Beauty Tempts the Beast (Sins for All Seasons #6) - Lorraine Heath Page 0,69

analyzing decisions made and calling her every sort of fool. All because of the man sitting beside her, who somehow had the power to not only make her feel again, but also to think again.

The card game was incredibly easy to play, didn’t require a lot of concentration on her part. Still, she always experienced a sharp thrill when she won the hand. After a winner was revealed, the discarded cards were tucked against the bottom of the deck. The deck was only shuffled if one of the revealed hands had three cards of the same rank.

Because concentration wasn’t required on her part, she found herself focusing on Chadbourne and noticed something about him she’d completely overlooked before: he had a weak chin. As though shy, it made a small appearance, the tiniest bit of a jut, and then disappeared behind his perfectly knotted neck cloth.

Nothing about Benedict was weak. Although he wasn’t playing, he managed to give the impression that he owned the table. Perhaps it was because of the intensity with which he watched the card play. Even though the only cards revealed at the end of each session were those held by the final two players—because they went around the table as many times as necessary with players betting or folding until only two remained—she was left with the impression he knew what cards were being dealt during each turn.

After deciding which card to discard, she would glance over at him. Usually, he would give a slight nod, and she would be pleased to have chosen correctly. But every now and then, he would give a subtle shake and when it was her turn to either toss money into the pot or fold, she would fold. And always, when the cards were revealed, she realized she would have lost no matter which card she tossed out.

His arms never moved from the back of the chair upon which they were folded. Just one hand ever unclamped from his upper arm and it happened only when he wanted to enjoy a bit of scotch. He wasn’t manipulating the cards, but she was willing to wager all the tokens now stacked before her that somehow he was helping her cheat.

And she didn’t care.

It almost always came down to her and Chadbourne as the final two players, and she almost always bested him. It felt so deliciously sweet to watch the various emotions flicker over his face: disbelief, disappointment, anger, resolve. He would win the next hand.

Only he rarely did. Sometimes his cards were so atrocious that even she, a novice, could have predicted he was bidding his chips farewell as he tossed them onto the heap in the center of the table.

Over the course of the evening, their group of six players dwindled to three, so more frequently now she and the earl paired off. Her confidence was growing, and because the lord’s stack of chips had diminished to such a degree that he would not remain at the table for much longer, she determined it was time to add a third game to the night. She decided to call it, “Irritating the Devil out of Chadbourne.”

“I crossed paths with Lady Jocelyn earlier today,” she said evenly as though the words no longer had the power to punch her in the gut.

His gaze snapped up from his cards to land solidly on her, and she faintly recalled a time when his attention devoted to her had made her fairly light-headed with giddiness. What a silly chit she’d been. She’d considered him elegant, refined, polished. But he was neither gold nor silver, merely brass.

“Where?” His delivery was curt. She suspected if he discovered the meeting had been intentional, he’d be having a sharp word with his betrothed.

She smiled sweetly. “Quite by accident, I assure you. It seems we’re using the services of the same dressmaker, if you can believe it.”

Based on the furrowing of his brow, it was likely he didn’t.

“Or we were,” she amended. “She decided to take her business elsewhere, without paying the seamstress for the work she’d already done on her behalf. The cheek of her. I suppose it shall fall to you as her future husband to make matters right. Knowing her preference in clothing, I should think her trousseau’s value rests at somewhere near five hundred pounds. If you would like to give me the amount before you leave here tonight, I’ll be more than happy to deliver it to Beth—the seamstress—when I go in for