Page 12

“How unfortunate that you misunderstood.”

He laughed, low and easy, and leaned back, leaving her to finish the reckoning without interference. She checked it again, though she knew he had won, and tried to ignore the nervous thrill sliding down her spine. The margin was small enough to be insulting.

Amelia laid down the pencil. “You may claim your pin.”

Dominic rose. She had imagined him reaching across the table and selecting one at random. When he came around to stand beside her chair, tall and warm and near, she felt a sudden, foolish impulse to rise too. She remained seated, her hands pressed against her skirts.

“Which one may I take?” he asked.

The question softened something in her, loosening a knot she had not known she was holding. He was asking. She touched the pin just above her left ear, her fingertips grazing her own hair. “This one.”

He bent slightly, his hand approaching slowly enough that she could have turned away. Amelia watched him until she could no longer do so without lifting her chin at an absurd angle. Then her eyes drifted closed, and his fingers brushed her hair. The contact was light. Her response was not. A shiver ran from her scalp to her toes, and gooseflesh rose along her bare arms. He eased the pin free, catching the curl it released before it could tangle, his touch careful, almost reverent. His knuckles grazed her neck, and she drew a breath she hadn't meant him to hear, soft and unsteady.

Dominic stilled. “Have I hurt you?”

“No.” She opened her eyes and looked up. He was close enough that she could see the faint line between his brows, concern softening his face. “You are taking rather a long time to collect such a small prize.”

“I am enjoying it.”

Her mouth curved despite the warmth in her cheeks, and her heart beat slowly and heavily. “Then you had better win another.”

He placed the pin beside her glass and returned to his seat. He did not pocket it. She noticed that small courtesy and liked him more for it, a quiet gladness settling in her chest. She liked him considerably more for the way he looked at the curl now resting against her shoulder, as though he had been entrusted to guard something precious.

“Your turn to deal,” she said, and was dismayed to find her voice a little husky.

“And the stakes?” he asked.

“The same.”

He paused with the pack in his hands. “You are determined to have my cravat.”

“It has begun to offend me,” she said in a teasing tone.

His lips twitched. “I shall try not to take that personally.”

“You may take it very personally, if you like.”

This time she kept her attention upon her cards, her eyes fixed on the painted faces, her pulse a restless flutter at her throat. Mostly. When she won the second deal, Amelia let herself smile before announcing the score, a bright, triumphant curve she didn't bother to hide.

Hartwick glanced at the tally, then at her, his eyes warm. “I believe you enjoyed that.”

“Immensely.” She could not hold back a smile. She rose and came around the table, stopping beside his chair. He turned toward her, his knees angled away from the baize, and waited, his hands resting on his thighs, utterly still. He sat so willingly under her gaze, more enticing than anything she had imagined while preparing for this night. Power and tenderness tangled together in her chest, a heady, unfamiliar mixture. “Will you lean back a little?” she asked.

He obeyed, his head tipping against the chair, his throat bared. Amelia reached for the knot. The linen was warm from his skin and faintly scented with sandalwood. She became immediately conscious of how near her fingers were to his throat and the steady pulse she could see beating there. She loosened the first fold, then another, taking her time. Beneath her hands, he swallowed, and she felt the movement against her knuckles. She glanced at his face. His eyes darkened, fixed on her, and his lips parted slightly. “You need not look so solemn. I have untied a cravat before.”

“I am attempting not to interfere,” he told her.

“With what?” she asked.

His voice was hoarse as he spoke, “The enjoyment you are taking in it.”

She smiled, a quick, helpless thing, then eased the linen free and drew it slowly from around his neck. Its soft whisper was loud in the quiet room. His collar lay less precise afterward, open at the base of his throat. She could see the hollow there and a small portion of skin she had spent the previous evening imagining. Her fingers rested there before she stopped them. Her fingertips pressed lightly to the warm skin above his collarbone.

His breath changed, catching and deepening.

Amelia felt the sound as much as heard it, a tremor beneath her touch. She looked down at her hand, startled by how easily she had touched him. No negotiation, no fearful calculation of whether he would welcome it, and no flinching from what she wanted.

He welcomed it. She felt it beneath her fingertips, in the quickened pulse and held breath, and the knowledge rose through her like sunlight. “Have I collected too much?” she asked quietly.