Page 39 of The Lady’s No Angel

“I don’t lose,” she retorted, the words crisp and so wonderfully arrogant he could only gaze at her, heart thudding. Lord, he was a sorry case, but she was so utterly delicious.

“Is that right?”

Across the table, Mrs Pettigrew smothered a wide yawn, and Miss Baxter’s face fell.

“Oh, but Milly is worn to a thread. I had best not,” she said, though her regret was palpable.

“No, no,” Milly said, though she fought another yawn as she spoke. “I’ll go up, but you two can play cards.”

Hart nodded his agreement to this as Miss Baxter followed her maid to the door.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, but just cards, mind,” the woman hissed at her. She turned back, eyeing him. “I trust you to act like a gentleman, Mr Cleaver, else I’ll be using your namesake in ways you won’t be enjoying much.”

Hart suppressed a snort as she sashayed out of the room. He ought to insist Miss Baxter went with her. If he was any kind of gentleman, he would. But he had the depressing notion that their adventure might soon be over, and that Miss Baxter would never confide in him. Not unless he pushed… just a little. He could be charming, he knew. Certainly, the ladies had always fallen into his lap easily enough, but then he’d been a marquess, and the heir to a dukedom didn’t have to exert himself.

He wondered if Miss Baxter would fall into his lap if she knew and felt a surge of relief that she did not. If she liked him, she liked him, not his title, not the land and the property, and the fortune, and all the rest that went with it.

What if she doesn’t like you? whispered an unpleasant voice at the back of his mind.

Hart pushed it away. She did like him. Just not enough. Not yet. He must win her over. Somehow.

He watched as Miss Baxter returned to the table, his gaze falling to the way her hips moved beneath the green gown. She sat, eyeing him from beneath sooty lashes.

“What shall we play?” she asked, and he did not miss her provocative little smile. He had kissed that mouth. The thought was like a flaming dart, arrowing straight to his groin.

Hart cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter and reminding himself the cards were supposed to distract him from the urge to indulge in lustful behaviour. Sadly, no one had told Miss Baxter that.

“Whist?”

She pulled a face, shaking her head. “Piquet.”

Hart eyed her, wondering, as ever, what it was she hid behind those dark, dark eyes. Piquet was a game for sharp minds, one that separated clever players from merely lucky ones. It rewarded those who could read people, who could deceive and misdirect.

Oh, yes. He could see why she had chosen it.

The little minx.

Hart sorted the cards, discarding those between two and six and setting them to one side. Taking up the remaining deck, he sat back, stretching out his legs and shuffling lazily. “Know how to play, do you?”

“I believe I remember how,” she replied with a little frown. “But you may need to refresh my memory.”

Hart narrowed his eyes at. He’d had cause recently to reevaluate any foolish ideas about women and cards and the notion that they were not capable of being as ruthless as any man. He did not buy her innocent act.

“What are we playing for?” he asked, aware his heart was beating too fast.

She considered, though he felt sure she already knew what she would say. “If I win, you’ll escort us to the heath and then go away.”

He sat up in alarm. “Are you mad? What if those fellows turn up?” he exclaimed, shaking his head and trying his damndest not to notice the strange ache that had begun in his heart. She wanted him gone. Not that he was surprised. It had been inevitable. Plague take the girl, what was she hiding?

“I have a pistol, and it’ll be a deal harder to sneak up on us in broad daylight on the heath. Anyway, those are my terms. Are you afraid of losing then?” she asked him with a mocking smile.

Hart swallowed a groan of frustration, considering her as he shuffled. Well, if she could be obvious, so could he.

“Very well, I agree.” After all, if she could not see him, she need not know he had not kept strictly to their agreement. “And if I win, you’ll kiss me, and not just a peck on the cheek, either.”

The words lingered in the air between them, but she didn’t so much as bad an eyelid, though a touch of delicate pink crested her high cheekbones.