an exceptional turn of events must have driven him to this table.
She rubbed the back of her neck. “What are the stakes?”
Owen’s voice was even, his face impassive. “Addington bet five thousand pounds.”
She pinched her lips together. A pittance for Cousin Egbert, but unspeakable riches to Owen. “And you? What did you wager?”
“His cottage ,” spat one of the onlooking Corinthians with disdain. “He hasn’t anything else.”
His companions rolled their eyes in agreement. “I can’t fathom why Addington would even want it.”
Matilda could.
The little cottage would mean nothing to a wealthy peer, but it was everything to Owen. A gift from his father to his mother. It was all he owned. His sole link to his heritage. The only place he could call home.
Her nails bit into her palms. This had nothing to do with money, then. At least not for her cousin. This was a continuation of a four-year-old brawl, in an arena where Egbert held the upper hand. She could not stop them. But since she was at the root of their animosity, she would not contribute to Egbert’s cruel games.
She made her decision. “I’m in. But if I play, I play for keeps. Any spoils I win belong to me.”
The crowd roared with delight. “Already counting how many gowns she can purchase with five thousand pounds, is she? Her modiste is going to be richer than I am.”
“Gowns?” Egbert scoffed. “More like novels . While the lot of you are queuing up for a spot on her dance card, I’m dragging her out of the library by her bluestockinged feet. This chit would rather spend her nights with gothic melodrama than be twirled about by you pups.”
More laughter erupted. “You’re the marquess. Sell off the library so she has more time for her lovesick swains.”
“Sorry, lads. You’ll have to win her on your own.” Egbert grinned down at her. “Of course, cousin. Anything you win is yours.”
Matilda’s shoulders tightened. Her cousin’s teasing comments had been delivered with obvious affection, but she could not forgive him. Not for this farce he’d dragged her into unawares. And not for the devastation he’d wrought four long years ago.
She turned to face Owen, whose body was perfectly still.
Cousin Egbert reached for the cards. “Shall we begin?”
Chapter Two
“Stop.” The quiet steel in Major Owen Turner’s voice belied the torment churning within him.
Addington’s ungloved hand paused above the set of cards. Silence engulfed the room. The only movement came from plumes of smoke fleeing expensive cigars and the fluttering pulse point upon the neck of the only woman who had ever cracked Owen’s armor.
“I have to deal the cards for you to play, Major .” Addington spat the word as if it left ash upon his tongue. “My cousin wishes to retire. We cannot stay here all night.”
Owen didn’t bother to acknowledge this last. Addington was in no hurry to escort his cousin anywhere. He was too eager to deny Owen something he wanted.
Again.
“I don’t trust you to deal honestly.” Owen’s words ricocheted through the hushed room. For Addington, they would hold a double meaning.
Shock and a touch of eagerness widened the onlookers’ eyes, but no one stepped backward to make room for a mill. Not here. These were “gentlemen.” Peers didn’t solve problems person-to-person, a flurry of fists followed by a handshake. They preferred dueling pistols at twenty paces. One shot, straight to the heart.
Addington’s fingers curled, but he crossed his arms beneath the frosty white of his cravat before his hands could become fists. “ You certainly won’t be touching the cards, Major .”
Ah. There it was. Owen almost smiled. By the nervous titter elsewhere in the room, he was not the only one who knew precisely what Addington meant every time he spat the word “major.” For most people, the soldiers who fought Napoleon were heroes. Never Owen. No military title, no heroics or
She rubbed the back of her neck. “What are the stakes?”
Owen’s voice was even, his face impassive. “Addington bet five thousand pounds.”
She pinched her lips together. A pittance for Cousin Egbert, but unspeakable riches to Owen. “And you? What did you wager?”
“His cottage ,” spat one of the onlooking Corinthians with disdain. “He hasn’t anything else.”
His companions rolled their eyes in agreement. “I can’t fathom why Addington would even want it.”
Matilda could.
The little cottage would mean nothing to a wealthy peer, but it was everything to Owen. A gift from his father to his mother. It was all he owned. His sole link to his heritage. The only place he could call home.
Her nails bit into her palms. This had nothing to do with money, then. At least not for her cousin. This was a continuation of a four-year-old brawl, in an arena where Egbert held the upper hand. She could not stop them. But since she was at the root of their animosity, she would not contribute to Egbert’s cruel games.
She made her decision. “I’m in. But if I play, I play for keeps. Any spoils I win belong to me.”
The crowd roared with delight. “Already counting how many gowns she can purchase with five thousand pounds, is she? Her modiste is going to be richer than I am.”
“Gowns?” Egbert scoffed. “More like novels . While the lot of you are queuing up for a spot on her dance card, I’m dragging her out of the library by her bluestockinged feet. This chit would rather spend her nights with gothic melodrama than be twirled about by you pups.”
More laughter erupted. “You’re the marquess. Sell off the library so she has more time for her lovesick swains.”
“Sorry, lads. You’ll have to win her on your own.” Egbert grinned down at her. “Of course, cousin. Anything you win is yours.”
Matilda’s shoulders tightened. Her cousin’s teasing comments had been delivered with obvious affection, but she could not forgive him. Not for this farce he’d dragged her into unawares. And not for the devastation he’d wrought four long years ago.
She turned to face Owen, whose body was perfectly still.
Cousin Egbert reached for the cards. “Shall we begin?”
Chapter Two
“Stop.” The quiet steel in Major Owen Turner’s voice belied the torment churning within him.
Addington’s ungloved hand paused above the set of cards. Silence engulfed the room. The only movement came from plumes of smoke fleeing expensive cigars and the fluttering pulse point upon the neck of the only woman who had ever cracked Owen’s armor.
“I have to deal the cards for you to play, Major .” Addington spat the word as if it left ash upon his tongue. “My cousin wishes to retire. We cannot stay here all night.”
Owen didn’t bother to acknowledge this last. Addington was in no hurry to escort his cousin anywhere. He was too eager to deny Owen something he wanted.
Again.
“I don’t trust you to deal honestly.” Owen’s words ricocheted through the hushed room. For Addington, they would hold a double meaning.
Shock and a touch of eagerness widened the onlookers’ eyes, but no one stepped backward to make room for a mill. Not here. These were “gentlemen.” Peers didn’t solve problems person-to-person, a flurry of fists followed by a handshake. They preferred dueling pistols at twenty paces. One shot, straight to the heart.
Addington’s fingers curled, but he crossed his arms beneath the frosty white of his cravat before his hands could become fists. “ You certainly won’t be touching the cards, Major .”
Ah. There it was. Owen almost smiled. By the nervous titter elsewhere in the room, he was not the only one who knew precisely what Addington meant every time he spat the word “major.” For most people, the soldiers who fought Napoleon were heroes. Never Owen. No military title, no heroics or
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