surprised.” And intrigued. More intrigued.
“You know about wagering and presumably who has a talent for the cards. I may detest you on moral grounds, but I’m not a fool.”
“I would be cautious where you fling your accusations of immorality, lady proprietor of a wagering club. You’re taking sin in an entirely new direction for London.”
“I suppose I am. Doing the sinning is much more pleasant than being sinned against, I’m discovering.”
She meant that as yet another insult to him, of course. She thought she’d learned all the lessons of the world. But clearly she hadn’t. Not yet. “Being sinned against may hurt, of course,” he said, “but sinning has its own set of consequences.”
She glanced up at him. “Do you have regrets, then?” she asked, her tone genuinely surprised.
“Of course I do. Beneath my monstrous exterior I am, after all, human.”
“So you say. I shall withhold judgment until I see actual proof.”
“Well then.” Standing, Oliver shoved back his chair and reached across the table. Before she could shift backward he grabbed the front of her black muslin gown and yanked her forward. Lifting her chin with his free hand, he lowered his mouth over hers.
Heat slammed down his spine at the contact. He wasn’t gentle about it, either, pulling her halfway across the table as he plundered her mouth. Her tongue flicked along his, drawing him harder against her. When he felt ready to combust, he straightened his fingers and let her go.
Diane plopped backward into her chair with none of her usual grace. Breathing hard and wishing he weren’t, Oliver stayed on his feet and walked around her to the door. Bloody hell. He’d meant to remind her that she’d enjoyed him in Vienna just as much as he’d enjoyed her. Instead all he could conjure was the image of her beneath him, her midnight hair wild around her face and her green eyes sharp with excitement and passion.
“How is that for proof?” he said over his shoulder, his voice low and rough. “I’m going to get something to eat before my next so-called class begins.”
He was halfway through the door when she shot him.
Chapter Seven
Diane dropped the spent pistol onto the table. She couldn’t very well return it to the small band tied around her thigh, because the barrel was quite hot. And the room still seemed to echo with the loud roar.
In the doorway, Oliver staggered around to face her. “You shot me!”
“It’s not as though I didn’t warn you,” she returned, lowering her skirt from where she’d lifted it to get to the pistol.
“You kissed me back! Shoot yourself if you’re angry at someone for that!”
“Oh. I’m not certain I agree with you, but I’ll remember for next time.”
He clapped his right hand over his left shoulder. “See that you do,” he snarled, and stumbled to his knees.
Jenny charged into view and then skidded to a halt, Margaret on her heels. “What— Margaret, fetch water and bandages. And keep the men downstairs. Tell them we shot a mouse.”
“You’re very quick with the excuses,” Oliver noted, sinking onto his backside and no longer looking particularly alarmed.
“Yes, well, I’ve had practice.” Jenny turned her head to look up at Diane. You shot him? she mouthed.
“He kissed me,” she whispered back. And now she supposed she needed to assist Jenny, to keep the rat from expiring on her floor. Because that would certainly frighten away potential club members.
“Diane, do you need smelling salts?”
“No! I’m fine.” What a silly question. Though she did seem to be swaying a bit. Diane gripped the edge of the table. For God’s sake, she’d shot Oliver Warren. Yes, she disliked him—well, not precisely disliked, but loathed maybe. Or wanted to punch him in the nose—but not enough to shoot him. It was just that he’d—he’d kissed her. And that he’d been correct just then. She’d kissed him back, even knowing that he’d fled her bed like a
“You know about wagering and presumably who has a talent for the cards. I may detest you on moral grounds, but I’m not a fool.”
“I would be cautious where you fling your accusations of immorality, lady proprietor of a wagering club. You’re taking sin in an entirely new direction for London.”
“I suppose I am. Doing the sinning is much more pleasant than being sinned against, I’m discovering.”
She meant that as yet another insult to him, of course. She thought she’d learned all the lessons of the world. But clearly she hadn’t. Not yet. “Being sinned against may hurt, of course,” he said, “but sinning has its own set of consequences.”
She glanced up at him. “Do you have regrets, then?” she asked, her tone genuinely surprised.
“Of course I do. Beneath my monstrous exterior I am, after all, human.”
“So you say. I shall withhold judgment until I see actual proof.”
“Well then.” Standing, Oliver shoved back his chair and reached across the table. Before she could shift backward he grabbed the front of her black muslin gown and yanked her forward. Lifting her chin with his free hand, he lowered his mouth over hers.
Heat slammed down his spine at the contact. He wasn’t gentle about it, either, pulling her halfway across the table as he plundered her mouth. Her tongue flicked along his, drawing him harder against her. When he felt ready to combust, he straightened his fingers and let her go.
Diane plopped backward into her chair with none of her usual grace. Breathing hard and wishing he weren’t, Oliver stayed on his feet and walked around her to the door. Bloody hell. He’d meant to remind her that she’d enjoyed him in Vienna just as much as he’d enjoyed her. Instead all he could conjure was the image of her beneath him, her midnight hair wild around her face and her green eyes sharp with excitement and passion.
“How is that for proof?” he said over his shoulder, his voice low and rough. “I’m going to get something to eat before my next so-called class begins.”
He was halfway through the door when she shot him.
Chapter Seven
Diane dropped the spent pistol onto the table. She couldn’t very well return it to the small band tied around her thigh, because the barrel was quite hot. And the room still seemed to echo with the loud roar.
In the doorway, Oliver staggered around to face her. “You shot me!”
“It’s not as though I didn’t warn you,” she returned, lowering her skirt from where she’d lifted it to get to the pistol.
“You kissed me back! Shoot yourself if you’re angry at someone for that!”
“Oh. I’m not certain I agree with you, but I’ll remember for next time.”
He clapped his right hand over his left shoulder. “See that you do,” he snarled, and stumbled to his knees.
Jenny charged into view and then skidded to a halt, Margaret on her heels. “What— Margaret, fetch water and bandages. And keep the men downstairs. Tell them we shot a mouse.”
“You’re very quick with the excuses,” Oliver noted, sinking onto his backside and no longer looking particularly alarmed.
“Yes, well, I’ve had practice.” Jenny turned her head to look up at Diane. You shot him? she mouthed.
“He kissed me,” she whispered back. And now she supposed she needed to assist Jenny, to keep the rat from expiring on her floor. Because that would certainly frighten away potential club members.
“Diane, do you need smelling salts?”
“No! I’m fine.” What a silly question. Though she did seem to be swaying a bit. Diane gripped the edge of the table. For God’s sake, she’d shot Oliver Warren. Yes, she disliked him—well, not precisely disliked, but loathed maybe. Or wanted to punch him in the nose—but not enough to shoot him. It was just that he’d—he’d kissed her. And that he’d been correct just then. She’d kissed him back, even knowing that he’d fled her bed like a
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