One Night with a Regency Lord. Lucy Ashford

have you to thank for the good shape I’m in. You must know that I’m deeply grateful.’

      ‘I don’t want your gratitude.’

      ‘What do you want?’ he asked quizzically and once again reached out for her hand.

      Mindful of her overnight resolution, she jumped up quickly and said, ‘What I want is to leave tomorrow. But in the meantime I’m sure the George can supply us with some entertainment. I’ll go downstairs and see what they have to offer.’

      And with that she disappeared rapidly from view. Gareth looked after her, a slight flush creeping into his lean cheek. Tendering his hand in friendship to a woman was a new experience for him and being rejected was equally novel.

      She returned half an hour later, having searched high and low for dominoes or Chinese chequers. Will had helped her for a while until Mrs Skinner, catching sight of the two of them, had ordered him angrily to fetch water from the pump. Then she’d stood coldly over Amelie and demanded just what Miss Wendover might be wanting. Her attitude was one of unconcealed hostility. Amelie was sure now that the landlord had seen her spring back from Gareth’s kiss yesterday and had confided this unsettling news to his wife. She blushed deeply at the thought of their conversation.

      ‘I’m looking for dominoes or chequers,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘My brother is feeling a good deal better and it will be a way of passing the hours.’

      Mrs Skinner snorted as though she knew well enough how they intended to pass the hours, but reluctantly led the way into an inner sanctum, opened a tall oak dresser in the corner of the room and shuffled around inside. The reek of mothballs floated out into the already malodorous room.

      ‘There’s some cards and a game of spillikins.’ The landlady thrust the items roughly at Amelie and stood glaring at her.

      Understanding that she was dismissed, Amelie made to leave. She couldn’t picture Gareth playing the child’s game, but she could always leave the spillikins in her bedroom. With hurried thanks, she gathered up the games and ran up the stairs.

      ‘I’ve found something,’ she called out gaily. ‘A pack of cards! Or rather Mrs Skinner found them, tucked at the back of an enormous dresser, which I don’t think has been opened for at least thirty years. Unfortunately, they smell of mothballs, but then this room isn’t exactly fresh, even with the window wide open.’

      As she was speaking, she cleared the small table between them of empty glasses and medicine bottles. ‘There, a perfect card table. What shall we play? I know very few games, but I imagine you can teach me.’

      ‘No.’ The brusque monosyllable startled her.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘I said no. I can’t teach you any card games, nor do I wish to play.’

      She looked puzzled. ‘How difficult am I to understand?’ he said sharply. ‘I don’t wish to play.’

      ‘But it’s only a game of cards—an amusing diversion,’ she protested.

      ‘For the last time, I don’t wish to play.’

      The familiar bleak expression had returned to Gareth’s face. His eyes were once more stony and the straight night-black brows threatening. He leaned back in his chair, detaching himself from the proceedings and refusing to meet her earnest look.

      ‘That’s all right,’ she said a little uncertainly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

      ‘You didn’t. Just learn to take a refusal when it’s given.’

      She bit back a retort. After tomorrow she would never see Gareth Wendover again. It was hardly worth quarrelling with him despite his extraordinary rudeness. But it was difficult to accept that he was the same man who had kissed her with such ardour only yesterday. He was transformed and she felt deeply wounded by the change.

      ‘I’ll find something else to play,’ she stammered a little shakily.

      Minutes later she returned with the spillikins. The hard look on Gareth’s face had disappeared and when he saw the spillikins he laughed out loud.

      ‘I know you’ve been my nursemaid these past few days, but have I regressed that badly that you need to play a child’s game with me?’

      ‘That’s all they have downstairs, and we must make the best of it.’

      She held upright the bunch of thin sticks and allowed them to fall at will. They scattered wildly across the table top.

      ‘The sticks coloured blue score most highly, red next, then yellow, and green are the most lowly,’ she explained.

      ‘I shall be lucky to pick up one stick cleanly, never mind its colour. I’ve suffered an accident, after all.’

      ‘You’ve sprained your ankle, not your wrist.’

      ‘But women are so much more dextrous, it’s hardly fair.’

      ‘Surely, Mr Wendover, you’re not saying that a woman can outdo you.’

      ‘Gareth, please. If we’re to be serious competitors, we must use first names. That way our insults, when they start flying, will be nicely personal.’

      ‘I’ve no intention of trading insults. It’s just a game, not a competition,’ she said carelessly.

      Nevertheless, she tried very hard to win. When it came to her turn she took minutes to weigh up the arrangement of sticks before deciding which one she would try to extricate from its place without dislodging the others. Gareth had gone first and could begin with the easiest stick to lift, but once into the thick of the game, they were both forced to concentrate intently when their several turns came round. At one point, he appeared to disturb one of the sticks he was trying to avoid and she called foul.

      ‘I merely breathed on the stick and it moved of its own accord,’ he disputed, shaking his head in bewilderment.

      She burst out laughing. ‘That’s certainly original. I’ll give you the excuse if only for sheer invention.’

      He laughed back at her, his heart filled with a strange happiness. So the game went on until there was just a small pile of sticks left in the middle of the table, all thickly entangled. They were neck and neck in the number they’d managed to acquire and, faced now with the most difficult moves, they both studied the table keenly, trying to decide their best approach. In the event it was Gareth who managed to extricate his last spill without disturbing the one other that was left.

      ‘Voilà!’ he exclaimed.

      ‘Magnifique,’ she unconsciously rejoined, responding spontaneously to his skilful play.

      ‘A maidservant who speaks French as well as having a French name! It becomes more and more intriguing.’ He looked searchingly at her.

      ‘I’d hardly say that I spoke French,’ she said, desperately seeking a way of moving the conversation on to less dangerous ground.

      ‘Still, it’s an unusual maid who knows any French. And you are an unusual maid, aren’t you? You’re proud and independent, you speak genteelly and hold yourself like a lady. If it weren’t for your clothes, I would take you for a lady.’

      From the bottom of her heart, she thanked the absent Fanny for donating her wardrobe, then set about allaying his suspicions.

      ‘My young mistress made a great friend of me and I learned from her how to go on.’

      He considered this for a while. ‘You may have learned conduct from her but not, I think, your courage.’

      ‘What do you mean?’ She was disconcerted.

      ‘Didn’t you say that your mistress was being married off against her will?’

      ‘She is, but courage won’t help her. Her brother has gambled away the family’s fortune and marriage