Those were all the instructions he had time for, but they were clear enough. Amanda adhered to them as the first game got under way. They had the corner to themselves. Reggie slouched in an armchair some yards away, broodingly watching. Connor sat on her left, Meredith to her right. When Mellors arrived with the candelabras, both Connor and Meredith flinched.
Unperturbed, Martin instructed Mellors to place the candlesticks on small tables on either side of her chair. Connor shot Martin a venomous look but said nothing; Martin, it seemed, wielded the sort of authority few dared question. Bathed in golden light, she felt a great deal more comfortable; relaxing, she found it easier to concentrate.
The first game was a series of trials, Connor testing her strength and Martin's, too, while Martin assessed both Connor and Meredith, at the same time watching her play closely. As often happened, the cards fell her way, but capitalizing against an opponent of Connor's caliber was no easy task. Nevertheless, with Martin's guidance, they triumphed and took the first game.
With the rubber decided on the best of three games, Amanda was delighted. Sitting back, she stretched her arms, smiling at Mellors when he served her a glass of champagne. Glasses were dispensed all around; she took a gulp, then sipped. The men finished theirs in two mouthfuls; Mellors topped up the glasses, including hers.
Martin cut, Connor dealt and the second game began.
As hand followed hand, Martin was, for the first time in a long time, unsure whether he would win. Even more surprisingly, he cared, not for himself, but for the angel who sat across from him, candlelight laying a tracery of gold over her fair hair. It was lush, thick, lustrous. His fingers itched to touch, to stroke, and not only her hair. Her complexion was flawless, that milky perfection found only among certain English damsels. Many struggled to attain the same effect with potions and creams, but in Amanda Cynster's case, her skin was natural, unblemished alabaster.
As for her eyes, they were cornflower blue, the same shade as the most expensive sapphires. Jewels by any name, those eyes were curiously innocent, aware yet… she was not naive, but was as yet untouched by w
orldly cynicism. The dross of life had yet to tarnish her. She was a virgin, he had not a doubt.
For a connoisseur of his highly developed, distinctly exotic tastes, she was the perfect English rose.
Just waiting to be plucked.
She very likely would have been as an outcome of this night if he hadn't stepped in. What the devil she was doing here, swanning through the latest hell like a lure in a pond full of hungry trout, he couldn't conceive.
In truth, he didn't want to think too much of her, of her thoughts, her actions, her desires. His only motive in hauling her out of the hole she'd fallen into was purely altruistic. He'd seen her trying to avoid old Connor while still retaining her pride; he'd understood why she'd dug in her heels, made a stand, then flown in the face of all wisdom and accepted Connor's wager.
He knew very well what it meant to lose one's pride.
But once they won and she was safe, he'd walk away, return to the shadows where he belonged.
Regretfully, admittedly, but he'd do it nonetheless.
She was not for him and never would be. He'd left her world long ago.
The last trick fell to Connor. Martin scanned the tally Connor was keeping on the table between them. One more hand, and unless the gods intervened, Connor and Meredith would take the current game, evening the score.
Time to change tactics.
The next hand went as he expected. Connor crowed and called for more champagne as he shuffled for the first hand of the deciding game. Noting the faint flush in his partner's fair cheeks, Martin beckoned Mellors closer as the man bent to fill his glass, and murmured his own instructions.
Mellors had a nice appreciation of who was who among his wealthier patrons; passing back by Amanda's chair, he clipped the candelabra, grabbed to steady it and instead knocked her glass-the glass he'd just filled with fine French champagne-to the floor. With copious apologies, Mellors retrieved the glass and promised to bring another.
He did, sometime later, as they were nearing the end of the first hand.
Amanda studied her cards and waited for Connor to lead. Neither she nor any of the others had yet played a false card-they'd done the best possible with the hands they'd been dealt. Luck, to date, had been the deciding factor.
Not a comforting thought. Especially as Connor had proved to be even more expert than she'd suspected. If it hadn't been for the large, reassuring figure seated opposite her, languidly tossing cards across Connor's, she'd have panicked long ago. Not that spending three hours in Connor's company was all that worrisome, but how to do so safely without her family hearing of it… that aspect had only occurred to her once they'd started the second game.
Now it exercised her greatly. Losing to Connor would not help her search for a husband at all. Damn the man. Why had he had to challenge her, especially as he had, triggering her temper and her pride?
Still, that challenge had brought Martin out of the shadows…
She concentrated on her cards, steadfastly keeping her senses from stealing across the table. That she couldn't afford, not at present; once they won, she could indulge said senses all she wished. That promise, dangling before her, kept her wits focused. The cards fell; the temperature increased. She reached for her glass, sipped.
Frowned, and sipped again. Frown easing, she gulped gratefully.
Water.
"Your play, my dear."
She smiled at Connor; setting aside her glass, she considered briefly, then trumped his ace. A smile flickered over Martin's lips; she refused to stare and carefully led another trump.