Page 46 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
An hour or more later, she sat at a circular table in the card room and trained her eyes on her hand. Yet she felt Tate’s gaze fall on her. The heat she’d glimpsed in his jade eyes resurrected the blaze she’d felt years ago when first she fell in love with him. She was naïve and just turned sixteen. He was a dashing twenty-one.
That was lifetimes ago. When his father was alive. When the man ran the Appleby estate into neglected ruin and debt. Before his father demanded Tate marry for money.
She shifted in her chair. Her eyes fell closed. She’d loved Tate forever and played no coy girl when he needed a friend and a confidante. That he discovered she was a young woman who adored him had astonished him. But he had taken her in hisarms and kissed her with such tenderness that she remembered the feel of him, the might of him, the kindness of his claim for many, many years. Yet, all too soon, he was gone. He had been told to marry a stranger whose fortune allowed him to buy plows and horses, repair tenants’ cottages, build bridges, and improve roads.
Did he care for her as a friend? Or someone to love and cherish? She’d never learned.
Meanwhile, he’d been the perfect gentleman. He stayed away from the manor and gave directives from London. He did not return home. Not when his father died. Not when Viv’s mother did. Not even after Charmaine went to London and left Viv alone. So utterly alone.
She inhaled and considered her miserable hand. She sat taller, appraising this older, more mouth-watering Monsieur le Comte who would not leave the room. Who did not stop making eyes at her and marched over now and then to tut at the cards in her hand.
He had never become her lover, but he had always been her friend. His handsome lips had never whispered words of love but assured her of help, sustenance, a cottage and a plot of land. She should be content with what he had given her. What he gave her here. Protection. Friendship.
Why did she want more from him?
He was as appealing as ever. More so. Older, even more confident than the young man who’d run away from home, he had now a manly swagger that came from years of ruling over his domain, enriching it with hard work, then leaving it to his tenants to enjoy the rewards. He was a treasure, an enigma, too. After all, how many men left the comforts of their inherited estate to traipse the Continent to secure commercial success for his country? And spy for it, too?
She applauded him. Treasured what he had become. Why could she not savor him? Just a little, as her lover?
She was older, wiser. Gone now was the young woman who dedicated herself to raising her chickens and ducks. Gone was the lady who’d taken positions as a tutor of French to young girls. Yes, she had learned to live without him.
But her gaze returned to Tate over and over. She threw reason to the wind. She’d hungered too long for the sight of him. Thirsted too long for his regard. So long deprived, she admitted she was ravenous. So long denied, she could take what he offered. Nearness, care, affection. Oh, yes, she could see herself touching the long column of his throat. Nuzzling the hollow beneath his ear. Kissing those lips she had longed to learn and memorize. She could satisfy herself easily. Tonight, even.
But could she walk away?
He drew near. As if he measured each step he took, each smile he bestowed, he took his sweet time maneuvering around her table. Then, just his luck, one of the players at her table declared his final loss and stood to leave.
Tate asked if he might join.
The others welcomed him, some jokingly declaring they wanted him for the cash he might bring. The ladies bade him sit down. Their reasoning included victories of their own with him in other entertainments. Viv watched while it happened. One lady scooted her chair close to his. Another jutted out her breasts, already generously displayed above her silk and lace.
But Tate sat close to Viv and played his cards.
The rascal.
He was good. Always had been. Better than her.
He won the first hand. His knee pressed hers when she made a poor move, his hand to her thigh—but briefly—when she played well.
But the play went on. The others grew careless, drowsy with wine and the hour. Tate inched nearer. The heat in her legs, the need to press them together, had her jumping out of her skin. He pressed his palm flat to her thigh…and inched up her skirts. Her heart raced. Herchatgrew wet. He patted her leg and pulled up the last of her petticoats. His fingers were smooth, sliding among her secret folds, parting her so easily she was certain the others at the table could hear her liquid desire for him. But then at once, he turned toward her, looking at her cards, his fingers seated deeply inside her, stroking her little nub.
She gulped.
He grinned. “You have a good hand.”
“And you, monsieur?”
“A better one.”
“Pardon me!” She jumped up before she came on his fingertips. “I must find the ladies’ retiring room.”
The other four waved her off.
She scurried away, hoping to find cool water to put to her brow. Or wine, even whiskey, to allow her to wash him from her mind.
But she was no sooner in the room, checking behind the painted screen and finding it thankfully vacant, than she relieved herself, brushed down her skirts—and there he stood!
“Mon Dieu, Tate! Do you follow all ladies to their toilette?”
