A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(64)

Exhilaration swarmed through her body. Halford did believe it. Colin was affected. She was a seductress. But she still hadn’t succeeded in her goal—pulling Colin away from the card table.

Minerva redoubled her efforts. She wove her fingers tight into his hair. She licked his neck, dragging her tongue from his pulse to his earlobe. With the tip of her tongue, she traced his ear’s every whorl and ridge.

“Upstairs,” she whispered. “Take me upstairs. Now.”

Colin’s hand fisted in the back of her dress, stealing her breath with a swift yank. But the sharp, secret rebuke only inflamed Minerva’s rebellious nature. Whose idea had it been for her to play this role? He had no right to complain. Besides, a part of her was enjoying this. Judging by the hard, heated ridge pulsing against her thigh, a part of him was enjoying it, too.

This doesn’t lie.

She kissed his collarbone, dropping her fingers to his shirt closures. Slipping loose one, then two, and snaking her fingers inside to caress his smooth, muscled chest.

The duke observed, “You’re getting rather low in your stack, Payne. Since you’re so uninterested in enjoying Melissande yourself, perhaps you’d care to make a friendly wager. I’d lay a great deal of money against such obvious and abundant . . . charms.”

Minerva had to work, very hard, not to betray her understanding with a sour look. Or a violent heave of her stomach.

Colin tensed as well. “Tread with caution, Halford.”

“Why? It’s not as though she can understand a word we say.” The duke shuffled and dealt the cards. “One hand, one winner. You put your girl on the table, and I’ll toss in one of mine. Whoever wins can enjoy double the amusement tonight.”

Every muscle in Colin’s body went instantly hard as stone. One of his hands balled in a fist. The other went to the pistol tucked at his hip.

Minerva’s blood turned icy in her veins. These protective impulses were all well and good, but the last thing she needed was for Colin to start trouble with the duke. They’d be cast out from Winterset Grange—running through the night this time, with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

A matter of minutes stood between them and disaster. But she could tell from his stormy expression, Colin wasn’t thinking more than ten seconds into the future.

Lifting Minerva off his lap, he pushed to his feet. He leveled a finger at the duke. “Don’t you ever—”

Smack.

Minerva slapped him, square across the face.

Colin blinked at her, clearly stunned.

She lifted her shoulders. He’d left her no choice. She had to stop the men’s argument somehow. And Colin couldn’t start a fight with the duke if she started a fight with Colin first. So . . .

Smack. She used her left hand this time, whipping his head the other direction.

Then she stood back, seething as dramatically as she imagined a dark-haired Alpine princess-assassin with hot blood could possibly seethe. Adopting a nonspecific accent—something halfway between Italian and French—she narrowed her eyes and said, “Yoooo. Bass. Tard.”

His brow wrinkled. “What?”

Oh, for God’s sake.

“Yoo!” She shoved at his chest with both hands. “Bass. Tard.”

Rising from his chair, Halford laughed. “I believe she’s calling you a bastard, friend. You’re in for it now. Seems the wench understands a bit of English after all. Whoops.”

At last, Colin caught on. “B-b-but Melissande, I can explain.”

She circled him, snarling. “Bass. Tard. Bass. Tard.”

When he spoke again, she could tell he was struggling not to laugh. “Calm down, pet. And whatever you do . . . please, I beg you, don’t go into one of your fits of wild temper and uncontrollable passion.”

Incorrigible rogue. She had no doubt he meant that as a dare.

Well, then. She would accept it.

Minerva reached for a glass of claret on the table. She downed most of it in a single gulp, then dashed the remainder straight in Colin’s face. Wine splashed them both. Ruby-red rivulets streaked down his stunned expression.

With a little growl, she threw herself at him, catching him by the shoulders and wrapping her legs over his hips. She licked the wine from his face, running her tongue over his cheeks, his chin . . . even his eyebrows. And then she ended her madwoman mistress performance with a slow, deep, savage kiss on the lips that had him moaning into her mouth and clutching her backside in both hands.

“Upstairs,” she growled against his lips. “Now.”

At last, he carried her from the room. And kissed her until they were halfway down the corridor. There he stopped, apparently unable to hold back the laughter one moment more. He pressed her to the wall and wheezed helplessly into her neck, shaking with laughter.

Well, she was glad someone found this amusing.

Still laughing, he set her on her feet and tugged her up a flight of stairs and down a side corridor. He flung open the door of a suite, obviously familiar to him. In decor, it suffered the same excess of gold leaf and dearth of good taste as the rest of Winterset Grange.

“Oh, Min. That was excellent.”

“That”—she banged the door shut—”was humiliating.”

“Well, it was a first-rate mistress performance.” He shrugged out of his coat, set aside the pistol, and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “What the devil was that, with the . . . the licking, and the wine? And how on earth did you think to—”