“Hunch forward, then. When we’re in the room, stay to the shadows as much as possible. Do not fuss with the hat. If it topples, the game is over. You should have cut your hair.”
Caroline shuddered. She was vain about her hair. She shouldn’t be, but she couldn’t help it. Her hair was long and thick and dark with a bit of a wave to it, and she’d heard the same men who called her “plain” admit they’d like to wrap it around their fists and feel its silk. Tonight she’d braided it tightly and bound it in a crown atop her head, beneath her hat. “No hair cutting.”
“Like a mule, you are,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon grumbled. “Well then, let me hear your man’s voice. Say something salacious.”
Caroline didn’t know anything salacious to say. “Lovely stockings?” she asked in her deepest voice.
“Good God. That’s horrid. It must do, I suppose. Only do not end your sentences with questions. Men simply do not know what questions are. They speak only in declarations and exclamations. Take this.” She moved to the desk in the corner of the room and rummaged through it to pull a small, black domino from a drawer. “Can never be too careful. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Time to meet her husband, time to harvest the fruits of the plan she’d been working on since her father’s death. She tied on the domino and resituated her hat.
“Excellent!” Mrs. Dove-Lyon led her to the private gaming room where a group of four gentlemen already sat around a large table.
She would marry one of them.
Heavens… she wouldmarryone of them. The pounding of her heart broke through her façade of calm control. Her mouth went desert dry, and beneath her gloves—a veritable lake of sweat.
“Worth it,” she whispered, stepping into the shadowed room. “Worth it,worth it.” Because the house that would come withthe husband meant freedom. Not just for her. But for every woman in need of it. The drum inside her chest quieted, her nerves steadying. She could do anything for the women who needed her.
Caroline closed the door behind her, keeping her face turned to the plush rug beneath her booted feet. The boots, at least, were comfortable.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Shall we begin?” She stepped aside and gestured to the table, to the four men waiting there.
Caroline didn’t dare meet their gazes, didn’t dare peruse their forms, as she sat at the table’s only empty chair and slipped her hand inside her jacket pocket. What they looked like didn’t matter, after all.
The men didn’t seem to notice her arrival, chatting amongst themselves. She knew their names but did not frequent society often enough to know them personally. Her father had been a viscount’s second son but had spent his life away from the ton, had not raised his daughters within those vaunted social circles.
“Wonder what the game’s to be,” said one man. He had a gentle voice, low and filled with mirth.
“Bound to be interesting,” said another, sounding much too young. His voice hadcracked.
Caroline peeked back at the widow. She’d taken up residence in the corner of the room, seated like a queen on a large wingback chair near the fire.
“Will the dealer introduce himself? And tell us about the game?” asked a third voice. This one honey-rich, deep, thrilling.
And familiar. Itcouldn’tbe. She was looking up at him before she realized it, and once she’d started looking, she could not stop.
Dark sandy hair waved back from his forehead over thick brows a shade darker than the rest. He had the type of hairwomen swooned over, the type that would swallow a lady’s fingers and fall rakishly forward when tousled. Below, dark-blue eyes glittered with curiosity, deep as an ocean and just as lonely. Several days’ worth of scruff ranged across his square jaw and surrounded well-shaped lips that beckoned her tongue to part her teeth, smooth her own lips over them for a taste.
He slouched, indolent and waiting, the gleaming mahogany chair back circling his broad frame, seeming delicate compared to him. His broad shoulders broke past the chair’s confines, and his long, elegant fingers drummed a slow rhythm on the table.
He was made for a lady’s pleasure, and he made her feel as if an ocean of desire stormed beneath her skin. Beautifully dangerous. Terribly thrilling.
Yes, she knew him well, the cad.
Felix Canterbury, Viscount Foxton. Her childhood friend.
He regarded her with half-closed eyes. That gaze flayed her. It felt as if he could see past her charade, past her every defense, deep down into her bones.
What a ridiculous flight of fancy. He saw what she showed him—a young man without the confidence to sit up straight.
But Felix had known her so long, seen her tears and her smiles, her laughter and her fears. If anyone could see through her disguise…
She bounced to her feet and made for the door. “Excuse me. A word, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?” She paced the hallway until the older woman followed, clicked the door softly shut. Then she exploded. “What is Felix doing here?”
“Felix?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon blinked. “Oh. Lord Foxton.”
“I thought Lord Palmerson was supposed to be the third man.”
