Page 11

“What are the stakes?” he asked.

Amelia rested her glass upon the table and drew a slow breath. This was the part she had rehearsed, murmuring it to her reflection while her maid brushed her hair. Now that he sat opposite her, watching with such interest, the words seemed far more daring than they had upstairs. Her heart pounded so hard she was certain he must hear it.

“Three deals. We keep the usual score, but settle each separately. The winner of each may request a forfeit.”

He narrowed his gaze, and candlelight caught the gold flecks in his eyes. “What sort of forfeit?”

“One chosen before we see our cards.”

“And if the request is refused?” he asked.

“Then the winner must think of something more agreeable,” she told him. “Our original terms remain.”

He nodded, but his attention had grown intent enough that she felt every breath she took, the rise and fall of her chest beneath the claret silk, the warmth creeping up her throat. “You have given this considerable thought.”

“I invited you at half past eleven,” she smiled. “I could hardly ask you to admire my curtains.”

His lids grew heavy as he stared at her. “I have not noticed the curtains.” No, he wouldn’t have… He had kept his gaze on her since he walked in.

“Then I shall forgive you.” Her lips twitched.

She shuffled, relieved to find her fingers steadied. The familiar motion, the whisper and snap of the cards, helped. She had played piquet often, usually against people who thought she was too impatient to follow the game closely. They generally learned otherwise.

Hartwick cut the pack and looked up at her, his expression open and expectant. “What shall we stake upon the first deal?”

Amelia had expected him to ask for a kiss. She had prepared to receive the suggestion with a suitably composed expression, her face already set in calm. Instead, he waited, patient, leaving the choice in her hands. The courtesy of it touched something tender in her. She looked at his immaculate cravat, crisp and white against his throat, and a wicked, delightful idea bloomed.

“If I win, I shall untie that.”

His gaze dropped to the linen at his throat, then returned to her. The slow change in his expression, the darkening of his eyes and the softening of his mouth, sent a warmth through her that had little to do with the wine.

He arched a brow. “Merely untie it?”

“Would you prefer that I took it away?” she asked.

“Yes.” His honest answer caught her delightfully off guard. She lowered her eyes to the cards before her expression could betray quite how much, though a flush climbed her cheeks and she could do nothing to stop it.

“Then I shall take it away.” She would keep it as a hard-won treasure.

“And if I win,” he said, “I should like to remove one pin from your hair.”

Amelia lifted her head, startled and thrilled. “One?”

“I was warned against demanding too much,” he told her.

She grinned. “You appear to have recovered from the warning.”

“You told me to do better, and I have thought of nothing else all day,” he said. “I aim to please.”

She wondered what else he had spent the day considering. He had thoroughly occupied her thoughts, though she had managed to conduct her usual business around them. She nodded at the right moments and answered when addressed. She had even answered one of the invitations upon her desk. She couldn't have said she had agreed to attend. “Very well,” she said. “One pin.”

By the end of the first deal, Amelia regretted two decisions. The first was allowing him to choose a forfeit involving her hair. The second was glancing at his hands when she ought to have been watching the cards he played. Twice she had lost the thread of the game, caught by the way he fanned his cards/ The way his thumb smoothed a corner, and twice she had felt his eyes upon her, amused and warm.

“You are very quiet,” Hartwick observed as she added the last points.

“I am contemplating your good fortune,” she said.

He smiled. “I had understood it to be skill.”