Despite my distaste for gambling because of the risks of losing perfectly good money, I wanted to tarry a bit longer, to remain in his irresistible orbit. It probably wasn’t smart. In such an informal setting, I could very well say or do something that might give me away, but the exhilaration spiraling through me at the thought of being next to him eclipsed all my worries.
“It’s simple,” he said. “Once you get the hang of it.”
I dug into my pockets to place a handful of coins on the green baize and pushed the required sum over to the dealer. “You have to get to twenty-one, correct?” I said to St. Clair, who nodded. “And you win or lose whatever you have wagered, depending on the winning score. If you get twenty-one, it’s called a natural, and if you go overdraw, you automatically lose.” I released a self-deprecating laugh. “I never know when to ask for another card or not.”
“I can help you,” St. Clair said and then seemed surprised by his own offer. “If you’d like, I mean.”
I wanted to blush and fan my suddenly overheated face, butI squared up and rapped him on the shoulders instead.Hard.So hard that my palm was aching, and I had to hide my own wince at the reverberating pain shooting up my arm. Under all that serviceable tweed, St. Clair was clearly as well muscled as the twins.
“Capital,” I agreed much too brightly, and clenched my bruised fist.
The dealer distributed two cards face up to each of the five players on the table. I stared down at mine—three of hearts and an ace of clubs. St. Clair held a king and a queen. Each of his face cards had a value of ten points, I knew, which put him in an enviable position with twenty to win. He smirked, and I tried valiantly not to notice how his eyes sparkled or the surprising peekaboo dimple that appeared out of nowhere.Gah!My pulse sped up stupidly as I forced myself to focus on the game instead of a facial indent that should come with its own warning label—beware intense peril to brain.
I breathed out and shook my head.
Pay attention, you silly goose!
Since an ace could count as one point or eleven, I technically had a total of four or fourteen points. The dealer kept one of his cards face down, and the visible one was a jack of spades. I attempted to calculate the odds of winning in my head, though I had no way of knowing what cards had already come and gone. St. Clair might have an idea, since he’d been sitting here awhile, but I would have to wait until the entire deck was shuffled to keep a true tally.
In a normal deck, there were twelve face cards—a jack, a queen, and a king, in each of the four suits—as well as four aces.All the others counted as the values marked on their faces. Studying my hand, I had to assume that the dealer was hiding at least ten points or had a natural—points equaling twenty-one—which was the whole point of the game.
“Hit,” the player on the end said with his total of fifteen, and the dealer gave him another card. He made a disgusted face as a queen put his total to twenty-five. A bust.
“Stand,” the gentleman next to him said. His cards totaled eighteen points.
The player to the left of him went over twenty-one by a single point, and he swore loudly. I tried not to gasp as the crass expletive echoed over the table, reminding myself that my usual sensibilities had to be hardened in male company. No flinching over someone swearing or I’d give myself away.
St. Clair chose to stay with his twenty, a wise decision, and then it was my turn. “Hit,” I said past the thick knot in my throat. My shoulders hunched as a nine of diamonds appeared. If I counted the ace as eleven points, my tally would be twenty-three, so I would go over, which meant I had to count it as one point. Thirteen it was, then. “Hit,” I said again. A two of spades materialized, which brought my total to fifteen.
I wavered. Fifteen was a respectable number, especially if the dealer went over. St. Clair raised a brow but remained silent. Hadn’t he promised to help me? But it looked like he was going to watch me make a fool of myself all on my own. Typical.
No matter, I did not need him. All I had to decide was whether I wanted to play it safe or take the risk. I peered at the dealer’s face, but he gave away nothing.
“Hit,” I pronounced, and waited with bated breath.
The dealer flipped a five of hearts. I exhaled in relief.Twenty.
“Sir?” he asked me.
“Stand,” I said.
St. Clair indicated he would stay as well and then the dealer flipped his hidden card over. My heart sank as a collective sigh echoed over the table at the sight of the ace of clubs—the lucky bastard had a natural, which meant we all lost.
“Bad luck,” St. Clair murmured, though it didn’tallfeel like bad luck when he graced me with a genuine smile of commiseration. Strange that it would take a losing hand of cards to feel like we were on the same side instead of at opposite ends of a competitive pitch. I dug in my pocket for more coins to cover the next round.
I won that game by pure luck with a count of nineteen when the dealer was forced to go over his sixteen to beat my hand. Pleased as punch with my winnings, instead of leaving the table as I probably should have, my body decided to stay put since St. Clair showed no signs of leaving either. Considering the pile of money in front of him, he was doing well.
After another hand, in which my tutor won handsomely, the dealer shuffled a new deck of cards. I sat forward, intent on paying attention to the fifty-two cards that were going to be used so that I could monitor the higher face cards, but after more than a few rounds, I’d already lost track of them.
Drat and botheration!
Though that was likely because I kept getting distracted by the proximity of the boy next to me, and that accursed dimple.I was keenly focused on not leaning in to inhale his delicious scent. He smelled like a winter evening spent by the fireplace with warm spiced chocolate in hand. On top of that, a loose lock of his dark hair kept falling over his brow, and I itched to push it back. Would his hair feel soft or coarse? Would it be thick or fine like gossamer?
I was much too curious about him for comfort.
Wearing a slight frown, he drummed his long fingers on the edge of the baize-wrapped table. They were strong fingers with carefully clipped nails. Nail health said a lot about a person—bitten nails pointed to an anxious or easily irritable personality, nail texture and color indicated healthy body functions or vitamin deficiencies, and nail length pointed to other traits like practicality, diligence, or indolence. They weren’t always an accurate measure, but his nails were short, clean, and square. He had beautiful hands.
“Sir?” the dealer said loudly, just as St. Clair bumped me with his elbow, jolting me out of my woolgathering. Heat singed my neck as I tore my gaze away, and I was deeply and profoundly grateful that my idle thoughts were private.
