Page 248 of Dukes for Dessert

“Adam!” she squealed as they entered the billiard room. “The table is here!”

He grinned at her. “Merry Christmas.”

She threw herself in his arms. He swung her in a circle as he kissed her. They both knew it wasn’t her table. They both also knew he wouldn’t even be here for most of the year to enjoy it. And yet its shining presence in his cottage made him feel like they’d fought a battle side-by-side and emerged victorious.

He deposited her next to the cabinet and handed her a mace. “Here. Turn me into a genius.”

“First lesson, genius…” She returned the mace to the cabinet and withdrew a cue instead. “Don’t assume all women only play with the mace.”

The back of his neck heated. “Duly noted.”

“Additionally note that if you invite a woman to play and she does choose a mace, you must do the same. Both weapons must match.”

He frowned. “Which is better?”

“That depends on the player. A billiards mace is a blunt object. Easy to wield, hard to control. Cues afford much greater precision—if one knows how to use them.” Her eyes shone with mischievousness. “A woman might choose the mace as a tactical advantage. The gentleman is unlikely to have practiced with one, making him clumsy and inaccurate. If she has practiced, she’ll win.”

Adam stared at the cues and maces in his cabinet. They hadn’t even started playing yet and already the first decision appeared to be between two items that were simultaneously better and worse than each other.

“Owning a billiard room will be no help if all you’re going to do is stand about glaring at your equipment.” She handed him a cue. “Some men ‘chalk’ the leather tip by smashing it overhead against the plaster. We are not barbarians. We use chalk.”

He accepted a piece and copied her movements.

“Don’t chalk over the baize. Dust will get everywhere. Don’t knock your cue against the table for the same reason.” She ran her fingers lightly over the edge of the billiard table, then grinned up at him. “I can scarcely credit that I’ll be the first person to play on this table. It feels like history being made.”

“It is history,” he assured her. “It’s the first time you’re playing on this table, and the first time I’m playing on any table. We should commission a plaque. Or some kind of statue.”

“I drew you a sketch. That’s good enough. We can talk about trophies when you start scoring points.” She arranged the two ivory balls and single red ball on the table. “Watch. It works like this.”

For the next hour, she patiently showed him basic shot after basic shot, repeating the same movements dozens of times and then demanding the same from him.

It might have been easier to concentrate on the instructions if she hadn’t placed her hands just below his waistband to arrange his stance, or settled her hands over his to guide his shot. With Carole’s soft, curvy body brushing against his at every turn, Adam had about as much chance of flying to the moon as managing to hit the right cue ball.

Between shots, he tried to conceal his fractured concentration by jotting notes in a special journal he’d purchased just for this reason, but capturing a motion in words proved impossible. Once she realized what he was about, she took pity on him—and took control of the journal. After explaining each shot, she’d sketch the table in his book, complete with all three balls, the correct position of the cue, and little arcing arrows with notations as to the proper angles for each shot.

Adam nodded sagely and tried to pretend he could feel the difference between a twenty-degree angle and a thirty-degree angle, but mostly he was doing his best just to hit the ball he was aiming for.

“My cue ball has a black dot,” she explained. “Yours does not. If this was an actual game, we would score ‘cannons’ by knocking our cue ball into the red ball and the other ball, in any order.”

He frowned. “They don’t have to go into the pockets?”

“Not for a cannon. You’re thinking of hazards.” She demonstrated. “A ‘winning hazard’ means potting the red ball by striking it with your cue ball. That shot is worth slightly more than using your cue ball to pot your opponent’s.”

“How much more?”

“That depends.” She shrugged. “There is no official rulebook. Players agree on points and rules before they begin. In my experience, potting the opponent’s cue and making a cannon are each worth two points. Potting the red ball is three. Fouls subtract two in my family, but many players add two to the opponent’s score instead. And then there are ‘losing hazards.’”

“How many points do ‘losing hazards’ take away?”

“None. Striking your cue into your opponent’s so that you pot your own ball is two points. Doing it to the red one is three. You keep going until there are no balls or you make a foul, such as hitting no balls at all or making more than fifteen hazards in a row. Understand?”

He stared at the table in bafflement. “Clear as crystal.”

She burst out laughing. “Don’t worry. I remember what it felt like not to understand how anything worked. Back then, I could barely lift my own cue.” She gave him a crooked grin. “You can do this. Put down the journal. Take a shot.”

“At the House of Lords, I feel invincible and all-knowing,” he grumbled as he lined up what he hoped was a cannon. “Essentially the opposite of how I feel at this moment.”

“Proficiency comes with practice,” she said as she returned the balls to their original position and motioned for him to start again. “I doubt you were the Dukest of All Dukes your very first day in Parliament.”

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