“Aye. But what?” She sat up against the headboard, pulling the blankets with her, keeping her breasts covered.
He shook his head. “Shame. Ah, well. I’ll have plenty of time to look my fill. But for now…” He rummaged in the satchel he’d packed for the evening, found what he wanted, and joined her on the bed once more. He dropped them in her lap.
“Cards?”
He nodded, pulling on his shirt and sitting on the bed across from her.
The corners of her lips drooped as she followed the lowering hemline of his shirt. “Shame.” But she took up the cards and shuffled. “If I win, will you… surrender the shirt?”
“Only if you give up the blanket once I win.”
Her smile sealed the deal. “What game?”
“I prefer vingt-et-un.”
“You will not be surprised, perhaps, to find I do as well.”
“Not in the least.” Damn, he wanted to kiss her, but she kept the shuffling deck of cards in front of her like armor, like a charm to ward away amorous advances. No matter. He’d have her naked and under him in one hand.
She dealt the cards. They played. He lost.
“Do not scowl.” She clutched the blanket to her chest, refusing to let them slip. “You may have another chance to win. Now, off with the shirt, please. It is mine.”
He had it over his head and on the floor before she could finish her sentence.
“Yes…” Her brow furrowed, and her lips hung open bereft of sound as her gaze roved the length and breadth of his torso. The tip of her tongue appeared between her parted lips, teased the tip of her top, front teeth. “Well. Lovely.” She tried to shuffle the cards, but her fingers fumbled, and they flew into the air between them. “Ack! Oh!”
He gathered them up, laughing, and he shuffled them this time as she looked everywhere but at his cock, steadily rising to attention between them. What a game they played. Not the cards. This ease between them. He could play with her and plot with her. He could savor her and fight for her. Agreement, disagreement, teasing, and loving—it all came easy as breathing with Emma.
He dealt her a card on the smooth space of bed between their folded legs. “Emma Blackwood?”
“Hm?” She bit her thumbnail, studiously looking only at his face.
He dealt himself a card. “Are you going to marry me?” She’d come here. She’d given her body to him. She would marry him. But damn, he needed to hear it, needed that final brick in the home he’d been building for them in his imagination.
Her hand dropped to her lip as her face lit with delight. “Yes, I believe I will.”
He dealt her another card. “And will you let me announce it next week at my sister’s ball? Lottie hosts one every year at Clearford House in honor of our mother. She’d love nothing better than to be the one to break the news.”
Emma’s blanket-covered breasts rose and fell, and she ducked her head, her hair falling to hide her face. “I would like that.”
He dealt himself the final card, and they played, and she won quite before he had any notion what was happening. But before she had any understanding of what he was about, he swept the cards to the floor and ripped the blankets away and basked in the gasp he tore from her throat, in the joy and laughter in her eyes. And when he stroked into her again half an hour later, her moans against his skin where she kissed him, he knew no matter what the cards had said, he’d won.
Chapter Twenty-Three
They’d told no one, kept it secret because it felt rather good to do something for themselves. Even now, they stood at opposite ends of the ballroom. Thank goodness for her height. Not something Emma often thought. Usually, it made her stand out when she wished only to blend in, but tonight it offered her an excellent view of her betrothed where he stood beneath the balcony that wrapped around two sides of the ballroom. He had decided, it seemed, to inhabit the shadows until just before dinner when he’d gather her up, and they’d find his sister, Lady Noble, together. They’d tell her, then they’d tell everyone else.
Emma’s toes danced beneath her skirts, and she sipped at her champagne to calm her nerves. She’d never thought to be a duchess. Was she going to be duchess? Hardly felt like it. Felt like she would soon become Samuel’s wife. The same thing, but different as well.
“You’re smiling.” Rosalie appeared, kicking her elbow into Emma’s ribs. “Does that mean you’ve found a match for Felicity?”
“No.” She’d rather forgotten. Oops. But then, Felicity seemed in no hurry anymore. She danced with one of her suitors now,had not stopped dancing all night. Having fun, it seemed, as were the other unmarried sisters, Emma’s and Samuel’s, the youngest of their combined dozen. They gathered on the balcony in pretty gowns, too young to join the dancers but old enough to feel the desire to join them. Like Felicity, they’d dance all night if possible, dance until they wore holes in the soles of their shoes.
“Then,” Rosalie said, “you’ve decided to read books with me. And the others.”
“Yes, actually.”
“But that’s not why you smile. Let me see if I can puzzle it out.”
