Brand waited until the crowd that had gathered to greet Verena had dispersed somewhat before he moved into her line of sight. There was a moment’s hesitation, a faint coloring of her cheeks, and then she broke into that fascinating smile. Brand lifted his glass toward her in a silent toast.

A flicker of surprise showed in her face, but no embarrassment. She even returned the favor, inclining her head in his direction. He had expected that she’d avoid him, but he’d not counted on her natural brazen temperament. She soon broke away from the small group and made her way to his side.

“Mr. St. John. How delightful.” Her tone dripped with ill-concealed humor.

The room seemed dressed in dark browns and reds, while Verena in her white dress drew all the light and held it. Brand couldn’t help but smile—her choice of gown was brilliant. “Lady Westforth, it is always a pleasure seeing you.” He looked down into her upturned face, aware of a stirring of unmistakable lust. Her hair was pulled back, twisted in a braid and fastened around her head like a crown. She didn’t try to ape fashions that wouldn’t compliment her, but wore what suited her.

Brandon had to agree that she looked fresh and bright, soaking the color from every woman in the room. His gaze flickered to her shoulders where they showed above the white gauze rosettes that decorated the neckline of her gown. A silver necklet rested against her throat and drew the eye. He saw the necklet and looked away, only to return his gaze immediately.

She placed her fingers on the silver chain and dimpled up at him. “Do you like it? I had it made just last week.”

“So that’s where my draft ended.”

“Alas, yes. The signature was all I had left after Lady Farnsworth got butter on the rest of it.” She peeped at him from beneath her lashes, a delicious laugh gurgling in her throat.

He should have been angry. But instead, his blood quickened. By God, he would enjoy this little contretemps. More than he’d enjoyed anything in a long, long time. “You, madam, are incorrigible.”

“Only when forced.”

“I’m sorry if you feel that I have forced you into anything.”

“Ha! You’ve never been sorry for a single thing you’ve ever done. Have you?”

“I hate apologizing so I make it a point to always be in the right.”

She tilted her head to one side and regarded him with mock seriousness. “Mr. St. John, you are certainly taking this in good part, which is most unfortunate.”

“How so?”

“Because if you insist on being such a good sport, then I shall have to cease and desist in my efforts to make everyone laugh at you. I would truly hate to do that, so do you think you could work up a nice glower? Or a stern frown, like a displeased tutor? Just one will do. Then everyone who is watching to see what is going to occur between us, mortal enemies that we are, will realize that I was perfectly within my rights to mock you.”

“Lady Westforth, I don’t know who taught you such brutal tactics, but I applaud them.” Brandon captured her hand and kissed it, brushing his lips lightly over her skin. He was aware of an instant ripple of attraction, like the hint of movement along the surface of a pond. His body heated as his attention fixed on her lower lip. God, but she was a tasty morsel. One he would enjoy devouring, one delectable inch at a time.

It was strange, but he’d never before experienced this combination of powerful physical attraction combined with an innate appreciation for a dauntless spirit. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Not that it would interfere with his plans. Will she, nil she, the luscious Verena was about to be thoroughly and completely seduced.

Some of his thoughts must have been visible, for her fingers trembled against his. She tugged her hand free, her color high.

Her companion joined her then, a strikingly handsome man with gold coloring that strongly echoed her own. She turned to the man as if she were a drowning victim finding a rope within reach. “Ah! Mr. St. John, allow me to present Mr. Lansdowne. He is an acquaintance, recently come from Italy.”

Another victim. Brand should have felt some pity for the fool, but somehow all he could think about was that the man before him was now standing beside Verena. He’d drawn her hand through his arm as if he knew her intimately.

Irritation inched along Brandon’s shoulders. “Do you plan on staying in London long?”

“As long as Lady Westforth allows me to.” The gentleman arched his brows toward Verena, who returned his smile.

The bounder. “I hope you conclude your business swiftly and profitably,” Brand said. “In the meantime, perchance you will join me in a game. Faro, perhaps?”

Lansdowne brightened, his brown eyes alight. “Faro! I’d love to play, though I’m not very good.”

“Neither, apparently, am I. I was losing just before you entered.”

“A temporary lapse, I’m certain.” Mr. Lansdowne was so excited by this offer that he seemed to forget Verena stood at his side. “Perhaps we can set our own terms. The house has limits, you know, but for men like you and I, there’s no need to waste our time playing for so little. We can raise the wager to—Ow!” He clutched his arm where Lady Westforth had been resting her hand.

“Poor Mr. Lansdowne!” she said smoothly. “Is your arm acting up again?” She looked at Brandon, all innocent concern. “Gout, you know.”

“At such a tender age? Mr. Lansdowne, I’m sorry to hear that.”

The man rubbed his arm glumly. “Not as much as I am.”

Lady Westforth sent him a perfunctory smile. “I suppose this means you can’t play cards. Not with your arm bothering you.”

“Can’t play ca—Oh!” He smoothed his sleeve over his arm. “Yes, that could be difficult. Well. Mr. St. John, it was pleasant meeting you.” He bowed, sent a dark glance at Lady Westforth, and then walked away.

“How long have you known him?” Brand asked as soon as the man was out of hearing.

Verena managed a shrug, though Brandon thought he detected a faint color to her cheeks. He was just going to ask her a more pointed question when an elderly gentleman appeared at Verena’s elbow.

“Lady Westforth and Brandon St. John! I’d have never thought to see the two of you together, especially after—well, it doesn’t matter, does it?” The old man peered from one to the other. “I take it you’ve cried peace?”

“Indeed we have,” Brand said. “In fact, we have become so close that Lady Westforth now wears my name on her necklet.”

Verena blinked, her fingers resting on the necklace. “Unfair,” she murmured.

“Not in this game,” he answered beneath his smile.

A reluctant smile touched her lips. “You’re incorrigible. I think I like that.”

Jameson leaned closer. “Since you are friends now, I hope you are up to a game. I’ve a table saved. Mr. Cabot-Lewes is waiting us there.”

Verena looked at Brandon, that damnable smile in her eyes, and also a touch of something else…was it triumph? “A game of cards. I would enjoy that ever so much. Shall we?”

Brandon bowed. “Of course.”

They were soon ensconced at Jameson’s table, which was tucked into a corner, partially hidden by a set of large, leafy plants. Mr. Cabot-Lewes was introduced and Brandon garnered that the man was a cit who’d made a huge fortune in the tea trade. The man was short and thick and completely bald except for a thick fringe of white hair. He was also effusive in his admiration of Verena to the point of idiocy.

Brandon was beginning to realize what Marcus had meant when he suggested that Lady Westforth was the darling of the demimonde. Everyone seemed to know her, and she them.

“Shall I deal?” she was asking now. The light from a candelabrum shone directly over her head, touching her crown with silver and limning the delicate lines of her shoulders. Her silver necklet caught the light and revealed Brand’s name and made him smile. She’d branded herself, whether she realized it or not.

She picked up the cards, her movements graceful and unhurried, and dealt them.

Lord Jameson watched her with an air of satisfaction. “Perhaps your beautiful hands will put some magic back in the cards. God knows they were going flat.”

Mr. Cabot-Lewes nodded his approval, his fleshy chin jiggling noticeably. “Good to have you with us, Lady Westforth. And you, too, St. John. We need some fresh blood this evening.”

Jameson chuckled. “Fresh money, you mean.” He gathered his cards and tossed a gold coin to the center of the table.

Brandon looked at his own cards. He could feel the attention of the two men. They were like sharks circling an especially fat fish.

Jameson played a card. “It’s an honor to be playing a St. John.”

“Is it?” Verena said, disbelief in her voice.

Brandon grinned at her, but she pretended not to see.

Lord Jameson gestured at him. “St. John, tell Lady Westforth how you not only have the devil’s own luck, but you can spot a Captain Sharp a mile away.”

Verena faltered, and a card fell from her fingers to the table. Her color high, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. It slipped.” She collected her card.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Jameson said. “We all make mistakes. All of us, except your friend, that is. I’d sooner try to cheat the devil at cards than Brandon St. John.”

The faintest hint of breathlessness touched Verena’s voice as she turned to Brand. “How can you tell if someone is playing foul?”

Cabot-Lewes cackled. “The same way we all tell when someone’s playing foul—by how often they win.”

“If that’s the case,” Jameson replied, “then you’ve never cheated a day in your life.” He watched as Brand played his card. “What’s the real pity is that no one would ever believe that I’ve cheated a day in my life, either.”

Verena managed a faint smile for this witticism. How she wished she’d taken James’s advice now. She’d taunted St. John into attending her only to discover that he possessed the one mystical penchant she’d rather he didn’t—that of discerning foul play.

She glanced at him from beneath her lashes and found him watching her, his blue eyes intent. He sat slightly out of the light, as if he disliked being the center of attention, his dark hair falling over his brow in a way that made her itch to brush it back.

She fixed her gaze firmly on her cards. It was silly to think that he could spot a cheater. Lord Jameson was renowned for his teasing manner and he was not averse to making up a rumor just to amuse his listeners.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious. Especially since she’d quite decided to make St. John’s purse her own. Verena lost one game. Then two. All the while, she was watching Brandon, but she could see no sign that he was more capable of spotting someone fuzzing the cards than anyone else.

If anything, he seemed far too focused on her to pay much attention to the game, often staring at her with a speculative gaze that made her frown. Despite his earlier gallantry, he seemed very serious this evening.

She played the third game straight as well, and tried not to wince when she lost yet again. Her pile of guineas had thinned noticeably, as had the stack in front of Brandon. It almost hurt when he negligently tossed a marker onto the table when he ran out of coins.

Verena ran her fingers over her last guineas, catching James’s eye from where he stood across the room. He read her expression immediately and frowned.

This really could not continue. If she was going to help her brother out of his predicament, Verena was going to have to take some chances. Risks. The very thing Father and James lived for and she avoided. Even though the blackmailer hadn’t asked for money, Verena was certain she and James would need it—Father always said there were few problems a handful of gold could not fix.

James stopped a passing servant and spoke quietly. Within moments, the servant arrived at Verena’s table, three bottles of port on his tray. “From Mr. Lansdowne. In celebration of Lady Westforth’s beauty.”

Verena sent James a grateful smile. “Oh my! How generous!”

Brand’s sharp gaze raked over the bottles. “Indeed.”

Lord Jameson held out his empty glass. “I don’t even know the man, but I think he’s a prince.”

Mr. Cabot-Lewes agreed, allowing the servant to fill his cup to the rim. “If I ever meet him, remind me to thank him for his largesse. Port is my favorite.”

Brandon frowned at Verena. “Shall I order you something else? Some sherry perhaps.”

“Oh no! I love port.” She allowed the servant to fill her glass as well.

Verena played the next two hands more aggressively, winning one and losing one. She made sure everyone’s glass remained full, including her own, though she drank little. She couldn’t afford to drink, not if she wanted to play this game well. When no one watched, she poured her port onto the dirt of one of the large plants that sat at the sides of their table.

Time passed and the servant, heavily bribed by James, continued to refill their glasses. Soon, Lord Jameson showed serious signs of inebriation. He caught Verena’s gaze and smiled, a woozy, unfocused smile that set her nerves at rest.

She glanced next at Mr. Cabot-Lewes. He was squinting at his cards, blinking as if his eyes wouldn’t focus. Verena hid a smile.

Last, she glanced at Brandon. The light from the candelabra warmed his black hair and touched his cheekbones, giving him a harsh appearance. She noticed that the glass at his elbow was almost empty—again. She nodded to the servant, who immediately refilled the glass.

Brandon looked up then, his gaze resting on hers. There was something insolently possessive about him, as if he thought he had but to crook his finger and she’d fall into his lap.

That might be interesting, falling into his lap, her unruly imagination told her. Or it would have been interesting, if she hadn’t been so determined to show him that she was completely unaffected by his presence.

She lifted her chin and met his gaze with a challenging one of her own. He smiled, his eyes softening slightly and just as before, she felt a strange sense of connection with him. As if he knew who she was and all of her sins, and he didn’t give a damn about a one.

She forced her gaze back to the stack of guineas on the table before her, her palm itching. Brandon St. John was a very dangerous man.

“Lady Westforth,” Jameson slurred. “It’s your deal.”

Verena took the cards, her fingers sliding over the smooth surfaces. She glanced at Brandon, but he was regarding his glass with a fixed gaze. Jameson and Cabot-Lewes were so sotted they could barely sit up. The time was now.

She shuffled the cards, deftly placing the queen on the bottom. Verena won the next three hands. As she pulled in her winnings, she met James’s gaze across the room and gave him an infinitesimal smile. Things were indeed going well.

“Lady Westforth, you are not drinking.”

The dark voice feathered over her. Verena found Brandon’s intense gaze on her. He had the most astonishing eyes, a blue so rich they appeared black in certain light. “You mistake, Mr. St. John. I’ve had more than my fair share.”

He lifted his own glass and she noticed that his hand appeared slightly unsteady. She was almost chortling at her good luck when it became Brandon’s turn to deal. She watched him fumble a little with the cards and she smiled encouragingly at him when he passed the first card her way.

His eyes narrowed and he gave her a raw look, hot and proprietory. One that sent a shiver down her back. She pulled away at the intensity of his expression. He must have realized he’d shown too much, for he immediately looked away, dealing the remaining cards.

Verena picked up her cards, more shaken than she wanted to admit. It wasn’t that he’d looked at her in such a way; men tended to do that, especially after imbibing so much port. But her own reaction startled her. Her body had softened as if he’d touched her intimately, like a lover.

It was not a response Verena was used to having. Indeed, she could recall only one other time that she’d reacted that way to any man’s look. And that had been with Andrew.

She looked at Brandon again. Surely not. Surely she didn’t feel anything for Brandon St. John other than—

“It’s your turn, Lady Westforth.” Brandon’s gaze slid over her again, but this time with more control. His deep voice curled about her, brushing her bared shoulders. “Do you discard?”

Verena found that her hands were trembling just the faintest bit. That would not do at all. How could she change her cards if her hands shook as if she had the palsy? She quickly discarded, then placed her cards on the table.

Brandon’s attention seemed to move on to Lord Jameson. Verena almost sighed in relief. To give her something to do with her hands, she picked up her glass of port and took a sip. Everyone’s glass was empty but hers. That would not do at all. She glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then reached down to pour it into the plant.

Strong fingers encircled her wrist, bearing her hand up. Up. Back to the table. Verena looked into Brandon’s eyes.

He smiled, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “I do so hate to see good port go to waste.”

“What’s that?” Cabot-Lewes asked, straining to look over the table without getting up from his seat. His double chin quivered. “Did Lady Westforth spill her drink?”

“Not yet,” Brand said. He leaned forward so that no one could hear him. “I believe the port is not to your liking. Shall I order you some lemonade instead?”

Verena pressed her lips together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was merely looking at the plant, enjoying how very…green it is.” She looked meaningfully at her wrist. “You can release me now.”

“Take a drink.”

“No.”

“Verena.” He leaned even closer. To anyone watching, it was a lover’s intimate moment, his hand about her wrist, his lips near her ear. “Drink it or admit you were tossing it out.”

It was a threat. Verena didn’t like threats. But even worse, she didn’t like men who tried to force her into saying things she didn’t want to say. “Release my wrist.”

He lifted his brows.

“I cannot drink with your hand about my wrist.”

He released her hand, a challenge in his hard stare.

Something deep inside Verena quivered at his challenge. This man had insulted her, trifled with her, and now, on top of everything else, seemed determined to hold her out for mockery. Well! She would show him. Every drop of Lansdowne blood that flowed through her veins began to simmer in earnest.

Verena locked her gaze with Brandon’s, lifted her glass, and drank the port. Not just a sip, either. She drank the entire glass, one burning gulp at a time. The port seared its way down and made her eyes water, but she finished the last dregs. Then she set her glass on the table with a thump.

He swore softly. “You little fool. You’d do anything other than admit the truth, wouldn’t you?”

Lord Jameson chortled. “Here, here, Lady W! That’s the way to show him!”

Verena blinked back the water that stung her eyes. Her whole body felt as if it was afire. “Whose turn is it?”

Brandon leaned back in his chair, a faint sense of disapproval clinging about him as Jameson continued the game.

Verena didn’t care what Brandon St. John thought. She was a full-grown woman and if she wanted to drink port, then she would. Any time of the day. In fact, she just might have another glass. Or two. Maybe three.

She caught the eye of a passing servant and pointed to her glass. It was immediately filled, as were those of everyone else at the table. Verena quickly emptied that glass, as well. Why not? She’d already won a fair amount. If she was careful, she’d still rise a winner. And that was enough. For now.

Verena allowed a servant to refill her glass yet again.

Brand’s disapproval grew until it seemed to Verena that it hung over them like a cloud.

She refused to acknowledge him, but spared no pains to flirt with Lord Jameson and Mr. Cabot-Lewes. She took a deep sip of the port, finding that it wasn’t nearly so bad this time. The more one had, the better it tasted. Perhaps that was the trick.

They played another round of cards and to Verena’s surprise, not only was her glass empty once again, but she won. She was considering asking for more port when Brandon’s voice sounded in her ear.

“Don’t even think it, damn you. If you get any more, I will be the one tossing it into the plant.”

She sniffed. “You are not my father.”

“No,” he said grimly, his gaze raking over her in a way that made her shiver.

“You aren’t my brother, either.”

“No, I’m not,” he agreed quickly enough.

“Then you can’t make suggestions about the way I live.”

“I’m not making a suggestion. I’m making a statement. You’ve had too much to drink and I’m not going to allow you to have any more.”

“Allow? Who do you think you are?” She glared at him challengingly. Strangely, his face seemed to waver in front of her. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Moving. It’s making me ill.”

He dropped his cards onto the table. “That’s it. We’re leaving.”

“We’re not going anywhere. I came to play and I’m going to play.”

He stared at her a long moment, his face as black as a thundercloud. Finally, he picked up the deck of cards. “Then we’ll play. But a new game.”

“I say, what’s going on?” Jameson asked blurrily.

Brandon shot him an indifferent look. “Lady Westforth and I have an argument to settle. We’re going to cut the cards in answer.”

Cabot-Lewes waved a hand. “Carry on. I think I’m done for, anyway. Do we know who won?”

“I hope I did,” Verena said, wondering why she’d eschewed port for so long. It was marvelous stuff. She lifted her glass, disappointed to find it empty but for two or three drops. “How sad.” She looked at Brandon, who sat so sternly at her side. For some reason, the sight of him warmed her and she smiled. “If I win the cut, do I get more port?”

“An entire bottle.”

She sighed happily. “That seems fair.”

He shuffled the cards and then placed them in front of her.

Verena looked at the cards and wet her lips. She was going to go home a winner tonight. She could feel the positive hum of luck pouring through her veins. She reached for a card, then stopped, meeting St. John’s gaze. “Wait. If you win the draw, what do you get?”

His gaze flickered over her, resting on the curve of her décolletage, her bared shoulders, her bottom lip. “If I win,” he said, “then I earn the right to see you home.”

She eyed him suspiciously. There was something wrong with this plan, she knew it. But for some reason, she couldn’t fathom what it was. “Anything else?”

His gaze flickered over her. “What else could there be?”

“Well, I get a whole bottle of port if I win, but you only get to ride home with me. That doesn’t seem even.”

“By Jove,” Jameson said. “She’s right! You should get more than that if she’s to win an entire bottle of port.”

“How about a kiss?” Mr. Cabot-Lewes said. He beamed, his round face damp with perspiration. “I won a kiss at cards once. Best kiss I ever had.”

“Seems fair to me,” Jameson said. “Well, Lady W? What do you say?”

Verena put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “I don’t think I can. Mr. Lansdowne brought me. It would be rude to leave with someone else. And it would be really rude to kiss someone else, not that I want to kiss Mr. Lansdowne.”

Brandon’s mouth curved into a smile. “You don’t?”

“Not at all. He’s not my cup of tea,” she confided easily.

Jameson chuckled. “The poor man!”

Cabot-Lewes nodded sadly. “And he sent us that lovely port, too. Shouldn’t kick a man who made such a dashing gesture.”

“I don’t think he’ll care,” Brand said coolly. “He’s busy at the faro table.”

Everyone turned to look. Verena blinked blurrily across the room. She could just make out the back of James’s head where he sat near Lady Farley. “I hope he had better luck than I’ve had this evening.” She leaned toward Brandon and said in a conspiratorial voice, “I usually win, you know. Only very carefully.”

Brandon thought he’d never seen a more adorably drunk woman in his life. Especially not after only three glasses. “You don’t drink often, do you?”

“Never. Inhibits your judgment, you know.”

“Inhibits? You don’t appear inhibited at the moment. Perhaps you meant to say that it impairs your judgment.”

“Meant what I said. Said what I meant.” She pointed a finger at him. “Do you know what my father believes?”

“What?”

“A good card player doesn’t drink.”

“And are you a good card player? Or a crooked one?”

“I don’t like your tone.” She tried to look offended but failed miserably.

He placed his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “Choose your card, Verena.”

She looked at the deck and wet her lips nervously. Brandon watched her tongue trace a line over her lips and his body tightened. Bloody hell, but she was a luscious bundle.

Finally, she reached out and flipped over a card. A jack of clubs beamed up. “Ha!” she said triumphantly. “Beat that!”

“Bloody good one, Lady W,” Jameson said, nodding sagely, his cravat askew.

Mr. Cabot-Lewes nodded enthusiastically. “Hard to beat that with one card.”

Brandon turned over his card. A king of hearts beamed up at them.

Verena blinked.

“The St. John luck,” Jameson crowed. “Warned you about that.”

Brand stood and placed a hand on Verena’s elbow. He wanted to get her out of here before Lansdowne realized she was gone. “Come, Lady Westforth. I will see you home.”

She looked up at him. “Now?”

“This instant.”

She sighed, then clambered to her feet, swaying a little.

Jameson and Cabot-Lewes stood as well and made effusive farewells. Brand didn’t give Verena time to respond. He said their good-byes and bundled her out of the gaming hell and into his carriage before she knew what had happened.