Scottish Brides by Christina Dodd

in the billiard room, Duncan didn’t smile. “I can take no credit, I fear—this area is Mama’s domain.”
    â€œI must remember to commend her ladyship.” Mrs. Edmonton sailed down the long room, admiring the display. Clarissa followed more slowly.
    Duncan turned to Mr. Edmonton. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you here. There’s some business I need to attend to.”
    Mr. Edmonton smiled. “Indeed, my lord. You’ve been most kind in giving us your time.”
    â€œNot at all.” Duncan inclined his head. “Dinner will be at seven.”
    His “business” took him straight to the billiard room. He opened the door—and beheld a sight similar to the one that had stopped him in his tracks earlier in the day. This time, Rose was leaning over the billiard table, laughter spilling from her bright eyes, her ivory breasts all but spilling from the neckline of her dress. Jeremy Penecuik was beside her, his hands wrapped about the cue Rose was angling.
    That much, Duncan had expected. What he hadn’t fore-seen was that it was Rose teaching Penecuik, not the other way about.
    Rose’s smile, predictably, widened at the sight of him; to his relief, she straightened.
    â€œDuncan— perfect. You’re just the man we need.”
    With an imperious wave, she gestured him in. Belatedly wary, Duncan complied. If Penecuik had not been there, he would have been tempted to retreat; he’d learned to distrust that particular light in Rose’s eye.
    â€œJeremy can’t play, and I’m finding it impossible to demonstrate—he’s left-handed.” As she spoke, Rose crossed to the rack holding the cues and took down another. Then she turned and, head on one side, regarded Duncan. “If you and I play an exhibition match, Jeremy can see how it’s done.”
    Then her eyes twinkled.
    â€œAre you game?”
    Duncan’s jaw locked; he was crossing the room toward her before he’d had time to think. Then he thought—and it made no difference; he was incapable of walking away from her challenge.
    He stopped by her side; looking down at her, he took the cue from her hand. “What form?”
    She smiled, and her dimples winked. “Just the usual.”
    They proceed to play; he knew she played well—he’d taught her himself, one day long ago, when she hadn’t driven him to distraction first. Now . . . he watched from across the table as she sighted along her cue, and tried to remember to breathe.
    She potted two balls, then rounded the table; dragging in a quick breath, Duncan stayed where he was, leaning on his cue. Only to be treated to an equally mesmerizing sight: that of the ripe hemispheres of Rose’s luscious bottom, outlined beneath her thin gown as she leaned over the table. His mouth dried like a desert.
    Rose missed and cursed lightly; forcing his eyes to the balls, Duncan approached the table to take his shot. Rose leaned one hip on the table beside him. Duncan bent low. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on the ball—and tried to block out her perfume, and the more subtle scent that was her and her alone. He drew in a tight breath; her scent wreathed through his brain.
    His gut locked; his hand trembled.
    He missed the shot.
    Rose raised her brows. “Hmm.” She slanted Duncan a provocative glance. “You can’t have been practicing in London.”
    She circled the table and selected a ball; as she bent over her cue, at the edge of her vision, she saw Duncan tense. Inwardly frowning, she sighted this way, then that, wondering at his response. She wasn’t teasing him just now, so why was he tensing?
    By the time she sank three balls, she’d worked it out—but it still made no sense. Duncan was thirty-five; she was quite sure he’d seen more than a few female breasts in his time, all considerably more bare than hers. She had a great deal more claim to being