Page 41 of The Lady’s No Angel

Her gaze held his, the devil he’d seen flickering there bright with triumph. “I should get used to it if I were you.”

His heart gave an erratic thud in his chest, and the urge to throw the cards aside and drag her into his arms and do something most inadvisable, was hard to resist.

Clearing his throat, he dragged his mind—what remained of that sorry article—back to the game.

“To the play, then. Tricks.”

Miss Baxter led. A small card. Nothing dramatic.

Hart followed suit and won the trick. “Ha!” he exclaimed, relief flooding him despite telling himself it was ridiculous to get so het up over a stupid card game. They weren’t even playing for money. But then he wanted that kiss more than anything else he could name at present.

Miss Baxter said nothing, merely took the next card, and the next trick, and the one after.

The nagging suspicion that she had let him win the first trick was hard to swallow, but he was not dim enough to ignore what was right in front of him. He was good at cards and won far more often than he lost, but Miss Baxter was something else. It was like she could see into his brain, like she could see everything.

He forgot the cards then, watching her instead.

“Who taught you to play?”

Miss Baxter paused, a card suspended in mid-air for a moment before she laid it down. Hart played and muttered a curse. She’d won the next trick, devil take the girl.

“I used to play with my grandfather.”

“The one who was sweet on a girl who rode the high toby,” he remarked, considering this. No proper lady—at least not one as young and apparently innocent as she was — ought to play like this. What kind of man had her grandfather been?

Miss Baxter did not reply, though amusement flickered in her eyes as she played again. Another small card.

Hart took it and immediately realised he’d walked into a trap.

Her lips curved.

“Oh,” he said, and laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “You wicked little—”

“I hope you are not a bad loser, Mr Cleaver,” she said, sitting back and regarding him from under her lashes.

“Never,” he murmured, unable to look away.

A pink tinge bloomed over her pearly skin, and she turned her attention back to her cards. All business.

“Your lead,” she said briskly. She was all hard edges, and he knew then that she would crucify him rather than let him win that kiss.

Hart studied her, aware of something shifting in his chest, something new and… and rather inconvenient. He put his cards down with a soft laugh. Well, he’d wanted to know if a woman could like him, trust him for who he was, and now he had his answer.

“I think you’ve proved your point,” he said with a smile, though he did not feel like smiling. Not even a little. He’d thought they’d got to know each other, a bit at least, that she’d like him, but this well-crafted scene rather suggested otherwise. “I know a rout when I see one. You are an accomplished player, Miss Baxter, and one with powerful motivation, it appears. You want me gone. Don’t worry. I won’t breathe down your neck whenever you do what it is you need to do, and I’ll see you safe wherever you are going, just to be certain those villains are not still after you, and then we’ll go our separate ways.”

She stared at him, a mistrustful glint in her eyes. “Just like that?”

He shrugged, trying to read her, to see past the mask that seemed suddenly impenetrable. Wouldn’t she protest, just a little—tell him she’d miss him? “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Hart held her gaze, willing her to admit that it wasn’t, not in the least, but she only shrugged.

“Certainly.”

He nodded, gathering up the cards and returning them to his pocket.

“I’ll see you to your room,” he said, for he was a gentleman first, last, and always, and would never let a woman wander about a public hostelry alone.

So, he opened the door for her and followed her up the stairs, too depressed to even enjoy the way her bottom swayed as she climbed. When they reached her door, she looked up at him, her expression somewhat uncertain as she turned to bid him goodnight.

But Hart did not puzzle over it. His mind was in enough turmoil as it was. Everything was a muddle all at once, and he did not know what to do about it, about her. Not being the kind of fellow to make a cake of himself over a woman, he should know it was best to accept the situation. Just forget it, forget her, and—and do what, he didn’t know. He couldn’t think. He only knew he did not want to let her go, but he could not force her to let him stay, not if she didn’t want him to.