Page 9 of Stealing a Scoundrel's Heart
From the corner of his eye he thought he saw Foxton’s smirk, but when he looked at his friend, Foxton appeared to be peacefully asleep. Hmm… what fiendish act would provoke the man to reveal his true state?
“What shall we wager?”
“Wager? Why not simply play for fun?”
“Wagering adds excitement to the game.”
“Very well… what would you suggest the wager entail?” Marjorie tapped the corner of her cards against pursed lips.
What would it be like to have those pretty pink lips pressed against his own?
If he played his cards right, he might be able to discover the answer this eve. “If I win, you shall dine in private with me tonight, and if you win, I shall owe you a boon of your choosing.”
Marjorie narrowed her eyes at him and then glanced at Foxton who was shaking his head side to side. “The terms don’t appear to be in my favor, Lord Dartman; make it two boons of my choosing and I shall agree.”
Maxwell’s advice to never underestimate a woman’s ability to negotiate hit him square in the chest. “Very well, two boons it is,ifyou are to win.” Alister smiled and turned over his first card—the king of diamonds.
Battle was a game of pure luck… unless you were Alister, who had the card skills of a sharp and an eidetic memory.
He waited for her to turn over her top card. She daintily flipped over a king of spades.
“An interesting start, my lady.”
He proceeded to count out three cards as did Marjorie. He held a breath as they simultaneously flipped over the determining card. His, a nine of hearts; and hers, the knave of diamonds.
Damn—he’d lost. Not a great start, but the game wasn’t over.
He glanced up at his opponent, ready to do battle again, except the bright smile plastered on Marjorie’s face stalled his heart.
Alister stared at the lady seated before him.
Marjorie was no diamond of the first water. She was garbed in a modest mourning gown. Her hair was pulled back into a simple chignon, yet she had managed to affect him like no other woman had before. He should have heeded Maxwell’s warning, for after only one round in a game that could consist of many, Alister was in danger of forfeiting the game and granting the woman her two boons all simply to see her smile again.
Cards at the ready, Marjorie asked, “Ready to battle, my lord?”
Yes…No...Maybe?Damn the woman for reducing him to an imbecile.
He glanced over at Foxton. His eyes remained closed but the man’s shoulders were shaking with mirth. The edge of his stack of cards bit into his palm.
Alister resurrected the shield around his heart and growled, “Ready.”
The click-clack of her heels hitting the wooden floors of the coaching inn was all too similar to that of a hammer pounding the head of a nail into a coffin. Marjorie raced up the stairs to her room. She needed space. She needed to escape the company of the gentleman who had generated an array of new emotions that bounced uncontrollably about within her. One moment she felt short of breath and the next moment she felt like she could fly. She bolted her room door and leaned back against the solid wood. Good grief! If only one of her fellow Wicked Widows had warned her. No, she wouldn’t have believed them, even if they had warned her that an innocent card game like Battle could result in hours of heated gazes, shockingly intimate touches, and sore cheeks.
Lord Dartman had ruthlessly played the entire day, goading her into playing one game after another until she was indebted to him not only for one private dinner, but two, plus the promise to accompany him to view the Elgin Marbles once she was out of mourning. Her cheeks ached as she smiled again. Lord Dartman hadn’t been the only one to win; she had managed to accumulate four boons of her choosing. Which was fortunate, for she needed an escort to the Wicked Widows annual ball, which was to be held in three months' time. It was scandalous even to think about attending a social event prior to the end of her mourning period, but the Wicked Widows' ball was an exclusive event, and her invitation was accompanied by a personal letter from the Dowager Countess of Wyndam herself requesting her presence. Marjorie had devised an elaborate plan to feign illness, but those plans were no longer necessary. She’d use one of her boons and have Lord Dartman escort her. He’d no doubt be rather popular amongst the female guests. She swallowed, ridding herself of the dry acidic taste that made her gag a little.
Marjorie jumped at the three distinct raps on the door.
Lord Dartman’s deep gravelly voice filtered through the door. “Time for supper, my lady.”
Already? It couldn’t have been more than a half hour since they arrived and she was shown to her room. She hadn’t even had time to freshen up. Daydreaming of past events always landed her in trouble. She should have accepted her maid, Alice’s, offer to assist her, but the poor woman looked weary and bedraggled. Marjorie had sent Alice to get rest along with Cook—Ms. Bean—and Mason, the butler, the two other staff members that Maxwell had arranged to relocate to the seaside cottage.
Marjorie raced to the wash basin in the far corner of the room, nearly knocking over the partition. “My apologies for the delay, my lord, but I’m not yet ready to join you.” She hurriedly poured water from the jug into the porcelain bowl, causing water to splash over the sides. “Argh.”
At the sound of Lord Dartman’s knuckles hitting the wooden door once more, Marjorie twisted at the waist and yelled, “I’ll be out in a moment.”
The rattle of the latch spurred her into motion. She dipped a wash cloth into the cold water and ran it over her dust-coated face and arms. She glanced up at her reflection in the mirror above the basin and shook her head. Blast. There was no time to fix her hair nor time to apply another coat of face paint or powder. Marjorie shrugged and marched toward the door. Why worry? After all, she was to dine in private, so only Lord Dartman would be privy to seeing the freckles that marred her face.
Chin to her chest, she slid the bolt free and opened the door. She didn’t dare look up, but simply weaved her arm through the crock of Lord Dartman’s arm. “My apologies for keeping you waiting, my lord.”
