Lady Lena and Harriet said their good afternoons, along with Owen and Rhys. As everyone settled back into their cheery conversations, Abigail took a chair with a smothered smile. It seemed their party was complete—and it did not include the Duke of Gilmore.
She hadn’t seen him since Rhys and Pippa’s gathering a few nights before, when they’d wagered so inappropriately and he had requested a chance to win his money back. She’d waited for him to clarify how that would happen, but he’d said nothing more to her that night. He had also not reached out to her since.
And she was relieved, not disappointed. She didn’t want to have some silly secret with the man. She didn’t want to spend time with him. It was better just to forget the whole thing had happened and move on with her life.
Which she promptly did as she fell into a conversation with Lena Bright about Sir Walter Scott. She was perfectly comfortable and happy when Cookson stepped into the doorway and the room turned toward him with an expectant air.
“The Duke of Gilmore,” he intoned.
Abigail stood with the rest of the group, but it took some effort. She would have told anyone around her that her heart sank at that announcement. She might have even tried to tell herself that it was horror and annoyance that cropped up in her chest when Cookson stepped aside and Gilmore strode into the room.
But it wasn’t. To her great confusion, there was a flutter in her stomach when Gilmore scanned the room and his dark gaze settled, momentarily, on her. She shifted slightly, willing her hands to stop trembling, and then forced a scowl on her face.
“Good afternoon,” he said, holding out a hand as Owen crossed the room to greet him. “Pardon my tardiness. I received a letter just as I was leaving and the answer couldn’t wait.”
There was something about his mouth as he said those words. A slight downturn to his lips that made Abigail wonder what the letter had been about.
It seemed Owen could sense the same, for he tilted his head. “Anything I can assist with?”
Gilmore clapped his forearm with a smile. “No. Thank you, though. I appreciate the offer.”
He moved around the room, saying good afternoon to each attendee and making more personal apologies for his lateness. He was reintroduced to Lena and Harriet, and Abigail’s lips thinned as he spoke to Lena in French for a moment when she brought up that she had been reading Voltaire. Showing off, of course. He couldn’t seem to help himself.
Finally, though, he stepped away from the other ladies and moved to her. “Mrs. Montgomery,” he drawled.
She flinched, as she always did when someone used her married name. “Your Grace.”
She heard the coldness of her response, but it didn’t seem to bother him, for he stepped closer as the rest of the attendees faded away from them. He smelled faintly of leather and of something sweet, perhaps lemon or orange, she wasn’t certain of which. It tickled her senses and made her body react in ways she refused to name.
“I’m pleased to find you here today,” he said, and had the gall to sound sincere.
“Are you?” She arched a brow. “I have a hard time believing that since you and I are well-known enemies.”
He laughed, and she found herself wishing to smile in return. “That we are, yes. Mortal, it seems. No way around it. But we do have some unfinished business, don’t we?”
She tensed. “And what is that?”
“Billiards.”
She blinked. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“I’ve been thinking about our wager, and I say billiards.”
“That was…days ago,” she said softly.
“I know. We left it with me considering what field we would meet on next.” He gave her a pointed look. “Or are you backing out?”
She pursed her lips. Damnable man. “Of course not. I, sir, have honor. But I am also a lady, and billiards is a gentleman’s game.”
“And?”
She huffed out a breath. “It seems you would have an unfair advantage.”
“Something like you did because you knew Lady Blain would fall asleep during supper?” he asked, almost sweetly but for the flash of challenge in his dark stare.
She folded her arms. “And yet I might have still been wrong. What you are suggesting requires skill. Practice.”
“It requires neither,” he said. “Because we won’t be playing a game. And I will teach you how to do what we will be doing.”
She froze in her spot and stared at him. There was something…wicked about what he’d just said. Something that made her think of tangled bed sheets and this man’s hands on her bare skin.
She jolted backward a step. She’d dreamed of him before, hating herself when she woke, but she’d never let those wicked thoughts haunt her in her waking hours.
“Unless you are unsure of yourself,” he drawled. “Then I can simply settle you with the pound you won and we can call it good.”
She pressed her lips together hard. He was taunting her now. Testing her. “Fine,” she said. “Billiards.” His mouth twitched, and she glared even harder at him. “Stop gloating. What now?”
“Gregory?” he called out over his shoulder without breaking eye contact with her.
Owen stepped closer. “Yes?”
“I have a hankering for a game of billiards. You don’t happen to have a table here, do you?”
Owen let out a snort. “It isn’t that kind of house, Gilmore. We don’t.”
Gilmore’s mouth twisted a little, as if he were disappointed not to settle the bet immediately. Before he could speak, Celeste said, “You have a billiard table, though, don’t you, Gilmore?”
Gilmore’s expression darkened a fraction and his gaze darted from Abigail. “I do. We really ought to have a gentleman’s night. Play billiards, drink scotch, talk about sport.”
“Excellent idea,” Owen said. “I’ll look at my schedule.”
“And speak to Leighton,” Gilmore suggested.
Owen tilted his head. “Certainly,” he said slowly, and then he and Celeste moved away.
“He’s right. I do have a billiard table,” he said with a soft laugh. “It’s a very nice billiard table, indeed.”
She shook her head. “Are you suggesting that I would be entirely improper and go to your home to play billiards with you…just to win?”
That same dark expression crossed his face again. “To best me,” he corrected her. “I think you’d move almost heaven and earth to do that if you thought you could.”
They stared at each other for a moment, charged and heated. She wanted to deny that allegation. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t care enough to want to defeat him again, this time in an arena where he reigned. But she couldn’t. He was baiting her and she knew it, but she still took the bait.
“You’re on, Your Grace,” she said with what she hoped was a smile rather than a grimace. “When?”
“This little gathering will be over before supper,” he said. “Why don’t you join me after? We can eat together and then meet on the battlefield.”
She caught her breath. Breaking bread with him, especially without others as a buffer, felt less adversarial than usual. But he was awaiting her response, still looking very smug.