Page 43
She opened his eyes to find him staring at her. “That—that does what?” Her voice was not steady.
“Call in your luck. Now roll.”
She flung the ivory cubes away from her as if she could shake off the tingles that raced through her at his nearness, his heated breath, and intoxicating smell of him. How did he have such power to overset her senses? Why now?
His mouth twitched. “Neither a nick, nor did you throw out. That number is your chance. Roll again.”
The employee presiding over the table swept up the dice and handed them to Sophronia. “I— Must you blow on them again?”
His eyes gleamed. “Why don’t you?”
She gave the dice a huff and flung them again. The little cubes bounced to a stop. Sophronia had no idea what the numbers meant, but Rowden’s eyes widened, and Lady Amalie gave a small exclamation.
“Nicked it! You won, dear. Five hundred pounds, was it?”
“The bank will pay out before you leave,” Rowden said. He turned to Lady Amalie. “She is accumulating funds to start a girls’ school.”
“An enviable enterprise. I am a proponent of schools for girls. Rigorous, proper ones,” Lady Amalie said. “Have you heard of Miss Gregoire’s in Bath?”
“Not until tonight,” Sophronia said, “but she has been held up to me as a model.”
“You might call on my sister-in-law and ask her about it,” said Lady Amalie. “We both attended.” She held out her hand as Sophronia offered her the dice. “You are quite finished?”
“I do not trust my luck any further.” She needed to put a sliver of distance between her and Rowden. He was devastating to her nerves.
He subverted this goal by taking her elbow again. “Do you wish to see the rest of the establishment?”
“I am sure you do not have time to conduct me on a tour.”
“You came here to indulge your curiosity about me, and I intend for you to leave satisfied,” he said, again with that wicked gleam in his eye.
“I came here to indulge my curiosity about the Albion, since you and Giles talk of it so often,” she said, trying to retrieve her dignity. “I should ask Lady Amalie her direction. It seems she might be able to advise me on business matters.”
“So can I. You can find her at Renwick House while she is in town.” At her questioning look, he clarified. “Her brother is the Earl of Renwick. Her sister-in-law, the Countess— No.” His brows knit. “She has some other title, Duchess of some German principality—no, not German. I do not recall precisely. But you can find her at Renwick House too, while the Season is in session.”
Dismay stirred that sloshing sensation in her stomach again. She could not quite set her feet. She had met more ladies in one night at the Albion that she had in an entire marriage of Henry’s most strenuous social climbing. Sisters to earls and marquesses, a duchess—she could not presume a friendship with women so high.
“You might,” Rowden answered, and she realized she had spoken aloud. “You are a gentleman’s daughter.”
“A tradesman turned gentleman, and a banker’s widow,” Sophronia said. “Some might wish me to keep to my place.”
“The Sophronia I knew of old,” he said, “made a place for herself wherever she wanted. This is the billiards room. The women are able to reserve it when they wish, or set up a blended game with the men of their choice.”
“Lovely décor,” Sophronia observed. “I am glad you give the women their own domain. It gives them the freedom to interact as they wish.”
“Without being policed or reprimanded by their menfolk, and without being importuned if they do not wish it. You gave me the idea, actually.” He conducted her out of the billiards room and toward a back stairwell, one far less decorated than the main.
“I did?” They had not spoken more than a dozen words in the years of her marriage. “I do not recall discussing anything with you when you acquired your share in the Albion.”
“I thought what you would have to say about another establishment catering to the amusements of men,” he answered. “My partners endorsed the notion of admitting women once they realized the profits we could make. Women like to dine, gamble, play billiards, and circulate outside the house as much as men do.”
“When the demands of the household allow it,” Sophronia murmured. “Where are you taking me?”
“On the full tour. This is my office.”
He paused at the portal, and she paused too, as if magnetized to his side. Sheer curiosity propelled her forward. The room was small and whispered the scents of bergamot, old tobacco, and ink. The desk was tidier than she expected, parchment stacked in neat piles, a volume of ledgers topped by an open letter. The walls gleamed with dark wood paneling, hung with paintings of landscapes she presumed reflected his travels: the Bay of Naples, the mountains of Austria, a ridge lined with Dutch windmills. One green sward drew her, and she recognized the house in the distance as Standen, the family estate in Hungerford where Rowden had come to live after his parents died.
“You always wanted to travel,” she remarked, spotting a sketch of the Palace of Versailles. He had gone to France instead of attending her wedding. She would never let him know how deeply it had hurt to say her vows to Henry and close herself into that prison without the support or, at the very least, well-wishes from her lifelong friend.
