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"Perhaps you wish to simply forfeit," he offered, eyes mocking her turmoil. His mouth curled up in a sneer. He'd played her often enough to know she would not back down.
She unclenched her hands, one finger at a time, and raised them both to the table. Then slowly, slowly, she reached one gloved hand out and began to count out the four hundred pounds she'd tossed out so casually moments before.
"One night," she said clearly, and the room exploded into a beehive of indistinct words. She was glad she could not make out any one conversation. She did not want to know what they said.
Marsh's lips flushed pink as they stretched into a leer. His eyes strayed back to her décolletage, and Emma could see his thoughts, flickering and varied, as he riffled through the things he wanted to do to her. She had never seen him at one of her father's gatherings, but he would have been entirely comfortable at the worst of them, she was sure.
Emma finished collecting her previous bets and retrieved her cards. She willed her hands to stop shaking, but Marsh saw and his eyes sparkled.
"Well, then, my dear. Let's see them."
Emma gritted her teeth. "The play is yours."
"Of course." He laid down his cards. The room dropped into silence, as if they'd all been plunged suddenly into deep, cold water.
She stared at the cards, taking in the suits, the numbers. The jack of spades and the jack of hearts were both winking at her, mocking her with knowing smiles. Throat thick with rising tears, Emma nodded. A pair, not a thrice.
Her skin burned as she carefully tilted her cards and placed them flat on the glossy wood. "A running flush," she whispered, and the cries of the gentlemen around her pierced straight through her skull.
"I say, Marsh, that was outrageous."
"Scurrilous. You should be ashamed."
"She may have won the hand, but that is the end of her."
"Disgusting."
"Unthinkable."
She ignored it all, staring into her opponent's cold eyes as she carefully opened her reticule and began dropping handfuls of coin in.
Well done, he mouthed, but his congratulations ended on a sneer. Emma smiled back and tugged the cord of her bag closed. Triumph and relief twisted through her, though they felt strangely like acid, burning her lungs, heating her skin. She took a deep breath, then another. The terrible words around her began to fade. She smiled more genuinely as she stood. No one pulled out her chair.
She turned to leave and within a few feet, found herself face-to-face with a very pale Mr. Jones. Emma inclined her head, but he seemed frozen. Nodding to let him know that she understood, she started to pass around him and was shocked when his arm appeared, hovering just under her hand.
"You needn't do this," she murmured.
He shook his head. "I escorted you in. I shall escort you out as well."
"Thank you."
As they neared a door, Emma caught sight of two elegantly dressed ladies. They turned their backs as she passed; word had spread already. She forced herself not to care. She did not know these people and they did not know her.
"I shall take my leave," she informed Mr. Jones, and tried to walk more quickly toward the stairway, but his arm held her back.
"Do not hurry as if you are fleeing. Leave with dignity."
"With what dignity?"
He glanced toward her. "I never thought of your gaming as a shameful thing."
"Until now?"
He was too much a gentleman to answer. Another lady turned her back. A younger woman stepped back and retreated into a doorway as Emma swept past.
"Just take me to the door, Mr. Jones. Do not wait with me."
"Nonsense."
