame everything dirty on the Irish. 'Irish root' means a man's privates, for example, and 'Irish toothache' means a man's arousal."

A gentleman never said such things to a gently bred female, but tonight he wasn't feeling much like a gentleman. He half expected her to slap him for his crudeness, and hoped she would. He was spoiling for a fight.

"Lord, men are children," she said crisply. "Is that how you spend your time when women aren't around? Thinking up naughty terms for women's privates?"

Only Annabel would look at it that way. Forcing himself not to be charmed by that, he raked his gaze down to linger on that part of her. "When we're not thinking up ways to get into women's privates."

A hot rush of blood rose in her cheeks, and she whirled and headed for the coal grate. "We need some heat in here. I didn't have time to change out of my dinner gown."

"Good," he murmured as she bent to start the fire. "After I spent the entire evening imagining tearing that gown off of you, I'm looking forward to the reality."

Her back went rigid. "You're awfully sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"I always am."

When she turned her head, probably to rebuke him for his arrogance, she caught him staring at her nicely displayed a.r.s.e, and she straightened to glare at him. "You think I'm a wh.o.r.e now, don't you?"

That brought him up short. "Why would I think that?"

"Because of what I did with Rupert."

"One night of pa.s.sion with your 'true love' hardly qualifies you for status as a wh.o.r.e."

"Then why are you treating me differently?" she countered. "Why are you being so crude and saying such shocking things to me?"

Because he wanted her to feel the same shock he'd felt when he'd realized how she'd lied to him. Because it still gnawed at him that the fetching country la.s.s who'd enticed him had been toying with him only to get what she wanted. "You're the one who brought up Irish whist."

"It's not that. You're so cold, so angry."

Hurt bled through her words, driving a stake in his righteous anger. Yet he couldn't let it go. "Can you blame me? You lied to me."

"If I hadn't, you wouldn't have come here. I did what I had to."

"Just as you're doing now," he said icily.

She folded her arms over her stomach. "Yes."

"That's why I'm angry. I thought you were-"

"An innocent, chaste country girl?" she said bitterly.

"Honorable."

She glared at him. "I am honorable, curse you."

"Is that what you call wagering your body to save your brother's brewery?"

Her eyes spit fire. "You suggested that wager, not I."

"But you accepted it. And you were the one to suggest this wager tonight." He stepped closer. "Which makes me wonder if all those kisses and caresses between us were ever anything but a way to reel me in."

She jerked back with a horrified expression. "You think that I ... You actually believe I would ... You're daft! Surely you could tell I honestly desired you. It's not something a woman can pretend."

Satisfaction rose in him, despite his efforts to quell it. "Actually, it is something a woman can pretend."

Confusion spread over her face. "How?"

She was either the most accomplished actress he'd ever met, or she was inexperienced in matters of the bedchamber, despite her encounter with the heroic Rupert. He began to wonder if it might be the latter. And if it were ... "You really don't know?"

"What I know is that you initiated every one of our kisses. For someone who was attempting to 'reel you in,' I was rather clumsy at it."

Her unflappable logic drove a wedge in his defenses that none of her protests had been able to do. Because in truth, she hadn't pursued him; he'd pursued her. And if she'd been using her body to manipulate him, she'd have been better off tempting him to bed her so she could trap him into marriage. A little pig's blood, some feigned discomfort, and he wouldn't have known she was unchaste.

Instead, she'd tried to put him off after the barn.

"As for honor," she went on, her dander now fully up, "that is a luxury some people can't afford, my lord. But you wouldn't know that, down in London where you can spend your days gambling and drinking without a thought for anyone you harm."

"Harm?" His anger surged again. "Unlike your brother, I control my appet.i.tes."

"Do you? Then why are we here?"

The words were a punch to his gut. Why was he here? If he'd really thought her a coldhearted schemer, then why did he want to bed her?

Because he didn't want to believe that everything had been part of her scheming. Because it had mattered to him more than he cared to admit. But it hadn't mattered to her. Not enough to be truthful with him, anyway.

And that rubbed him raw.

"Touche, Annabel," he said softly. "I'm here because I want you. Because wanting you has clouded my judgment. The question is, why are you here?"

Her eyes went wide. "Because I want you to help us."

"And that is so important to you that you'd sell your body for it?"

She paled. "I'm not selling my body. It's a wager. I hope to win."

"Ah. And the fact that you might not?"

"Is a calculated risk."

Spoken like a worthy adversary. She found more candles and lit them from the first one. Walking over to the large desk, she placed the candles in holders, then sat down behind it, opposite the only other chair-the one with its back to the window.

He scowled. "Very clever of you, Annabel." He dragged the chair from in front of the desk around to the side. "But since that window is as good as a mirror, with no light behind it, I hope you don't mind if I alter the arrangements a bit."

She looked with bewilderment at the window. "Lord, I hadn't even noticed that."

"Right." He removed a pack of cards from his pocket and took his seat.

"I didn't! I would never cheat." As he raised an eyebrow and began to shuffle, she grumbled, "And it's not as if I could see anything in the gla.s.s behind you, with that thick head of yours blocking your cards."

He stifled a laugh. d.a.m.n, it was hard to stay mad at her when she was being so typically ... Annabel. And could he blame her if she really had thought to cheat? She might see it as the only way to get what she wanted. The only way to escape his bed.

That roused his anger all over again, but this time not at her. "Tell me, my dear, how long have you been doing whatever was necessary to save Lake Ale?"

She shot him a wary glance. "What do you mean?"

"Your brother inherited the company three years ago. Have you been hiding his incompetence ever since? Or did it start even before that?"

"Actually ..." She hesitated, then steadied her shoulders. "Actually, Hugh didn't inherit the brewery three years ago. Father left Lake Ale to his bachelor brother. His will left half the proceeds to us and the other half to our uncle, but Uncle actually owned it."

Jarret stopped shuffling. Such a thing just wasn't done in England. The rule of primogeniture was nearly absolute. A man left his property to his eldest son. If he didn't, there was something very, very wrong. "Why in G.o.d's name would your father do that?"

"A number of reasons. Hugh was never like Papa-he's a quiet man who prefers gentler pursuits. They clashed over everything. Hugh has a good mind for business, but he doesn't trust his own instincts, and Papa was a ... rather forceful personality. He was always berating Hugh for his lack of boldness. I suppose Papa thought we'd all be better off if Uncle ran the place and we reaped the benefits."

Setting the pack in front of her, Jarret asked, "Did Hugh see it that way?"

She stared down at the cards. "Hardly. He felt betrayed."

Of course he did. What would it do to a man, to know that his father couldn't even trust him with the family business?

The same thing it did to you as a child to know that Gran didn't want you running the brewery.

That old pain rose up to haunt him. Even now, Gran hadn't considered getting him to run the brewery until she'd fallen ill.

He scowled, angry at himself for even empathizing with Hugh Lake. The man was a drunk. Jarret was not.

No, he was a rootless gambler. So much better for running the family business.

A surge of irritation made him say flippantly, "Well, your brother clearly owns it now."

She cut the cards, showed him her card, then handed them back. "Yes, because my uncle died a bachelor, and he had made Hugh his heir. So Hugh got it anyway."

Jarret cut the cards and won the cut. He let her deal, since there was some advantage in having his opponent deal first. "Is that when he started drinking?"

"No. He managed fairly well until the Russian market dried up." With an economy of motion he seldom saw in women players, she dealt the cards. "And the more he tried to wrest Lake Ale-unsuccessfully-from financial disaster, the more he felt like a failure. That's when he began to drink."

Jarret had to wonder how he would have reacted in such a situation. And the very fact that he wondered angered him. "Are you saying all this to garner my sympathy for your brother?" And for you?

"I'm merely answering your question." She picked up her cards. "Besides, I thought you should know that Hugh isn't at fault for my lies. He believed we'd gone to London to look at schools for Geordie."

That bit of information startled him. "He didn't know anything about your plan?"

"He suggested pursuing the India market, but the only time he met with the East India Company captains, it ended badly. He never pursued it again, sure that he would fail. Sissy and I hoped that if we could get Plumtree Brewery involved, it would give him the confidence to pursue it further."