Seducing Anne (11 page)

Money was placed on the table by various individuals entering the game of cards.

Guy was uncertain as to which game they were even going to play, but it was fine. He’d mastered them all.

“You are familiar with Primero, yes?” Henry asked him.

“I am.” Guy refused to give him any title. The asshole hadn’t earned any of them.

Guy grinned. This was an early version of poker, and he excelled at all versions of that game and its predecessor they were about to engage in.

“Then let us play,” Henry said, entirely too happy about it.

“I warn you—the king never loses,” Lady Rochford said.

“But he has never played with me, now has he?” Guy replied, taking the bait.

“Those words will condemn you to shame,” Wyatt said, a little too quickly and exuberantly.

Oh, yes, the man was definitely in love with Anne, but careful to conceal it by pretending to be an ardent supporter of Henry.

“Shame over winning is something new I will endeavor to appreciate when I am walking away with the winnings. Perhaps Mistress Anne can comfort me afterward?” Guy bit his bottom lip and slid his teeth off when she finally pulled her gaze to him.

Her cheeks colored momentarily, but she remained silent.

She was balancing herself elegantly on Henry’s lap and deftly passing out the cards to those in the game. Henry’s right arm was possessively wrapped around her waist.

She went around and passed herself up. Why didn’t she deal to herself?

Henry picked up his cards and told her to hold them for him.

The douche was so lazy he couldn’t even keep his damned hands up long enough to play a game? Or was this a show of his power over her? And a reason to keep his arm around her, where Guy could not place his hands?

Guy’s teeth ground together.

Over the next twenty minutes, his mind was on her rather than the game, yet somehow, he was doing well.

Three people had dropped out of the game, which left only the king, Wyatt and himself still in play.

“Show,” Henry barked with a laugh as he set down his fairly good hand—a Fluxus.

All his cards were of the same suit. It was basically a Flush.

“Impressive,” Guy said, waiting for Wyatt to turn his cards to their view.

Wyatt huffed, his face contorting in anguish for a moment as he flipped his over.

He held a Chorus—four cards of a kind—all five’s.

Wyatt had the upper hand so far. He probably did not relish beating the king since it could mean a possible fit from Henry.

Guy shifted in his seat, and so did Anne, atop her perch on Henry’s knees.

“Well, I suppose Anne must prepare herself,” Guy said, flipping his cards over.

He held the winning Prime hand—one matching card from each suit, and they were all kings.

How apropos. He smirked at the fuming ruler across from him.

Henry brushed Anne off his lap. “Again!”

Guy chuckled, took his winnings off the table and watched Anne from the corner of his eye.

“I think I shall retire now—goodnight, Harry,” she said a moment later, her voice shaky. Her shoulders were tense, and her eyes were filled with mortification. She was uncomfortable, and it showed.

“You will not!” Henry pointed at Lady Rochford’s seat. “You join this game, and prove that this man was lucky and nothing more.”

Anne curtsied, Lady Rochford scuttled away and Anne was sitting in her own seat now, once more avoiding a direct gaze with Guy.

She looked so guilty, and he looked so amused by it all that the king had an angry vein throbbing at his right temple when he viewed them both in turn.

This time the king shuffled and dealt.

Was he planning on cheating? Dealing from the bottom of the deck was never acceptable.

No matter.

Guy knew when to fold.

Mary kept watching Guy, licking her lips and leaning forward. Her bosom was plump and pushed up so it was in Guy’s field of vision.

He ignored her. Unlike the king, Guy had no need or desire for a mistress. Even if the SHROAG agency had allowed it, he wouldn’t have done it. He never liked the idea of fooling around.

Even though he’d seduced forty-nine women over the last twenty years, he was always monogamous and gave that person his full attention.

The cards were flung around the table, and Henry barked a laugh the moment he saw his own hand.

Anne studied hers quietly, giving nothing away.

Guy studied
her
. Dear God, she was radiant when she was in deep thought.

Her eyes flamed with some hint of ravenous ache to fully absorb what she was engaged in, and she exuded an intelligence that was almost frightening.

He had no doubt she could beat the king easily at this game if she wanted to, but probably wouldn’t.

The game went round and round over the next few moments.

Guy bet with her ring again, taunting the king so he could see what was just out of reach.

Wyatt folded early, still disgruntled and appearing wounded from earlier. Was it because he really had wanted to win against the king, but common sense told him that would be bad for him no matter how much his pride had wished it?

Or was it because Guy had won—his rival of sorts for Anne’s attention.

What a sore loser—really immature for a man his age, almost thirty.

No wonder Anne did not return his ardor.

The game heated as Anne continued to keep pace with Henry and Guy.

She was still hard to read, whereas the king was so thrilled with his hand, it took everything in Guy to not reach over and bat this imbecile upside the head.

“Your turn, Moore,” Henry said.

Guy paused and told Anne, “The only way I will ever learn to lose gracefully is if you teach me the lesson.” It was his thinly veiled way of egging her on, to beat the king and show him what a pompous prick he was.

She blushed and pressed her lips together, then went right back to her stately, aloof posture.

Guy grinned and took his turn.

“Show,” Henry said, his tone clipped and leaning forward, tapping the table with his left fingertips.

Just like previously, Henry gloated and showed his fabulous hand.

This time he had a Supremus. Definitely cheated.

It was the highest possible three flush with an Ace, six and seven—all shaking in his fingers as he made sure everyone saw it.

“That is quite the hand,” Guy admitted.

“Yes, it is,” the king agreed.

Anne cleared her throat, her eyes wincing as if in pain when she tossed her cards over and revealed she had won.

A royal fluxus.

Guy had the Primero this round—the lowest winning hand possible with one card from each suit.

The king choked on his own exasperated breath as he stared at her winning hand.

Guy laughed and set his hand down, not bothering to show them since it was pointless.

He bowed at her. “Well played, Mistress Anne.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Fuck! That acknowledgment of his title, and realizing she hadn’t given one to Henry this entire time, had his loins tightening and forming into what would possibly soon be a hideous throb.

He growled at the back of his throat, eating her alive with his eyes.

She turned toward the king.

Warring emotions played out in Henry’s expression.

“You may retire now,” the king told her.

She stood with ease and grace, curtsied again and left without sparing him a look, a kiss or another word.

Her winnings were left behind.

“I shall give her what is hers,” the king said.

A chill raced down Guy’s back.

That phrase had so many meanings.

Guy stood up, made his excuses and left, going in search of her right away.

After several minutes of looking for her and finding her missing, he retired to his own chamber, his head pounding with a horrendous wave of nausea hitting him.

Humiliating a king was exhausting.

He managed to rip his clothes off and toss them to the ground.

His breeches made a crinkling sound as they landed.

At once, his eyes lit up. Her note!

He went after it and gripped it tight, then flung himself onto his bed, reading it the second he was horizontal.

Dear sir,

While I did not pen this sentiment, I thought you would know best what to do with it. I entrust Wyatt’s poem to be in your care. It seems I am a deer and Henry is Caesar. Make of it what you will.

Anne

Whoso list to hunt—

Whoso list to hunt? I know where is an
hind!

But as for me, alas! I may no more,

The vain travail hath wearied me so sore;

I am of them that furthest come behind.

Yet may I by no means my wearied mind

Draw from the deer; but as she fleeth afore

Fainting I follow; I leave off therefore,

Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.

Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt

As well as I, may spend his time in vain!

And graven with diamonds in letters plain,

There is written her fair neck round about;

‘Noli me tangere; for Caesar’s I am,

And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

Guy tossed the letter onto his pillow next to his head and then he was up, retching and vomiting in his garderobe, cursing himself for ignoring the agency and his boss, Kara.

He had ignored their warnings—and time travel, it seemed, had caught up to him, crippling Guy when he most needed to be in action and in pursuit of this deer, fleeing Caesar—the great hunter.

Chapter 6

Guy groaned the next evening as he lay in bed, bones screaming at him for not taking better care of himself when he arrived here.

But he’d done this before. He’d ignored having a massage, drinking tons of liquids to stay well-hydrated and eating lots of cherries and drinking lemon juice to keep the effects of time travel out of his body.

It was like an exaggerated, temporary form of severe arthritis, only with a touch of flu as well with intermittent bouts of vomiting.

“Ah Christ!” he bit out when someone knocked with a booming sound at his door.

Pound, pound, pound, pound!

“Go awaaaaay,” he moaned, covering his head with his pillow, scattering bits of lavender twigs as he did it.

Why had he ever thought it was a good idea to put those flowers in his bed?

Now they irritated his skin, scratching and pricking at him.

Scratch, scratch. Pick, pick, pick.

Someone was picking the lock to his door.

He bit back a yell—it would only make his head burst into flame. It was still throbbing, and worse than last night.

Squeeeeeaaaak . . .

The door crept open.

“I said fuck off!” he hissed under his breath, his accent gone along with the refined, proper language of the time.

He was on his deathbed. Fuck decorum.

“Does that mean what I think it does?” a faint feminine voice called out.

“Yes—it means leave now before I rip your goddamn head off!” He tossed the pillow, fully expecting to see a frightened Anne.

Instead what he found was a buxom blonde, eyes filled with blue-eyed excitement.

“Mary—I swear to God—you need to leave. I am ill with bad humours and full of—”

“I know . . .” She fluttered her eyelashes and pursed her lips, casting her eyes to the floor, then shooting them back up at him with a coy look. “Anne told me you were unwell. I came to offer my services.”

He was in no mood to be sucked off if that was what she had in mind.

His brows popped up. “How, pray tell, does Anne know what state I am in? I have neither seen her nor anyone else in the last twenty-four hours.”

“She knows—somehow she has a sense about the men around her. She knows when they desire her, knows when they are being deceptive and she especially knows when someone is unwell.” Her shoulders hunched. “I do not know what kind of gift this is she possesses, but she was aware of you being out of sorts.”

He groaned and rolled his eyes up in his head he was tipping back. Why wasn’t Anne here instead of her simpering, foolish sister?

Had he made her so upset she refused to play with him anymore?

“You may take your leave. I am in no need of help. I am managing fine on my own,” he said, pointing at the door.

Her face fell and paled. “But . . . I . . . I m-meant only to—”

“Listen to me now, woman. I care not what you meant to do. I have no affairs with you now or ever, and if I ever catch you near my chamber door again, even if it’s simply to lurk, you shall regret it more than you can possibly know. I do not trifle with you. Do you understand?”