Regency Desire: Mistress to the Marquis / Dicing with the Dangerous Lord. Margaret McPhee

Monteith said, the unnecessary explanation a subtle message to Razeby, as if Alice would not understand.

      Her eyes met Razeby’s, a silent comment upon Monteith’s transparent and wasted subtlety passing between them. She remembered what she had come here to do and she smiled at him, a smile that only he would understand.

      He knew her challenge. Accepted it by selecting the chair directly opposite her to take his seat.

      ‘I hope you have deep pockets tonight, Razeby,’ she said.

      All the men laughed, not appreciating the full depth of her tease.

      But Razeby did. ‘Perhaps not deep enough,’ he said. She could see it in his eyes as they met hers, knew it for certain with his next words. ‘Maybe we should lower the minimum stake on account of Miss Sweetly’s playing.’

      There were murmurs of assent as the men around the table mistook his meaning. They all thought it was because, otherwise, she would be out after the first few hands.

      ‘Afraid, Razeby?’ She arched an eyebrow, and held his gaze boldly, all the while letting the small smile still play around her mouth.

      ‘My concern is all for you, Miss Sweetly.’

      She smiled at that, a smile of genuine amusement, and only then released his gaze, so that she could place a counter onto the green baize.

      Bullford looked at the size of her stake, then leaned to her, a look of concern on his face. ‘I say, Miss Sweetly, you have played before?’

      ‘Once or twice. But, I admit, not usually for money,’ she said carelessly, and could not resist flitting a glance at Razeby. His eyes were on hers, deep and intent. He was remembering all the times they had played when it had not been for money.

      Bullford lowered his voice a little. ‘Razeby is considered something of a shark when it comes to vingt-et-un. Perhaps he did not tell you.’

      She smiled at Bullford in a wickedly flirtatious way, knowing that Razeby was watching, then leaned in closer to him as if they were two conspirators. ‘I thank you for the warning, my lord.’ Then to Razeby, ‘I hear you have something of a reputation when it comes to vingt-et-un.’

      ‘I make no such claim.’ His voice was soft, his manner subdued, his eyes sharply watchful.

      ‘If you do not wish to play, Razeby…’ The same words with which she had teased him on a hundred nights before.

      ‘I do want to play, Miss Sweetly.’ His eyes darkened ever so slightly as he gave the same reply he always had done.

      Like two players in a script full of secret meanings to which only Razeby and Alice held the key.

      She felt the tension tighten between them.

      His eyes flicked to the dealer. ‘Deal me in.’

      Two cards came his way.

      His eyes held Alice’s. ‘I hope you know what you are doing, Miss Sweetly.’

      ‘Oh, I know all right, Lord Razeby,’ she said softly. ‘You needn’t worry about that.’

      ‘In that case… let us play.’ He smiled.

      And she returned the smile. A real smile. It was impossible not to. Despite everything.

      After fifteen rounds, only four of them remained in the game—Monteith, Devlin, Razeby and herself. Monteith and Devlin were almost out of counters. The pile of counters in front of Alice was only marginally larger than that in front of Razeby. Men had wandered over from the other tables to watch the play so that a small crowd now surrounded them.

      The sixteenth hand was dealt.

      For all her laughter and sparkle and feigned joviality, all evening Alice had been watching the cards very carefully, memorising who held what, the cards that had gone from the pack and therefore, by default, those that remained. It was an easy enough task when she could hold the whereabouts of three packs in her head at any given time.

      Razeby was rolling a counter within his hand. ‘Fifty pounds.’ He threw a pile of ten counters into the centre of the table.

      She swallowed at the enormity of the bet.

      Monteith glanced down at his three remaining counters and shook his head. ‘Too high. Out.’

      All eyes moved to Alice. She stayed calm, relaxed, still. Leaned back in her chair and met Razeby’s warm brown eyes.

      His gaze seemed to stroke against hers as he waited with everyone else for what she would do.

      She smiled. ‘Fifty pounds.’ She matched the stake with ten counters of her own.

      Monteith gave a chuckle. ‘You do not frighten her, Razeby.’

      She did not let herself think of the sums of money with which they were playing. Enough to last a poor man a lifetime. If her mother knew just how much money was on that table being gambled away…! Alice pushed the thought away, focused her mind. Money or clothes, in the end the game was just the same, if she kept her nerve.

      Razeby did not so much as raise an eyebrow. He stayed cool, impassive. Just the hint of a smile upon his face.

      Devlin met the stake. But when they turned over their cards Devlin lost his counters and was forced to bow out of the game, leaving only Alice, Razeby and the dealer to play the seventeenth hand.

      The dealer dealt each of them their two cards.

      It was Alice who was to set the stake this time. She met Razeby’s gaze. Their eyes held, each knowing the other’s strengths and weaknesses in this game. A test of nerve, a test of so much more.

       Never let them see how much they’ve hurt you.

      She smiled, hearing the words from so long ago in her head. Hurt just made you stronger. She did not let her gaze drop from his, held it as boldly as she had done that first night in the Green Room before he had been hers, and she, his. Held it and did not let it go.

      ‘All in, two hundred pounds,’ she said, and pushed all of her counters forwards.

      The gasp rippled round the table.

      ‘Good Lord,’ she heard Fallingham mutter.

      Beside her, Bullford produced a handkerchief and mopped at his brow.

      The whole room was tense, poised for the next step. They stared at Razeby to see what he would do.

      His eyes met hers again.

      The attraction, the affinity that had always been between them was still there, stronger than ever. Powerful. Dangerous. Beguiling.

      ‘As you will, Miss Sweetly,’ he murmured, and pushed all of his counters in to match hers.

      Not a single voice spoke, not a glass sounded. Even the serving maids stopped where they were and stared to see what would happen.

      The dealer’s voice broke the silence. ‘Lord Razeby…’

      Razeby looked his cards. ‘Stick.’ He smiled at her.

      ‘Miss Sweetly?’ the dealer prompted.

      She lifted her own, glanced down at them. ‘Twist.’

      The dealer dealt her a third card.

      ‘Twist again.’

      A fourth card came her way.

      ‘And again if you’d be so kind, sir.’

      There was a murmur of voices all around.

      The dealer looked at Razeby. ‘Please show, Lord Razeby.’

      There was a craning of necks to see as Razeby laid his cards down on the table.

      ‘Queen of hearts, king of hearts. Twenty,’ the dealer’s voice intoned.

      There was an