Page 61 of Her Beast

She laughed. “What about cards?”

“I used to play cards—a long, long time ago.”

Julia latched onto that. “I adore playing all sorts of games.” She pulled a wry face. “Perhaps not the sillier ones I play with my younger brothers, but I do love cards. Why did you stop?”

“I suppose I just became too busy with work.”

She somehow suspected he used that excuse for a great many things. “Perhaps we might play after dinner one night?”

His brow furrowed. “You want to play cards with me?”

“Why do you sound so shocked? It is what people generally do in the evenings. Either that or go to parties or balls or”—she couldn’t help laughing—“you should see your face!”

Almost immediately, she realized how he might have taken her words. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” he assured her.

She gave a relieved, nervous laugh. “You looked quite horrified. Do you hate socializing that much?”

“Yes.”

He hadn’t raised his voice, but his abrupt answer dampened the mood. Well, at least it dampenedhermood.

“I’ll have the servants set up a table for us to play tomorrow—after our meal,” he said.

“Oh, lovely!”

“What do you like to play?”

“My favorite two-player game is cribbage, but we will need a board for that. Do you have one?”

He smiled “I suspect I know where I can locate one.”

“Of course, you have an entire department store below! Have you played cribbage before?”

“It has been many years but I’m sure you can refresh my memory.” His gaze settled on her and the air between them felt strangely heavy.

Why did his words sound so… suggestive?

Julia suddenly realized they’d both finished eating some time ago. “Oh dear, here I’ve been yammering at you when you must want your port.”

He gave her a faint smirk. “I’m not especially keen on port and cigars after dinner.”

She glanced at the clock; it wasn’t even eleven yet.

While she was struggling for some way of asking if he’d like to continue their conversation, he said, “Would you like to retire to the library? I can ring for tea.”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” she said, pulling on her gloves and wishing she’d not sounded quite sothrilled. He must think she was a desperate little schoolgirl. Thank goodness he’d not heard her pitiful confession to Kemp, about being lonely.

He came to her end of the table and held out his arm, towering over her. “May I escort you, Miss Harlow?”

She glanced up into his pale eye and then couldn’t look away.

“What happened?” The impolite question was out before she could stop it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“A fire,” he said quietly, his expression unreadable.

“Is it—are you, er, does it still hurt?” she finally managed—not what she’d really wanted to ask, which was how much of him had been damaged.

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