The first game was a series of trials, Connor testing her strength and Martin’s, too, while Martin assessed both Connor and Meredith, at the same time watching her play closely. As often happened, the cards fell her way, but capitalizing against an opponent of Connor’s caliber was no easy task. Nevertheless, with Martin’s guidance, they triumphed and took the first game.
With the rubber decided on the best of three games, Amanda was delighted. Sitting back, she stretched her arms, smiling at Mellors when he served her a glass of champagne. Glasses were dispensed all around; she took a gulp, then sipped. The men finished theirs in two mouthfuls; Mellors topped up the glasses, including hers.
Martin cut, Connor dealt and the second game began.
As hand followed hand, Martin was, for the first time in a long time, unsure whether he would win. Even more surprisingly, he cared, not for himself, but for the angel who sat across from him, candlelight laying a tracery of gold over her fair hair. It was lush, thick, lustrous. His fingers itched to touch, to stroke, and not only her hair. Her complexion was flawless, that milky perfection found only among certain English damsels. Many struggled to attain the same effect with potions and creams, but in Amanda Cynster’s case, her skin was natural, unblemished alabaster.
As for her eyes, they were cornflower blue, the same shade as the most expensive sapphires. Jewels by any name, those eyes were curiously innocent, aware yet . . . she was not naive, but was as yet untouched by worldly cynicism. The dross of life had yet to tarnish her. She was a virgin, he had not a doubt.
For a connoisseur of his highly developed, distinctly exotic tastes, she was the perfect English rose.
Just waiting to be plucked.
She very likely would have been as an outcome of this night if he hadn’t stepped in. What the devil she was doing here, swanning through the latest hell like a lure in a pond full of hungry trout, he couldn’t conceive.
In truth, he didn’t want to think too much of her, of her thoughts, her actions, her desires. His only motive in hauling her out of the hole she’d fallen into was purely altruistic. He’d seen her trying to avoid old Connor while still retaining her pride; he’d understood why she’d dug in her heels, made a stand, then flown in the face of all wisdom and accepted Connor’s wager.
He knew very well what it meant to lose one’s pride.
But once they won and she was safe, he’d walk away, return to the shadows where he belonged.
Regretfully, admittedly, but he’d do it nonetheless.
She was not for him and never would be. He’d left her world long ago.
The last trick fell to Connor. Martin scanned the tally Connor was keeping on the table between them. One more hand, and unless the gods intervened, Connor and Meredith would take the current game, evening the score.
Time to change tactics.
The next hand went as he expected. Connor crowed and called for more champagne as he shuffled for the first hand of the deciding game. Noting the faint flush in his partner’s fair cheeks, Martin beckoned Mellors closer as the man bent to fill his glass, and murmured his own instructions.
Mellors had a nice appreciation of who was who among his wealthier patrons; passing back by Amanda’s chair, he clipped the candelabra, grabbed to steady it and instead knocked her glass—the glass he’d just filled with fine French champagne—to the floor. With copious apologies, Mellors retrieved the glass and promised to bring another.
He did, sometime later, as they were nearing the end of the first hand.
Amanda studied her cards and waited for Connor to lead. Neither she nor any of the others had yet played a false card—they’d done the best possible with the hands they’d been dealt. Luck, to date, had been the deciding factor.
Not a comforting thought. Especially as Connor had proved to be even more expert than she’d suspected. If it hadn’t been for the large, reassuring figure seated opposite her, languidly tossing cards across Connor’s, she’d have panicked long ago. Not that spending three hours in Connor’s company was all that worrisome, but how to do so safely without her family hearing of it . . . that aspect had only occurred to her once they’d started the second game.
Now it exercised her greatly. Losing to Connor would not help her search for a husband at all. Damn the man. Why had he had to challenge her, especially as he had, triggering her temper and her pride?
Still, that challenge had brought Martin out of the shadows . . .
She concentrated on her cards, steadfastly keeping her senses from stealing across the table. That she couldn’t afford, not at present; once they won, she could indulge said senses all she wished. That promise, dangling before her, kept her wits focused. The cards fell; the temperature increased. She reached for her glass, sipped.
Frowned, and sipped again. Frown easing, she gulped gratefully.
Water.
“Your play, my dear.”
She smiled at Connor; setting aside her glass, she considered briefly, then trumped his ace. A smile flickered over Martin’s lips; she refused to stare and carefully led another trump.
They won the hand, but the points were sparse. Connor was not inclined to grant them any favors. Hand followed hand, fought tooth and nail. Martin was playing more aggressively, but so, too, was Connor.
By the fourth hand, Martin could with absolute confidence state that the Earl of Connor was the finest player he’d ever had the pleasure of opposing. Unfortunately, that pleasure was muted by the wager hanging on the game’s outcome. Both he and Connor were pressing every advantage in a duel of feints and misleads. Thus far, Amanda had adhered to his injunction; he prayed she wouldn’t get distracted by his or Connor’s tactics.
Time and again, she would glance at him, worrying her full lower lip between small white teeth. He’d meet her gaze, hold it . . . as if gaining strength from that fragile contact, she’d draw breath, then play her card—straight and true, as he’d asked. For a female, she was proving surprisingly good at holding to a difficult line. His respect for her grew as the cards continued to fall.
The candles burned down. Mellors came to replace them. All four players sat back and waited, grasping the moment to rest eyes and minds.
They’d been playing for hours.
Martin, Connor and Meredith were used to all-night games. Amanda was not. Tiredness dulled her eyes even though she fought to keep it at bay. When she stifled a yawn, Martin felt Connor glance—surprisingly—at him.
He met the old reprobate’s gaze. Sharp as a lance, it rested heavily on him, as if Connor was trying to see into his soul. Martin raised his brows. Connor hesitated, then turned back to the cards. They were neck and neck, two points each, but the hands continued to turn without adding to either result, so evenly were they matched.
He dealt the next hand and they continued.
It was experience, in the end, that handed them the game. Even so, when the habitual counter in Martin’s head alerted him to the revoke, he didn’t immediately call it.
Why Connor would make such a mistake was difficult to see. Even had he been wilting, which he wasn’t. Anyone could make a mistake, true enough—Martin was sure Connor would offer precisely those words if asked.
He waited until the last trick was played. He and Amanda had gained one point on the hand. Before Connor could sweep up the cards, Martin murmured, “If you’ll turn up the last four tricks . . . ?”
Connor glanced at him, then did. The revoke was instantly apparent. Connor stared at the cards, then blew out a breath. “Damn! My apologies.”
Amanda blinked at the cards, then raised her eyes to Martin’s face, a question in the blue.
He felt his lips curve. “We’ve won.”
Her lips formed an O. She looked down at the cards with greater interest. With increasing delight.
The crowd watching from afar had dwindled, but all present now woke up, leaving the tables to learn of the outcome. Within minutes, an excited hum of conversation and exclamation lapped around them.
Against it, Connor, in quite gentlemanly vein, considering the circumstances, explained his fault to Amanda, and how the penalty had handed them the game and thus the rubber. Then, with an almost comical switch in his tone, he pushed back his chair and stood. “Well! That’s that, then!”
He scowled down at Amanda.
Amanda blinked, wary of the mischievous, malicious light that gleamed in Connor’s eyes.
“I’ll send the mare around first thing tomorrow morning—Upper Brook Street, ain’t it? Enjoy her in good health.”
That last was said with unholy glee.
Reality crashed down on her. “No! Wait—” Where the devil was she to stable this horse? How could she explain how she’d come by such an animal? And it was odds on that Demon, currently in town, would drop by the instant he heard, recognize the beast, know to whom it had belonged—and start asking all manner of awkward questions.
“Let me think . . .” She glanced at Reggie, blinking owlishly, half asleep. No help there; Reggie resided with his parents and his mother was her mother’s bosom-bow. “Perhaps . . .” She glanced at Connor, still standing over her. Could she refuse the horse? Or, given the incomprehensible slew of rules surrounding male wagers, was even suggesting such a thing a base insult?
“I daresay—” Martin’s deep voice, cool and calm, cut across her whirling thoughts.
She and Connor turned to him, a conquering hero elegantly at ease in the large chair, a glass of champagne in one long-fingered hand.
“—that Miss Cynster might not have room in her stables at present for the mare.” His changeable green gaze fixed on her face. “My stables are large and only half full. If you wish, Connor can send the mare to my establishment and you may send word whenever you wish to ride her, or to move her, once you’ve had time to make the necessary arrangements.”
Relief swept her. The man was a godsend in more ways than one. She beamed. “Thank you. That would suit admirably.” She glanced up at Connor. “If you would be so good, my lord, as to deliver the mare to Lord Martin’s house?”
Connor stared down at her, his expression inscrutable. “Lord Martin’s house, heh?” Then he nodded. “Very well. Consider it done.” He hesitated, then reached down, took her hand and bowed. “You play remarkably well for a female, my dear, but you’re not in my class—or his.” With his head he indicated Martin. “In your future forays into the hells, you’d be wise to remember that.”
Amanda smiled sweetly. Thanks to Connor’s wager, the need for further forays into the hells had evaporated, and she had no intention of forgetting Martin.
Releasing her hand, Connor stumped off. Meredith, who had said not a word throughout, rose stiffly, bowed, and murmured, “It was a pleasure, Miss Cynster.”
With that, he followed Connor through the gloom and away.
Amanda turned to Martin and favored him with her best smile. “Thank you for your offer, my lord—I would indeed find it difficult to accommodate the mare on such short notice.”
He regarded her steadily, that gentle, somewhat wistful amusement very evident, at least to her. “So I would imagine.” He raised his glass to her, then drained it and set it down. He rose; she did, too.
“I must thank you, too, for your assistance throughout.” She smiled again, her mind skating over his offer to partner her, his replacement of her champagne with water, his arranging for the candlelight, the many moments during the play when his steady, moss-green, gold-flecked gaze had kept her from panicking. She let the thoughts light her eyes, and held out her hand. “You were indeed my champion this night.”
His lips kicked up at the ends; he took her hand, long fingers closing strongly about hers . . . and hesitated. Amanda looked into his eyes and realized they’d changed again, grown darker. Then he bowed and released her.
“Connor was right—hells like Mellors are no place for you, but I fancy you’ve realized that.” His gaze roamed her face, then he reached into his pocket and drew out a silver card case. He extracted a card and offered it between two fingers. “So you know where to send for the mare. Send a message and one of my grooms will bring her around.” His gaze touched her face again, then he inclined his head. “Good-bye, Miss Cynster.”
She brightly reiterated her thanks. As he turned away, she glanced at his card. “Good God!”
The exclamation escaped her despite her years of training. Without thinking, eyes fixed on the card, she caught the sleeve of the man who had been her partner through the night. Obediently, he halted.
She couldn’t, at first, drag her eyes from the card—a simple, expensive rectangle of white with a gold crest upon it. Beneath the crest was stamped one word: Dexter. Beneath that was an address in Park Lane, one she knew had to belong to one of the huge old mansions fronting the park. But it was the name that turned her world upside down.
Hauling her gaze from it, she looked up at him. It took a moment to get enough breath to even gasp, “You’re Dexter?”
The rakish, rumored-to-be-profligate, elusively mysterious Martin Fulbridge, fifth Earl of Dexter. She certainly knew of him, of his reputation, but tonight was the first time she’d set eyes on him. She realized she was clutching his sleeve and released him.
That self-deprecatory amusement was back in his eyes. When, stunned, she continued to stare, he raised one brow, cynical, yes, but world-weary as well. “Who else?”
His gaze held hers, then moved unhurriedly over her face, returned to her eyes. Then he inclined his head, and, as always unhurriedly, left her.
Exiting Mellors, Martin sauntered out into Duke Street. He walked along, senses honed in a more dangerous world instinctively noting that there were no miscreants lurking in the ink-black shadows.
A projecting store front cast its own front door into stygian gloom. He stopped, cloaked in the darkness, and waited.
Three minutes later, a footman hauled open the door of Mellors, peered out, then whistled and beckoned; a small black carriage that had been waiting down the street rumbled forward. Martin inwardly nodded in approval. Mellors appeared, escorting Amanda Cynster and Reggie Carmarthen to the carriage. They entered, the door was shut, then the driver shook his reins and the carriage lumbered off.
A statue in the dark, Martin watched it roll past—caught a fleeting glimpse of honey gold hair, saw Carmarthen leaning forward, lecturing determinedly. Martin grinned; quitting the shadows, he continued on his way.
The night enveloped him. He felt completely at home walking the London streets in the small hours, completely at peace. Why that should be so was a mystery, but he’d long ago learned the futility of questioning fate. Peculiar indeed that here, surrounded by the society into which he’d been born, the society he now eschewed, was one of the few places on earth he felt at one with all about him, even though all those who would rush to recognize him were snoring in their beds, oblivious as he walked past their doors.
Turning into Piccadilly, he lengthened his stride, his mind sliding back to the fascinating question of what game had been played out that night.
His initial interpretation had been that Connor, the lecherous old toad, had set his sights on Amanda Cynster, but as the challenge had played out, he’d grown increasingly unsure. Connor’s wording of the wager had left her, win or lose, in no danger, but playing a rubber with Connor had prevented her from interacting with Mellors’ other patrons. What Connor hadn’t foreseen was that Carmarthen wouldn’t—presumably couldn’t—partner her, landing her in an invidious position that Connor hadn’t, he felt sure, intended at all.
He’d watched her, those huge blue eyes scanning the room, looking for a savior . . .
Inwardly he shook his head, wondering at his unexpected susceptibility. When had he become so ridiculously chivalrous, prey to a pair of admittedly fine eyes? There were many in London and far beyond who would laugh at the very idea, yet when faced with the sight of Amanda Cynster struggling to hang on to her pride, to his immense surprise he’d found himself on his feet,
offering to be her champion.
Even more surprising, he’d enjoyed it. The game had been more challenging, more riveting than any he’d enjoyed since returning to England, doubly amazing given his partner had been female. Not only had she demonstrated uncommon wit and intelligence, she’d also had the sense not to gush, not to be excessive in her thanks. He thought again of her reactions, and smiled. To some extent, she’d taken his support as her natural due, even though she hadn’t, then, known who he was. She was in some degree a princess—it was only right she have a knight as her champion.
Connor’s contribution intrigued him. His suspicions of the other man’s benevolent intentions had been all conjecture, until that revoke. Not in a month of Sundays would he believe Connor had made the mistake. Sometime during the course of the game, Connor had decided that losing and leaving Amanda Cynster in debt to him was an acceptable risk.
Martin was not at all sure what he should make of that. Perhaps nothing beyond the fact that Connor was inordinately shrewd. For he was perfectly correct—Amanda Cynster stood in no danger from the raffish Earl of Dexter. He harbored no designs on her at all. He knew precisely who he was, who she was, and she wasn’t for him. He’d enjoyed the past hours in her company, but he wasn’t about to let a pair of jewel eyes and rosebud lips—not even a skin like satin and hair like silk—change his careful ways.
Ladies such as Amanda Cynster had no place in his life. Not now, not ever again. Ignoring the regret that whispered, a faint, suppressed echo through his mind, he turned into Park Lane and strode for his house.
“I’ve found him!” Eyes alight, Amanda dragged Amelia into her bedchamber and shut the door. “He’s perfect. Simply magnificent—I couldn’t wish for more.”
Amelia squeezed her hands. “Tell me.”
Amanda did. When she finished, Amelia looked as stunned as Amanda had. “Dexter?”
“The mysterious, elusive, rumor-cloaked Earl of Dexter.”