Passion for the Game

She was sent for only when the end was near and assured. Returning to her stepfather’s home, she found the Viscountess Welton a ghost of the woman she had been only months before, her vibrancy depleting along with their coffers.

“Maria, my darling,” her mother whispered on her deathbed, her dark eyes pleading. “Forgive me. Welton was so kind after your father passed. I-I did not see beyond the façade.”

“Al will be Well, Mama,” she had lied. “Your health will improve and we can leave him.”

“No. You must—”

“Please do not say any more. You need rest.”

Her mother’s grip was surprisingly strong for a woman so wan, a physical manifestation of her urgency. “You must protect your sister from him. He cares not at all that she is his own blood. He will use her, as he has used me. As he intends to use you. Amelia is not strong like you. She has none of the strength of your father’s blood.”

She had stared at her mother in dismay. In the decade of the Welton marriage, Maria had learned many things, but most of all she had learned that beneath Lord Welton’s incomparably handsome face, Mephistopheles dwel ed.

“I am not old enough,” she breathed, the tears fall ing. She spent most of her time at school, training to become a woman Welton could exploit. But on her occasional visits, she watched the way the viscount belittled her mother with razor-sharp barbs. The servants told her of raucous voices and pained screams. Bruises. Blood. Bed rest for weeks after he left.

Seven-year-old Amelia remained in her rooms when her father was in residence, frightened and alone. No governess would stay long with them.

“Yes, you are,” Cecil e whispered, her lips white, her eyes red. “When I go, I will give what strength I have to you. You will feel me, my sweet Maria, and your father. We will support you.”

Those words were her only anchor in the years that fol owed.

“Is she dead?” Welton had asked flatly when Maria emerged from the room. His bright green eyes held no emotion at all.

“Yes.” She waited with bated breath and shaking hands.

“Make whatever arrangements you desire.”

Nodding, she turned away, the swishing of her heavy silk skirts loud in the deathly silence of the house.

“Maria.” The soft drawl floated ominously after her.

She paused and faced him again, studying her stepfather with new appreciation of his evil, absently noting the broad shoulders, trim hips, and long legs that so many women found appealing. Despite the coldness within him, his green eyes, dark hair, and rakish smile made him the handsomest man she had ever seen. The devil’s gift for his black-as-sin soul.

“Tel Amelia about Cecil e’s passing, will you? I am running late and do not have the time.”

Amelia.

Maria was devastated at the thought of the task ahead. Added to the near-crippling pain of her mother’s loss, she almost sank to the floor, crushed beneath her stepfather’s heel. But the strength her mother promised her stiffened her spine and lifted her chin.

Welton laughed at her bravado. “I knew you would be perfect. Worth the trouble your mother gave me.” She watched him turn on his heel and take the stairs to the main floor, disregarding his wife completely.

What could she say to her sister to ease the blow? Amelia had none of the happy memories that sustained Maria. Now the child was orphaned, for her father might as well have been dead for all the attention he paid to her.

“Hel o, poppet,” Maria greeted softly as she entered her sibling’s room, bracing herself to absorb the impact of the small body hurtling toward her.

“Maria!”

Clutching her sister close, Maria moved them toward the bed draped in dark blue silk that contrasted gently with the pale blue of the damask-covered wal s. She rocked the sobbing child in her arms and cried silent tears. They had only each other now.

“What will we do?” Amelia asked in her precious voice.

“Survive,” Maria said quietly. “And stay together. I will protect you. Never doubt that.”

They fel asleep and when she woke, she found Amelia gone.

And her life had changed forever.

Suddenly eager to be productive in some manner, Maria rose to her feet. She pushed the curtain aside and stepped out to the gal ery. The two footmen who stood on either side to keep the ambitiously amorous away snapped to attention. “My carriage,” she said to one. He hurried away.

Then she was bumped none too gently from behind, and as she stumbled, was caught close to a hard body.

“I beg your pardon,” murmured a deliciously raspy voice so near to her ear she felt the vibration of it.

The sound stil ed her, caught her breath and held it. She stood unmoving, her senses flaring to awareness far more acute than usual. One after another, impressions bombarded her—a hard chest at her back, a firm arm wrapped beneath her breasts, a hand at her waist, and the rich scent of bergamot mixed with virile male. He did not release her; instead his grip upon her person tightened.

“Unhand me,” she said, her voice low and fil ed with command.

“When I am ready to, I will .”

His ungloved hand lifted to cup her throat, his touch heating the rubies that circled her neck until they burned. call used fingertips touched her pulse, stroking it, making it race. He moved with utter confidence, no hesitation, as if he possessed the right to fondle her whenever and wherever he

chose, even in this public venue. Yet he was undeniably gentle. Despite the possession of his hold, she could writhe free if she chose, but a sudden weakness in her limbs prevented her from moving.

Her gaze moved to her remaining footman, ordering him silently to do something to assist her. The servant’s wide eyes were trained above her head, his throat working convulsively as he swal owed hard. Then he looked away.

She sighed. Apparently, she would have to save herself.

Again.

Her next action was goaded as much by instinct as by forethought. She moved her hand, setting it over his wrist, all owing him to feel the sharp point of the blade she hid in a custom-made ring. The man froze. And then laughed. “I do so love a good surprise.”

“I cannot say the same.”

“Frightened?” he queried.

“Of blood on my gown? Yes,” she retorted dryly. “It is one of my favorites.”

“Ah, but then it would more aptly match the blood on your hands”—he paused, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear, making her shiver even as her skin flushed—“and mine.”

“Who are you?”

“I am what you need.”

Maria inhaled deeply, pressing her corset-flattened bosom against an unyielding forearm. Questions sifted through her mind faster than she could col ect them. “I have everything I require.”

As he released her, her captor all owed his fingers to drift across the bare flesh above her bodice. Her skin tingled, goose-flesh spreading in his wake. “If you find you are mistaken,” he rasped, “come find me.”

He stepped back and she spun in a flurry of skirts to face him.

She expertly hid the true depth of her surprise. The renderings in the papers did not do him justice. Pale golden hair, sun-kissed skin, and bril iant blue eyes enriched features so fine they were almost angelic. His lips, though thin, were beautiful y sculpted by a master hand. The entire sum of his countenance was so stunning, it was disarming. It made one want to trust him, something the cold intentness of his gaze told her would be a mistake.

As she studied him, Maria absently noted the undue attention they were attracting from the other patrons in the gal ery, but she could not spare a quel ing glance. Her attention was snared by the man who stood so arrogantly assured before her. “St. John.”

Showing a leg in a courtly bow, he smiled, but it did not reach his eyes—glorious eyes that were made more poignant by the shadows that rimmed them. He was not a man who slept often or Well. “I am flattered by your recognition.”

“What is it that I am supposed to be lacking?”

“Perhaps whatever it is your men search for?”

The surprise elicited by that statement could not be hidden. “What do you know?”

“Too much,” he said smoothly, his gaze intensely searching. Sensual lips curved and trapped her attention. “And yet, not enough. Together, perhaps, we could achieve our aims.”

“And what is your aim?”

How was it that he would approach her so soon after Welton? Surely it could not be a coincidence.

“Revenge,” he said, the word rol ing off his tongue so casual y she wondered if he was as dead to emotion as she was. He would have to be to live the life of crime he did. No remorse, no regret, no conscience. “The agency has meddled in my life one too many times.”

“I’ve no notion of what you are talking about.”

“No? A pity, that.” He stepped around her, leaning close as he moved by. “I will be available, should you figure it out.”

For a moment, she refused to turn and watch him depart. But it was only a moment, and then she studied him avidly. Starting with his height and breadth of shoulder, down his satin-clad form to his heeled shoes, she missed nothing. Dressed as he was, he could not fade into the crowd that milled in the gal ery. His pale yel ow coat and breeches stood apart from the darker colors of the other theater patrons. She fancied him as a god of the sun, a shining overpowering presence. His casual stride was unable to hide the danger inherent in him, a fact noted by the peers who quickly moved out of his way.

Now she understood his appeal.

Maria returned her attention to her footman. “Come along.”

“My lady,” he cried plaintively, stil ing her midstep. “Please forgive me.” The young man looked as if he might cast up his accounts. His dark hair fel over his brow, framing immature features. Were it not for the livery he wore, he would appear very much the boy he was.

“For what?” Her brows arched.

“I-I did not come to your aid.”

Her stance softened. Reaching out, she touched his elbow, a gesture that startled him. “I am not angry with you. You were afraid, an emotion with which I sympathize.”