The king: His mail-order mate

The dinner

*Penny*

I have always enjoyed being in the company of The Perfect Hand. Kingsley sits to my left, at the head of the table. Across from me is Joker. Knight has taken up position at the foot of the table, and Ace sits beside me.

They are a handsome lot, but it is the beauty of their minds that I truly appreciate, the manner in which they strategize, the ease with which they share information with each other, the mystery of them. Other than King, I have no idea where their monikers have come from or their true names. In every encounter I have had with them, they only refer to themselves as the particular playing card they each represent. It doesn't strike me as an odd thing. Rather, it seems to suit them.

We are indulging in our second bottle of Bordeaux and beginning a course of beef filet smothered in a glazed sauce. I certainly find no fault with the chef who manages the kitchens of the full moon club.

"I say, King, I suppose you have heard the news that your former fiancee is soon to marry Mr. Castor Softpaw," Knight says.

I sense a subtle drop in temperature at the table as Kingsley slices his filet while the other gents reach for their wine glasses, their attention homed in on him.

"To be clear, we were never betrothed. She was merely a woman I courted. I wish her nothing but the best." he says.

"Well, she's already lost out on that, hasn't she, old boy?" Joker asks. "After all, she turned you down."

Kingsley just smiles. "She would have never been happy with me."

"Will any woman be?" Knight asks.

"One whose heart remains in her keeping, I should think." He admits.

I make a mental note to ask after a she-wolf’s heart when I begin holding my interviews, to discover if it belongs to someone else.

Yet if Kingsley has no heart to give, as he claims, is it fair to ask a woman to deny herself, even for a short while, the joy to be found in falling in love with another? But if she loves another, would she have written to him?

However, a title, prestige, influence, and wealth are strong motivators for some, more important than love for a few. If parents are particularly overbearing, all choice is taken away. Few young she-wolves can afford to be rebellious. I know that well enough, regret the one time I rebelled myself, because it cost my family dearly.

"I hear Softpaw's club is doing quite well," Ace says. "Are you familiar with it, Pettifur?"

I have always liked that the Alpha's friends have quickly adopted his practice of dispensing with the Miss portion when addressing me, as though they recognize I am equal to them, at least when it comes to the business aspect of our lives. "I have heard some rumors regarding it."

It is a scandalous place where the unmarried go to seek companionship for an evening. No chaperones are allowed. She-wolves with no reputation to worry over or no hope of marriage frequent the place. Men in want of something other than a business arrangement that concludes with an impersonal bedding spend an evening at the club.

"You are not a member?" He says.

"Certainly not." That isn't to say I haven't considered it. I wonder if these chaps are members.

"What is it called again?" Joker asks.

"The Fair and Spare Club," Kingsley answers as though irritated by the name. "Firstborn sons who are to inherit a title are not allowed. Although I'm given to understand that firstborn sons of commoners are welcomed. And there is an age restriction on She-wolves. They must be at least twenty-five to gain membership."

"Quite on the shelf then," Ace muses.

"I find it ridiculous that she-wolves are put out to pasture at such a tender age when men are never considered on the shelf," I dare to say out loud.

"I agree," Kingsley says. "Women tend to get really interesting only after they have had some seasoning to them."

I glance over to find him studying me steadfastly, his thumb and forefinger slowly stroking the stem of his wine glass, and I fight against imagining him stroking aspects of my person just as leisurely, savoring the texture of my skin, finding portions of it silkier. "But interesting is not a criterion you specified you wanted in your Luna."

"It's not." He admit.

"Then I need not eliminate those who are unseasoned." I say.

He shakes his head. "No."

"Good Goddess," Ace exclaims. "Pray, do tell us you have not given the task of finding you a mate to Pettifur."

Kingsley shrugs a shoulder the gods have designed for carrying heavy burdens. "I botched it royally the last time. Besides, I found it a tedious undertaking, and the whole point of my method is to save me some bother."

"Therefore, you give the task to a she-wolf who is as skilled as any of us at detecting a worthy investment?"

I am rather glad I am not wearing one of my serviceable dresses because the buttons down the front would have popped off with the swelling of my chest at the compliment, at being considered as skilled as these men who are recognized as being without match when it comes to identifying sound ventures.

"I employ Pettifur to handle the unpleasant tasks." Kingsley says.

Ace scoffs and grumbles beneath his breath, "More fool you." Then he winks at me. "If you are ever of a mind to secure a position where you wish to encounter only the more pleasurable aspects, let me know. I will hire you on the spot."

"Pettifur is mine. Attempt to steal her from me and I will see you destroyed." Kingsley growls.

My breath catches at the growled words. Surely, Kingsley is jesting, although the tautness of his jaw and the ticking of a muscle in his cheek make him appear deadly serious.

"I would expect no less," Ace says casually, calmly, and I'm surprised his hand isn't shaking when he picks up his wine glass, but his gaze remains steadfastly on Kingsley, almost daring him to come at him, then and there.

The tension at the table suddenly seems quite thick. A few shifting in chairs and clearing of throats ensue, and I'm not at all certain the others aren't anticipating the two men coming to blows.

Should I announce that I would never leave him, never abandon him? But even as I have the thought, I know it's dangerous to make a promise that might cause the fates to laugh and seek to prove me wrong. If he ever learns the truth of my past... it does not bear thinking about. And if I discover I cannot live with the torment of seeing him with his mate, well, I certainly won't take Ace up on his offer. I will need to go far away, where I will never have the opportunity to see Kingsley thriving in the marriage that I have arranged for him.

"I say, Ace," Knight begins cautiously, "weren't you going to share with us some investment opportunity?"

"Ah, yes, as a matter of fact, I did have something I thought we might find as enticing as Pettifur." He grins.

Enticing? Me? He's jesting now because I am no great beauty, and yet his words reflect kindness, not a mocking tone, as though he admires me. I do hope they will attribute the heightening color scalding my cheeks to the wine.

I lean down for my bag that I have placed on the floor beside my chair earlier so I have easy access to it, set it on the table, and reach inside for my notebook. I have it halfway out when Kingsley's hand lands on mine, nearly smothering it. His hand is so large and incredibly warm. Fascinatingly intoxicating.

Never before has he touched me so solidly, and for several heartbeats I stare at his long, thick fingers, his smoothly buffed nails, the raised tendons and veins that reflect power. When I finish my thorough perusal and lift my astonished gaze, I discover him intensely studying the joining as though he can't quite determine how it has happened. Or perhaps he is contemplating how best to extricate himself from the situation without drawing attention to it.

Finally, he says with a hushed whisper that I imagine he uses with his lovers, "You don't require your notebook."

"I thought I was here to take notes." The words come out breathless and soft, surprising me by the intimacy they seem to weave between us. He gives his head a small shake before meeting my gaze. In his eyes, I see what I have never before seen there: a hint of confusion. This bold, robust man always knows his mind, his oath. Even when he seeks my opinion, I understand it is a courtesy and nothing more. His decision is already made.

"It's not necessary. Enjoy the remainder of your dinner while concentrating on what he says. I'm certain you will remember it all." Slowly, he moves his hand away, and I wonder why it makes me feel bereft, as though I have lost something grand, formidable, and precious that can never be regained. My hand longs to reach across the short expanse and rejoin with his. Instead, I ball it tightly and nod quickly. "Yes, all right then."

As Ace begins to wax on about some mining operation somewhere, I doubt very much I'm going to be able to recall a single word he speaks, because I seem incapable of focusing on anything except how wonderful it felt to have Kingsley's hand resting over mine.