"You think I win women every day?" He looked amused. The bauble spun.

"-and," she forged on, the fury from the hall giving way to nerves once more, as she realized exactly what she had done in her sudden unladylike rage. Now locked in a room with this man, alone. "Perhaps we might be able to come to our own terms in the matter."

"Our own terms?" he asked lazily. The expression around his eyes was still intense, but . . . hooded, less open, than it had been when they'd been alone in the hall. "You want to renegotiate the bet? You think that a man would resist the bet as it is already stated, explicitly and implicitly?"

She squared her chin. Folly to have even broached the subject. And something inside of her seemed to have disconnected from her usual comforting coolness. "Very well." She reached down and lifted her right foot to remove her slipper, balancing with her left hand upon the stiff, ornate chair.

"I have to admit that I think it also a shame to hide what are undoubtedly equally lovely ankles," he said, his voice smoothed bark. "But must confess myself perplexed by the action."

"I am simply making matters easier for you," she said as calmly as she could muster within this odd new emotional state, as if she had been stripped and bared of a second cloak she had never fully understood was there. She slipped her foot from her shoe.

He raised a brow, rocked his chair back, and wrapped his hand around a decanter on a side table along the wall. "Easier for me?"

"I am not so naive as you think me, sir." She dropped her other slipper to the floor.

"I don't recall expressing my thoughts on your naivete."

"Nevertheless, you undoubtedly think you have a shy virgin"-she tried not to react like one-"on your hands-"

"Indeed," he murmured, the edges of his mouth curving.

"-and I'm not one to hedge."

"I'm more of an all-in player myself." The front legs of his chair reconnected with the floor, and the smile reached his eyes, but they were alert all the same. She had the curious notion that she had taken him by surprise.

"It was a foolish thought to try to negotiate, and I don't plan to physically fight. Or to play stupid or coy. My father lost. I am paying his debt."

He eyed her for a long moment, then poured a brown liquid into two gla.s.ses, motioning for her to sit. "Have you had to do so before?"

She smiled tightly and continued to stand, now shoeless and trying to hide her fear. Even here, about to lose the last semblance of her innocence and edge toward the meaning in truth, she didn't like being called a doxy. "No."

"I wouldn't hold it against you if you had. Though I'd lose even more respect for your father." She thought she caught an edge of distaste in his eyes as he capped the crystal.

"My father is not a bad man. He is-" The rest of the possible endings to that sentence-he is desperate, he has fallen on hard times, he is loving despite it all-lodged in her chest, unable to form. She cleared her throat. "He is too fond of gambling. I'm sure that he and his kindred spirits help you greatly."

She motioned to the unexpected accents in the room-the expensive and the exotic. "Their losses fill your pockets. Their stupidity overflows your coffers."

"It's the truth." His smile was lazy once more, and he pushed a quarter-filled gla.s.s across the table. "We find their generosity an onerous burden, but we deal with the weight."

She narrowed her eyes, not appreciating the jest.

He motioned toward the seat of the chair again. "Sit. Please."

The "please" wasn't exactly an order, nor was it a simple courtesy. She had a feeling that he rarely needed to ask for things.

"Would you rather not satisfy the wager and be done?" Then she could return home and forget everything-or try to.

She couldn't meet his eyes as she finished. As her thoughts caught up.

Negotiating? Forgetting that the man across from her was mercurial at best. Teasing Trant and her father into rabid anger-no sane person would do such a thing-while retaining that piercing quality to his eyes, the one that said he could easily eliminate all of them, if he chose.

Mercurial . . . maybe even unstable.

If she offended or angered him, it was possible she'd never see the light of day.

She looked up, unprepared for her fate no matter how much she wanted to pretend otherwise, but he appeared simply amused.

"The wager was for an entire night of your company. And I'd be a terrible host if I didn't offer you some spirits to lift yours. Sit. Please."

There it was again. The silky order, belying that she had a choice.

She stiffly sat.

"I find it quite complimentary for you to offer to pay the implied terms of your father's debt so promptly and with such zeal."

She couldn't decipher whether the sarcasm on the last word was for her lack of-or presence of-zealotry. She had just offered herself up coldly and abruptly after all.

"Perhaps you would care to make a bet yourself?" he said, idly twirling the liquid in his gla.s.s.

She wanted to negotiate. She knew far too well what happened to people who continued to bet, thinking they could turn a win on a losing streak. "Under the circ.u.mstances, betting would hardly seem wise."

"But you might win."

"The odds of that are highly unlikely. This is your business after all, is it not?"

"One of them." His lips spread easily. "But everyone has a lucky day." He made a careless motion with his gla.s.s, the liquid sloshing inside. "It's what sparks the obsession."

Anger surged within her. Anger at her father, her predicament, at everything around her. "And what would I bet, Mr. Merrick?" she asked curtly.

"Roman. And you have plenty to offer, Charlotte. May I call you Charlotte?"

She could hardly credit that he was asking her permission. Then again, on the face of it he seemed to be one for charming something out of a person before using force. She'd bet that nineteen times out of twenty it worked too.

That he would secure what he wanted, regardless of the eventual method, hung in the very air around him.

"Mr. Merrick-"

"Roman."

"What might I possibly possess that would be of interest to you? You are hardly in need of more money-"

He smiled. "Every man is in need of more money."

"Then I must confess now that we have none. Which means my father was betting everything on a very large pot. You must have surely won a good sum the other night."

"I'll have you know, I donated all of Trant's monetary losses in that hand-nearly twelve thousand-to the Orphans of Liberty."

She stared at him, unable to comprehend the amounts of money her father played and squandered. "Indeed."

An angelic expression graced his face. "They needed the funds."

"I find your attempt at humor vulgar."

He clutched a hand over his heart, the other continuing to swirl the liquid nonchalantly. "Maligned without cause."

Donated more than twelve thousand pounds to a fund for orphans-did he think her stupid? "I hardly think without cause. Besides, I've done work with that charity, and I've never heard your name mentioned as a donor."

He smiled lazily. "And called on my crockery. Starting at such a deep deficit just makes the game far more interesting."

"You find this a game?"

"I find you a diversion too entertaining to pa.s.s up."

"I am hardly that interesting."

"Men do not compose ballads to you night and day?"

Her lips thinned into a strained smile. "I don't know why you'd be interested."

"No?"

"I doubt you lack female companionship." There was no way the women in the retiring room had been giggling over the other Merrick. He had been far from unattractive, but he was not the sort of man over whom one giggled. A charming rogue-that was the type of man who caused unknown hearts to flutter.

And the man in front of her seemed to switch easily from charming rogue to lethal killer at will.

"You say that as if I would grab the nearest woman who winked in my direction."

"I'm merely pointing out that you have little reason to find me a game or challenge."

"You don't think yourself beautiful-beauty so uncommon as to cause comment?"

She felt the cold pit open. "I have been told such by men before, yes."

He tilted his head. "But you do not think that of yourself?"

She lowered her eyes. She could claim modesty with the look instead of simply trying to hide her expression. "I see the lines of my face. Symmetrical, with eyes shaped the way men seem to enjoy. I know my hair is the desired color. I've been told I have pleasing lips and chin. And our seamstress gives us a discount just so she can continue to clothe me." With gowns well above their means even then.

"So you know you are beautiful."

Each day she looked into the mirror and saw a beautiful portrait. Perfectly motionless. Frozen in time.

She met his eyes. "Yes."

"So why wouldn't I be interested in you?"

She smiled, the social smile she had long perfected. "Of course. My apologies, Mr. Merrick."

"If you call me Mr. Merrick again, you won't be able to sit for a week." There was a teasing quality to his words, but she froze all the same.

"Of course. My apologies, Roman." His name formed strangely about her lips and tongue, curling into the top of her palate. "I will not forget myself again."

The edges of his eyes creased. Irritation. She had provoked him. Did she desire to be harmed? His eyes were unreadable as he lifted the gla.s.s of amber liquid to his mouth.

The words slipped from her without her consent. "I will do as you say. As offered upon entering the room. I'd rather not end up like the woman in the hall."

Everything about him stilled. The half-empty gla.s.s hung in the air, freed from his beautiful lips. He didn't respond for a long moment. "You fear I will cut you?"

Damage her beauty. There was an uncomfortable thread deep within her that hungered for the freedom from it no matter the cost.

She met his eyes, lifted her chin. "I can beg you not to, of course. Quite prettily, I a.s.sure you."

His eyes shuttered. "You think I did that to her? Slashed her?"

She looked at the thin, faded scar that curved down his cheek and around the back of his neck. She hadn't noticed before that it continued around his throat. She wondered how he had survived the wound.

"I don't know, Mr. Merrick. And if you didn't, then I have probably insulted you greatly." Her throat felt raw, it was hard to swallow. "But I know little about you." She wished she had listened more closely to the gossip. Wished she had contacted Miranda and d.a.m.ned her pride. "And though the eyes can be deceived, they are all I have to go on."

His fingers gripped the gla.s.s-knuckles turning white before loosening. He tipped his head, any amus.e.m.e.nt completely gone. "I will never harm you, Miss Chatsworth. Of that you have my word."

She said nothing for a long moment, their eyes linked. Then she nodded. But she didn't have any reason to believe him, and the further tilt of his head seemed to acknowledge that.

"And I did not do that to Marie. Noakes did."

She felt a rush of emotion over that statement. Relief, anger, curiosity-caution that he wasn't telling the truth-that it was a convenient tale.

"Did you kill him?"

One eyebrow lifted. "Do you really wish to know?"

A part of her did, in truth, but she said nothing. He pushed the other gla.s.s closer to her. "Here. Drink this. I promise it isn't poisoned; nor will it incapacitate you in sotted glory. You will feel better."

She grabbed the gla.s.s in shaking hands and tossed the liquid back as if she'd done so a thousand times previous. The spicy drink burned as it coursed down her throat, and she gave a slight cough. A trail of warmth spread down her neck and pooled in her stomach, spreading tendrils through her midsection.

"One-eye's specialty. Perfect for the appearance of drinking true spirits. Especially for when a man-or woman-needs to keep his wits while feigning the opposite, since men tend to get suspicious of other men with empty hands."

The thought that he had just told her something she could use against him gave her pause. She wondered if it would make a difference if people knew that he might not be consuming alcohol when he played against them.

He watched her, as if he knew what she was thinking. "Best not to ask what it is made of though." He swirled what was remaining in his gla.s.s. "Feel better?"

An automatic response in the affirmative formed to placate him, but she realized that she did feel calmer.

He smiled knowingly. "Back to the question of why I'd be interested . . . it is a good one. For I know many things about you, and yet nothing about you at all, do I?"

He seemed to imply with the statement that he did somehow know her beyond what he might have heard from others. Her stomach tightened at the thought that he was separating her real self from the one she presented to the world. Her eyes narrowed automatically, too used to calling upon pride to react with lingering fear instead. She allowed him to pour more of the liquid into her gla.s.s.

"And though I find you beautiful, I understand what it is like to rely on beauty and know the shallowness of it." His eyes were lazy, but there was a sharp point there in the center, acknowledging her. "Yet, it is impossible to say if you would have caught my attention the first time had you been plain and wrapped in brown. Thus remains the endless dilemma of beauty's impressionable curse."

"The first time?"