Page 25 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

She settled into the offered seat, arranging her skirts with deliberate care. "And what rules might those be?"

"Simple ones." Cecil sat across from her, his movements fluid and controlled. "We play hands of cards. The loser of each hand removes one article of clothing."

Elizabeth's breath caught, but she refused to show her shock. "Rather scandalous for a man who spoke of maintaining distance just yesterday."

"Perhaps I grew tired of distance." He began shuffling the cards with practiced ease. "Unless you're afraid to test your skills against mine?"

"The real question," Elizabeth replied, lifting her chin, "is whether you're prepared to lose, my lord. I've spent countless hours playing cards with the ton's most formidable dowagers."

Cecil's eyes darkened with interest. "Have you indeed? Then by all means, wife, choose your game. Show me what these dowagers taught you."

"Vingt-et-un," she decided, watching his hands move over the cards. "A game of chance and strategy."

"How fitting." He dealt with fluid grace. "Though I should warn you—I rarely lose at games of chance."

"There's a first time for everything," Elizabeth murmured, picking up her cards. A thrill went through her as she realized she held an excellent hand.

The first round passed in tense silence, broken only by the snap of cards and the crackle of the fire. To Elizabeth's satisfaction, Cecil lost the first hand.

"Well played," he conceded, reaching for his cravat. The white silk whispered as he unknotted it with deliberate slowness. "I see those dowagers taught you well."

Elizabeth tried not to stare as the removal of his cravat revealed the strong column of his throat. "Your turn to deal, my lord."

His smile was wicked. "So eager to lose something yourself?"

The next hand proved less fortunate for Elizabeth. She stared at her losing cards, heat rising to her cheeks as Cecil's expectant gaze fell upon her.

"Your gloves, perhaps?" he suggested silkily. "Unless you'd prefer to start with something more...substantial."

Elizabeth removed one of her gloves with as much dignity as she could muster, laying the delicate kid leather beside her cards. The air felt cool against her bare hand, making her suddenly aware of how exposed even this small uncovering left her.

"Your scar," Cecil said unexpectedly as he dealt the next hand. "You never finished telling me about it."

She touched the mark reflexively. "There's little to tell. I was born with it—a reminder, my father always said, of how close to death I came during my birth."

"And you believed him?" Cecil's voice held an edge. "Believed it was something to be ashamed of?"

"The ton certainly thought so." Elizabeth arranged her cards, not meeting his eyes. "It's rather difficult to make a good match when every potential suitor can't bear to look at you."

"Fools," Cecil muttered, laying down his hand. Another winning one. "Your other glove, if you please."

As Elizabeth removed it, his fingers caught her bare wrist. The touch sent sparks of awareness racing up her arm. "What are you doing?"

"Looking at you," he said simply, his thumb brushing over her pulse point. "Since apparently, I'm the first man wise enough to do so properly."

"You're doing considerably more than looking," she managed, though she made no move to pull away.

His smile was sin itself. "Would you like me to stop?"

"I..." Elizabeth's voice failed as his fingers traced up her bare arm.

"Your breath betrays you, wife," he murmured, noting how her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow movements. "It hitches every time I come near. Does my presence affect you so?"

"No," she whispered truthfully. "I'm afraid of myself. Of how much I want..."

"Yes?" His voice dropped lower, sending shivers down her spine.

But Elizabeth gathered her composure and pulled her arm back. "I believe it's my turn to deal, my lord."

---