“Asked around, did you?”
“Did you enjoy laughing at me?” There was no bite in his tone.
“Only a little.”
“Interesting. I quite enjoyed being the subject of your amusement.”
“So you came to provide me with more opportunities for merriment?”
“I had not thought to find you, actually. I intended to approach your father with an… explanation.”
“Of your sinful nature?”
Sinclair’s gaze dropped to her lips again before traveling lower, tracing the line of her throat. Skimming even lower, he lingered on the curve of her bosom before meeting her gaze once more. His admiration was blatant—so unfamiliar it set her heart racing.
“‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’”
“Oi, are you playing another round?” Hughes asked, claiming her attention again, his newly refilled glass sloshing.
Bash hovered beside Sophie with a pinched expression across his dark brow.
Eliza placed her ante on marriage and drew a card without commentary, a queen.
“And you? This table is for playing, not wooing,” Hughes directed at Sinclair.
“Do you find the two activities to be mutually exclusive?” the latter asked, drawing his card. Eliza was surprised to find that he seemed familiar with the game.
“I— No. I—” Hughes stammered as the deck passed to Sophie.
She blinked, apparently struggling to comprehend the sight of Eliza with Sinclair. Eliza couldn’t recall the last time Sophie had been quiet for as many consecutive minutes.
“Because I, for one, do not. What are the stakes?” Sinclair finished.
“Five shillings to start,” Sophie supplied. Sinclair reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, then placed them on his ante—king.
“Do you know how to play poque?” Eliza asked him.
“I’ve played a time or two.”
The deck passed to Eliza a second time, and she pulled out an ace. The others passed her their cards, and she cut the deck before shuffling confidently. Hughes cut the deck again, muttering about cheating. The other man still playing, Jennings, was a regular. Eliza suspected he stayed for the amusement of watching Hughes flounder.
She dealt five cards to each of the players with ease and the next for trump.
Even as she feigned nonchalance, Sinclair’s presence at her side was a distraction of the highest order. Instead of proper posture and attention devoted to his cards, he perched diagonally across the chair. His legs bracketed her chair—not touching, but close enough to feel. Her awareness was overwhelming and made it practically impossible to concentrate on anything, save him. The spicy, woody scent of him, the heat of his frame, the intensity of his gaze.
“Thank you for the flowers,” she whispered without turning—the sight of him would be the end of her tenuous grasp on sanity. “They’re lovely.”
“I’m glad they pleased you.”
“They did, though they were an entirely proper gift. I thought you were to resort to impropriety.”
“Did you wish for me to resort to impropriety?”
Eliza could not have stopped her gaze from snapping to his for the world. He was intensity and levity wrapped in an impossibly attractive package. His eyes caressed her, a heady sensation, even as the grin tugged at the corners of his lips.
She forced her attention back to the game. And then she felt it. His knee brushed hers beneath the table. Her head whipped around to his on a gasp.
Sinclair’s chuckle burned warm in her chest like a fine scotch. “How are you winning so handily? You’re so expressive.”
