Page 15 of House of Thorns
Chapter Five
Blackmailed
Nicholas balanced his chair on its two back legs in the dimly lit card room. He scarcely noticed the cards in his hand. He had women on his mind. Two, to be exact—opposites in the extreme.
Foremost was the chit, Olivia. Deborah’s cousin. The harridan who had authored the letter that had dragged him from his friend’s house party in Culzean Castle, and back down to Glasgow. What had she called him? Ah, yes, a spineless coward and a scoundrel absconding responsibility for the pursuit of pleasure, a man thinking more with his base parts than with his brain.
He winced. The words hit closer to home than he cared to admit—especially since he couldn’t stop thinking of the redhead he’d kissed in his mother’s garden. Since he’d left Wedderburn Manor, he’d wanted no one else. Nowtherewas a tempting vixen, a bonny, unforgettable lass, one entirely different from Deborah’s shrew of a cousin.
“Abandon?” Lord Fredrick’s voice boomed through his thoughts. “Play?”
Nicholas glanced up.
Lord Fredrick sat across the table puffing his cheroot in long, vigorous pulls.
The thin wisps of smoke spiraled over his head in mesmerizing circles, calling Nicholas back to his thoughts like a siren.
By George, he’d never touched Deborah in his life. He hadn’t even seen the lass in two years—maybe longer. Even then, she’d never caught his eye. He didn’t care for the timid types. He liked his women capricious, strong-willed, surprising. Nay, Deborah was too timorous to dream up this mad scheme. This was clearly the work of her cousin—no doubt, she wanted to extort him.
“Which is it, lad? Abandon or play?” Lord Fredrick’s voice held a hint of dry amusement.
Nicholas flipped his cards with his thumb, slammed his chair down, then dropped his hand on the table with a grunt.
A chuckle circled the table.
“You’ve lost again, Blair.”
“You’re off your game. Oh, that I’ve lived to see the day.”
Nicholas exhaled through his nose. Devil take it, had he really lost again? That made every game of Three-Card Loo that night.
He stood and cocked a brow at the mahogany paneling closing around him. He felt trapped. Surprisingly, not by the chit who had authored the scathing letter, but by the sheer monotony of the endless parties, the card games, and even the vapid women with whom he kept company.
A bagpipe blared an Irish reel on the other side of the tavern’s backroom door. A wave of laughter followed, along with the thump of dancing feet. Simple pleasures. A song. A dance. A woman, hearth, and home. Children.
Damnation. What was he thinking?
For the first time, he noticed the men around the table, watching him in overt amusement.
“Och, you’ve a woman on your mind now, haven’t you?” Lord Fredrick chuckled and took another puff on his cheroot.
Nicholas shrugged. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
A footman handed him his hat and coat at the door. Then, he left the card room, pushed through the throng of dancers and out into the crisp, night air.
“A ride, my lord?” a man called from a parked coach. “Two shillings to Parsonage Square.”
Nicholas shook his head and turned down the darkened street.
He was a block away from his residence of choice whenever he stayed in Glasgow: Madame Prescott’s House of Pleasure. Almost two weeks had come and gone since he’d last enjoyed Demelza’s company.
The maid saw him coming and opened the door.
“You’ve returned, my lord.” Demelza was there, running her hands over his shoulders, just as he liked, yet strangely, even more than the last time, he felt no response.
Perhaps he was just tired.
“A game of cards?” she asked. “Wine? Whisky?”
