Page 45 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Armande circled behind her. Even the simple gallant gesture of his pulling out her chair so that she could rise from the spinet made her achingly aware of the honed grace of his tall frame.
Jonathan prepared to seat himself at the card table when Weylin prevented him. “Leave the cards to the young people.” He rested his hand upon Jonathan’s shoulder, giving him a wink. “What say we old men enjoy some of my fine Canary wine whilst I show you the sketches my architect has done to refurbish this room.” He made a sweeping gesture of disparagement which encompassed the music gallery’s heavy elegance. “It would seem this Roman palazzo stuff is now demaday.”
And the heavens forbid, Phaedra thought wryly, that anything in Sawyer Weylin’s manor be classifieddemode- whether he understood the term or not. She fancied that Jonathan looked a trifle annoyed to hear himself described as an ‘old man.’ He cast a wistful look in Phaedra’s direction when Sawyer dragged him to the gallery’s opposite end.
The music gallery was a long chamber that could double as a ballroom, allowing a dozen couples to perform the gavotte when the massive armchairs, sofas and torcheres were shoved aside. With her grandfather and Jonathan taking a silver candelabrum and ensconcing themselves at the end near the marble chimney piece, she and Armande might well have been left alone.
She seated herself at the card table, avoiding looking at Armande. Her voice sounded unnaturally high as she asked. “What will you, my lord? Piquet? Vingt-et-un?”
“The choice is yours, milady,” he replied, settling into the chair opposite her.
“Piquet, then.”
Beyond the curtains, the wind whistled and rattled the panes. She donned a pair of mufftees to protect the delicate embroidery of her sleeve hems. Armande’s lips quirked into a smile.
“It would seem that I have been left to the mercy of a hardened gamester.”
She shuffled the deck with rapid movements, trying to make her voice sound light. “Aye, you shall find me a far fiercer opponent than Charles Byng.”
She dealt the cards, then quickly arranged hers, scarcely noticing what she held. Armande fanned his out between his fingers. Moments ticked by without his making another move.
The thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Phaedra shifted restlessly in her chair. Armande’s gaze at last drifted over the rim of his cards. His blue eyes appeared almost hazy in this soft light. She didn’t think he was focusing on her cards so much as dreamily contemplating the curls falling past her shoulders.
Self-consciously, she fingered one tendril and brushed it back.”I have dealt the hand, my lord. It is for you to open.”
“Is the game to begin with no wagers?” he asked.
“I fear I am not accustomed to playing as deep as you.”
“I know you are not. That is what makes any gaming betwixt us seem like I would be taking a most unfair advantage.”
When their eyes met across the table, Phaedra was no longer sure they were talking about cards. “I have but little coin for you to take advantage of,” she said uncertainly.
“Money is of no value to me. The only wagers worth making concern matters more precious.” He hesitated. “Perhaps a bid for what you desire most in the world.”
“What I desire most?” She gave a shaky laugh. “I have never been quite sure what that might be.”
“Perhaps that I should leave your grandfather’s house and never return.”
Once Phaedra had thought so herself, but now- However, she made no attempt to contradict him.
“And you?” she demanded. “If you propose that to be my prize, what do you ask for yourself if you should win?”
He took a long time about answering her. Then he looked up, making no attempt to mask the hunger in his eyes.
“One night with you,” he said.
The cards fluttered from her fingers.
Armande’s face darkened as though he regretted his reply. He folded his cards, placing them in the center of the table. “It would seem the stakes I set are too high for both of us.”
Her hand flashed out, pinioning his atop the cards he sought to abandon.
“Done!” she cried. “I accept your wager.” She hardly breathed as she waited for his reaction. She expected him to pull his hand free and withdraw at once. He regarded her impassively, his features so still they might well have been sculpted of marble. But for the muscle that worked along his jaw, she would have had no clue at all as to the struggle that raged within him.
Then he moved her hand from his and gathered up his cards. Her heart hammering, Phaedra did likewise, splaying the small rectangles before her face in an effort to conceal the blood she felt rushing to her cheeks.
What was she doing? The passions seething inside her must at last be driving her mad, just as Ewan had always assured her they would. She tried to concentrate on the cards she held, but they faded before her eyes in a blur of black and red.
