Potent Pleasures by Eloisa James Page B

trust, monsieur ” Alex said evenly, “that you meant nothing by your comment. I would willingly grant that my winnings are the result of—luck.”
    There was a small silence. Boch’s eyes burned with rage; he could hardly breathe he was so angry. His lip curled. “Ah, my lord,” he finally said in response. “I would take my luck at cards any day over yours … at love.”
    The room had grown relatively quiet. Three of the four tables had fallen perfectly still, the players listening intently. Everyone knew that the sons of the late Earl of Sheffield and Downes had been sent out of England due to their propensity to settle arguments with their fists. Alexander seemed to have matured, but could any man allow an insult of this nature to pass unnoticed?
    Alex’s heart didn’t even skip a beat. He had grown used to gutter insults in the year following his annulment. Still, he had thought to leave them behind, in Italy. Alex squarely put both his hands down on the table’s green surface, leaning forward slightly. The two men were face-to-face, parted only by a small space. He smiled.
    “Perhaps, monsieur,” Alex said softly, “you are jealous of my success with women, and that is why you risk your life?”
    Lucien stared back at Alex. He felt sick; he had done a terrible thing. Swept into the heat of gambling, he had thrown down a jewel that he kept always near his heart. It was the ring given him by his wife at their marriage.
    “My lord,” he said hoarsely, ignoring Alex’s threat, which hung over the entire room. “I am a fool, because I lost to you my wife’s ring. And she is … is no longer here, and I must have it back. Will you play me again?”
    Alex drew back. Boch’s eyes were desperate, black. Alex put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a delicately chased ring, graced with a sapphire.
    “What does it say?” he asked, turning it over in the candlelight. The ring’s sapphire caught the candles and flung back their light. It must be worth a thousand pounds, he thought.
    “Toujours à moi,” said Boch quietly.
    “Forever mine,” Alex translated. He suddenly realized that the entire room was dead silent. He looked keenly at Boch, whom he had just met that night. “How long have you been in this country?”
    Boch swallowed hard. “Eight years, my lord.”
    His marchioness, Alex thought, did not accompany him. She must have fallen under the guillotine. He tossed the ring in the air, caught it, and placed it gently in front of Boch. “There, man, take it.” He swept up the remainder of his winnings as a wave of male voices hit the air, and turned to go.
    A hand stopped him. It was Boch, who had come around the table and stood before him, slim, tall, and dressed in black. “My lord,” he said slowly. “I am a fool who is in your debt for life. But while I am stupid, I do not lack money. Please, let me buy the ring from you.”
    Alex realized Boch was not as young as he thought, probably around his own age, in fact. “I will not,” he said briefly. Boch stood ramrod stiff before him. Oh, Lord, Alex thought. French pride. He quite liked the man too. “Care to join me for a brandy?” he asked.
    Boch’s lips tightened and then relaxed. “All right, my lord,” he said, sighing. “I gather that fools cannot buy themselves out of their idiocy.”
    Settled in the library with coffee laced generously with brandy, the two men did not mention love, rings, or wives, but talked amiably of the latest debates in the House of Lords. As an exiled Frenchman, Boch naturally had no part in government but he took a keen interest, particularly given the threatened grain riots.
    “I am wondering,” he said, “whether we could have prevented the revolution in France. If we had had grain machines, such as you are beginning to use here, could it have prevented the rage of the peasants?”
    “But my understanding,” Alex said delicately, “is that grain was not scarce, but the peasants were not allowed to