dark brown curls that had once fluttered in the morning wind and stuck to his forehead when caught in a sudden shower was now neatly clipped at the ears and nape, as befitting an officer. No. Not an officer. A major .
Clear blue eyes that had once sparkled merrily as they raced across moors or jumped into the river—those beloved blue eyes were now stormy and shadowed, no trace of merriment in their depths or etched at the corners. And why would there be? He’d fought Napoleon’s army for four long years only to find himself battling her cousin Egbert in a gilded parlor.
Her throat tightened. It had been Owen who taught her to skip rocks and climb trees, but for all his comparative worldliness, neither one of them had ever expected him to step foot outside North Yorkshire’s borders. Above all, she’d never thought he’d leave her. To see him here, a grown man, a celebrated soldier, even more dashing in the flesh than the stories upon everyone’s tongues…
Ah, the gossip.
She wasn’t the only one he’d dazzled. If half the rumors were true, those hard, beautiful lips had kissed every willing mouth between here and Paris. If it didn’t make her violently ill just thinking about it, she might appreciate the irony that the boy Society had once considered beneath them was now the primary reason smelling salts were in higher demand than breakfast tea.
He was known for giving pleasure to everyone and his heart to no one, vie as women might to catch the uncatchable. But there was no hope of corralling a force of nature. Owen was a tempest, not a summer rain. He was passion and power, a storm in the soul… and just as quickly gone.
She should know.
Other than keeping his piercing eyes focused on hers, he hadn’t moved since she’d sat down. Hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t offered his hand. Hadn’t even spoken her name. By all appearances, he neither recognized her nor cared for an introduction.
She knew better.
His very stillness was as telltale as other men’s nervous tics. Whenever he was on edge, a life in the shadows had taught him to go silent and still. Not like a deer or a rabbit. Like a lion. Eyeing his prey. Preparing to strike.
Whatever was going on here, she wanted no part of it. She pushed to her feet.
Egbert stopped her with one hand atop her shoulder. A cold sweat broke out beneath her stays.
“What’s this about?” Her voice trembled as she eased back into the seat.
“A gentleman’s wager.” Egbert waved his hand toward the table. “Except this gentleman dared question my integrity. Rather than meet him at dawn and sully a bullet with his blood, I have chosen to let an impartial stand-in play the final hand. You .”
Her jaw clenched so tight her teeth hurt. “I am scarcely impartial.”
Owen’s voice was smooth velvet, smothering as it caressed. “Whose side might you be on?”
“My own,” she snapped. Or meant to snap. She had loved him for so long and he had broken her heart so carelessly that his mere presence was enough to twist her into a knot of hate and desire.
“I see.” His shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. “I trust you.”
That slight movement twisted her heart. He did trust her, damn him. If only she could say the same. “What is the game?”
His eyes softened. “ Vingt-et-un .”
Twenty-one. She took a deep breath.
One of the dandies elbowed his way forward. “That’s French for—”
“She speaks French, you ninny.” A different blackguard raised his voice. “I’d be a richer man if Lady Matilda would cease translating Parisian fashion plates to my sister. Now, if one of you gents would like to explain the game instead of translating the—”
“She already knows.” Owen’s voice was quiet, but laced with a thread of danger that silenced the entire room.
Matilda’s breathing slowed. He’d taught her to play as a jest, and regretted the decision when she took an immediate fancy. He hated games of chance. Which meant
Clear blue eyes that had once sparkled merrily as they raced across moors or jumped into the river—those beloved blue eyes were now stormy and shadowed, no trace of merriment in their depths or etched at the corners. And why would there be? He’d fought Napoleon’s army for four long years only to find himself battling her cousin Egbert in a gilded parlor.
Her throat tightened. It had been Owen who taught her to skip rocks and climb trees, but for all his comparative worldliness, neither one of them had ever expected him to step foot outside North Yorkshire’s borders. Above all, she’d never thought he’d leave her. To see him here, a grown man, a celebrated soldier, even more dashing in the flesh than the stories upon everyone’s tongues…
Ah, the gossip.
She wasn’t the only one he’d dazzled. If half the rumors were true, those hard, beautiful lips had kissed every willing mouth between here and Paris. If it didn’t make her violently ill just thinking about it, she might appreciate the irony that the boy Society had once considered beneath them was now the primary reason smelling salts were in higher demand than breakfast tea.
He was known for giving pleasure to everyone and his heart to no one, vie as women might to catch the uncatchable. But there was no hope of corralling a force of nature. Owen was a tempest, not a summer rain. He was passion and power, a storm in the soul… and just as quickly gone.
She should know.
Other than keeping his piercing eyes focused on hers, he hadn’t moved since she’d sat down. Hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t offered his hand. Hadn’t even spoken her name. By all appearances, he neither recognized her nor cared for an introduction.
She knew better.
His very stillness was as telltale as other men’s nervous tics. Whenever he was on edge, a life in the shadows had taught him to go silent and still. Not like a deer or a rabbit. Like a lion. Eyeing his prey. Preparing to strike.
Whatever was going on here, she wanted no part of it. She pushed to her feet.
Egbert stopped her with one hand atop her shoulder. A cold sweat broke out beneath her stays.
“What’s this about?” Her voice trembled as she eased back into the seat.
“A gentleman’s wager.” Egbert waved his hand toward the table. “Except this gentleman dared question my integrity. Rather than meet him at dawn and sully a bullet with his blood, I have chosen to let an impartial stand-in play the final hand. You .”
Her jaw clenched so tight her teeth hurt. “I am scarcely impartial.”
Owen’s voice was smooth velvet, smothering as it caressed. “Whose side might you be on?”
“My own,” she snapped. Or meant to snap. She had loved him for so long and he had broken her heart so carelessly that his mere presence was enough to twist her into a knot of hate and desire.
“I see.” His shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. “I trust you.”
That slight movement twisted her heart. He did trust her, damn him. If only she could say the same. “What is the game?”
His eyes softened. “ Vingt-et-un .”
Twenty-one. She took a deep breath.
One of the dandies elbowed his way forward. “That’s French for—”
“She speaks French, you ninny.” A different blackguard raised his voice. “I’d be a richer man if Lady Matilda would cease translating Parisian fashion plates to my sister. Now, if one of you gents would like to explain the game instead of translating the—”
“She already knows.” Owen’s voice was quiet, but laced with a thread of danger that silenced the entire room.
Matilda’s breathing slowed. He’d taught her to play as a jest, and regretted the decision when she took an immediate fancy. He hated games of chance. Which meant
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