With some reluctance, he dragged his gaze away from the goings on behind. “As always you are a fountain of wisdom.”
It was odd how one word could conjure a host of vivid images, stir one’s sensibilities. Had Tristan’s mother not lured the matrons into Lord Holbrook’s garden on the pretence of seeing his splendid fountain, Priscilla would never have met Matthew Chandler. A sudden ache in her chest forced her to catch her breath.
Misinterpreting the sound of her anxiety, Matthew moved to stand behind. Measuring a good six inches taller, he pressed his body against hers, enveloping her in a warm embrace. Every fibre of her being responded instantly. The faint thrum of desire still lingered from their earlier flirtation in the drawing room. With each passing hour, with each new day, the craving to be near him grew.
“Is that better?” His mouth hovered but an inch from her ear. “Do you feel safer now?”
“I always feel safe with you.” It was the most honest thing she’d ever said.
Matth
ew chuckled. “No one has ever spoken those words to me before. I’m regarded as one of the most dangerous men in the ton. Ladies of quality are taught to be afraid when in my presence. Perhaps I am losing my touch.”
Priscilla leant back into him. “Well, I’ve recently discovered that I thrive on adventure. Dangerous men excite me.”
“Men?” The single word brimmed with reproof.
“A slight slip of the tongue. What I meant to say was you excite me.”
He bowed his head until the faint bristles on his jaw grazed her cheek. “The feeling is mutual.”
No doubt anyone glancing their way would find her wide, satisfied grin odd considering she was staring at Lord Boden as he inspected the cards. “Hush now,” she said though wished they had no reason to remain at The Diamond Club. “If we’re not careful, we’ll miss the first hand of whist.”
A man wearing a forest-green tailcoat and burgundy waistcoat shuffled the deck. His nimble hands worked so quickly it made Priscilla dizzy just watching.
“The Diamond Club insist on using their own dealers,” Matthew informed. “There’s no person alive who can keep up with Stanley’s shuffling skills. A club’s reputation rests on its ability to guarantee honest play. Anyone caught cheating is liable to face the barrel of a pistol at dawn.”
“Then a man would have to be supremely confident to deceive the house.” Priscilla noted Lord Boden’s excessive preening: a flippant brush of the hair, a straightening of the sleeve. Either he found his fingernails fascinating, or he had a severe form of arthritis that caused his digits to curl into claws.
“One would need the cunning of the devil.”
“Then we should place our faith in divine intervention,” Priscilla said as Stanley whipped the cards around the table, distributing the deck between all four players. The dealer placed the last card dealt face up.
“Spades are trumps,” Matthew confirmed.
For the next few minutes, they focused all their efforts on watching the minute signals passing between Boden and Parker-Brown as each trick was played. The movements were so slight, practically impossible to read by the untrained eye.
“Watch when Boden takes a breath,” Matthew muttered in her ear. “He gives the impression he’s thinking, but each second equates to a number. Five seconds for a five and so on.”
Priscilla watched the players with interest. “The sigh indicates the end of the breath.”
As Matthew predicted during their earlier discussion, Boden's opponents won the first three hands, the last one by nine tricks to four. What better way to encourage a higher stake than to give one’s challengers a false sense of security?
Boden won the next three hands to even the odds.
Mr Parker-Brown’s arched brow suggested he was to play a queen next. Consequently, Lord Boden played his lowest card though they still won the trick. The sharps’ winning streak continued for a few more rounds but then their luck took an unexpected turn for the worse.
Matthew bent his head, brushed his lips across her jaw merely to whisper privately. “They’re deliberately losing. It will be a ploy to lure the weak-minded to try their luck. Lose tonight. Win tomorrow.”
“It would make sense,” she said trying to focus on the conversation, though every time his mouth touched her ear desire shot through her like a lightning bolt. “Men are unlikely to gamble when the odds are stacked against them.”
“I suspect that is …”
Priscilla missed the latter part of his comment. A sudden prickle of awareness crept over her shoulders. She scanned the room, her gaze locking with another lady on the opposite side of the table. From her fiery red hair and arrogant curl of the lip, Priscilla knew the woman to be Lucinda Pearce. The lady placed her hand on the shoulder of a gentleman at her side, whispered something and laughed, though her penetrating stare conveyed nothing but disdain.
Anger bubbled away in Priscilla’s belly. An absurd need to prove Matthew lusted after no one but her took hold. She leant back into her husband’s warm body, her feet a little unsteady as the strange flurry of emotions caused spots of light to form in her vision.
Matthew placed firm hands on her shoulders. “Are you all right?”