Nothing about Benedict was weak. Although he wasn’t playing, he managed to give the impression that he owned the table. Perhaps it was because of the intensity with which he watched the card play. Even though the only cards revealed at the end of each session were those held by the final two players—because they went around the table as many times as necessary with players betting or folding until only two remained—she was left with the impression he knew what cards were being dealt during each turn.
After deciding which card to discard, she would glance over at him. Usually, he would give a slight nod, and she would be pleased to have chosen correctly. But every now and then, he would give a subtle shake and when it was her turn to either toss money into the pot or fold, she would fold. And always, when the cards were revealed, she realized she would have lost no matter which card she tossed out.
His arms never moved from the back of the chair upon which they were folded. Just one hand ever unclamped from his upper arm and it happened only when he wanted to enjoy a bit of scotch. He wasn’t manipulating the cards, but she was willing to wager all the tokens now stacked before her that somehow he was helping her cheat.
And she didn’t care.
It almost always came down to her and Chadbourne as the final two players, and she almost always bested him. It felt so deliciously sweet to watch the various emotions flicker over his face: disbelief, disappointment, anger, resolve. Hewouldwin the next hand.
Only he rarely did. Sometimes his cards were so atrocious that even she, a novice, could have predicted he was bidding his chips farewell as he tossed them onto the heap in the center of the table.
Over the course of the evening, their group of six players dwindled to three, so more frequently now she and the earl paired off. Her confidence was growing, and because the lord’s stack of chips had diminished to such a degree that he would not remain at the table for much longer, she determined it was time to add a third game to the night. She decided to call it, “Irritating the Devil out of Chadbourne.”
“I crossed paths with Lady Jocelyn earlier today,” she said evenly as though the words no longer had the power to punch her in the gut.
His gaze snapped up from his cards to land solidly on her, and she faintly recalled a time when his attention devoted to her had made her fairly light-headed with giddiness. What a silly chit she’d been. She’d considered him elegant, refined, polished. But he was neither gold nor silver, merely brass.
“Where?” His delivery was curt. She suspected if he discovered the meeting had been intentional, he’d be having a sharp word with his betrothed.
She smiled sweetly. “Quite by accident, I assure you. It seems we’re using the services of the same dressmaker, if you can believe it.”
Based on the furrowing of his brow, it was likely he didn’t.
“Or we were,” she amended. “She decided to take her business elsewhere, without paying the seamstress for the work she’d already done on her behalf. The cheek of her. I suppose it shall fall to you as her future husband to make matters right. Knowing her preference in clothing, I should think her trousseau’s value rests at somewhere near five hundred pounds. If you would like to give me the amount before you leave here tonight, I’ll be more than happy to deliver it to Beth—the seamstress—when I go in for my fitting on Friday.” She tossed two chips into the pile. She’d gotten good at flicking her wrist just so in order to make them land on top of the others, so they made that lovely little clacking.
He was staring at her as though he didn’t know her any longer. And she realized with both a bit of satisfaction and sadness that he didn’t. “I’m certain her father will sort it.”
His two disks clattered.
“I do hope you’re correct. We wouldn’t want to see her cheated out of what she has rightfully earned.” She looked to Danny. One corner of his mouth quirked up slyly as he flicked his bet into the pile. As long as he stayed in the game, it would continue as would the new game she was playing. She picked up two wooden tokens and tapped them on the table. “When is the wedding to take place?”
“January. St. George’s, naturally.”
Naturally. The same church they’d chosen. The same month. It was surprising that the hurt had the same impact as the sting of a bee, which was hardly anything at all. Perhaps because while Benedict kept his hands locked around his upper arms so he couldn’t be accused of slipping her cards, he had slid his booted foot across the floor until it was nestled against hers, announcing secretly to her his solidarity and support as though they had been heralded with banners waving and trumpets blaring. Her knee knocked accidentally against his, and then returned to rest there, to absorb more fully the comfort he was offering. He fortified her with the simplest of gestures. “To be honest, I was surprised you went with her.”
Toss.
“I’ve always liked her.”
Clatter.
Danny’s tokens hit the pile.
“You certainly didn’t waste any time in asking her.”
Flick.
“After having chosen poorly the first time, I decided it would behoove me to quickly move on so my misjudgment could be soon forgotten.”
As the growl sounded, his hand froze in midair and his gaze shifted ever so slightly and ever so slowly to the man sitting beside her, whose hands had balled into fists. They still remained against his arms, but it was evident he was straining to keep them there. “You’d be wise to choose very carefully what you say next,” Benedict advised in a silky voice that she suspected resembled the one used by Satan when he welcomed someone into hell.
She gave him a gentle smile. “He can say nothing that will hurt me. To be hurt, I would have to care what he thought, and I no longer do.”
It was with a bit of wonder that she realized she’d spoken true. A weight she’d been carrying for months suddenly fell away. What did his opinion matter?
“You’re different,” Chadbourne said.
She turned her attention back to him, but for him she had no smile. “Yes, I quite imagine I am.”
