Beatrice’s eyebrows winged together almost imperceptibly. She did mind. But she shook her head. “So long as you remain sharp, I can forgive a bit of smoke.”
The woman could forgive everyone and everything but for Richard. He was tired. He wanted his bed. But he stayed right where he was, watching. Pretending not to.
The back of her slender neck, that tiny dark tendril of hair that curled against it, fallen and oh-so strokable. Her shoulders squared when she had a good move and wiggled when she didn’t. When she laughed, the sound went straight to his veins like a jolt of starlight.
Peterson dangled a cheroot from the side of his mouth and held his cards with thick fingers. He and Beatrice made good partners, quickly perfecting the art of silent communication. A symphony of glances passed between them.
Each one of them like stepping on a nail, sending sharp, unexpected jabs of pain through Richard’s chest.
Beatrice laughed again, starlight shooting through him again, this time with a frenzy. And something darker, too, as she tilted her head to the side, curved that lovely neck out for everyone to see.
For Peterson to see?
What was she thinking? She was still an unmarried and damned attractive woman. Cheroot would get ideas with all those glances she threw his way.Intimateideas.
Richard popped to his feet and marched toward his brother and Evelina. “What,” he hissed “were the two of you thinking?”
Slowly, they regarded him. John scowled, bewildered.
Evelina wore the sort of sly, shy smile he knew meant trouble. “We are enjoying the evening. Have you enjoyed it, Richard?”
“Not at all, and you two know why.”
John cast a lazy look at the card table. “You tell us why.”
“Who is he?” He thrust his chin at the man sitting across from Beatrice.
“Do you mean Lord Peterson?” Evelina said.
“I do if you mean the sausage-fingeredcheatpartnering Miss Bell.”
“I do mean the gentleman partnering Beatrice. I have no opinion on the shapes of his fingers. And no idea if he cheats.”
“Better not,” John grumbled.
“I find myself very clever,” Evelina said, “for making the match.”
“A match!” It was only once the entire room went dead silent that Richard realized he’d said that bit more loudly than he should have.
The conversationalists by the fire disregarded him and returned to their wine and each other. Those at the card table blinked, then stuffed noses back into their cards.
All but for Beatrice, whose gaze seemed armed with bullets aimed to kill. Him.
He shoved John and Evelina apart and sat between them. “You have no regard for the poor baron, I see.” Richard crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, then crossed them again. “Miss Bell will claw his eyes out.”
“You think so?” Evelina asked, turning slightly to view the card table.
A laugh rose high and sweet, tugging at Richard’s ribs. It was joined by a laugh of a deeper timbre.
“Sounds like she’s amusing him well enough,” John said. “Look. They’re getting along.”
Richard would not look. Nothing in the world could induce him to look. Again.
He looked. Beatrice was smiling at Cheroot as if she knew no other expression. And the man had the sort of gleam in his eye that boded well for an unmarried lady. Or disastrous. Depending on intentions.
“Good for them,” Richard mumbled.
“You sound jealous, brother.” John elbowed Richard’s ribs, the cad.
