How was she winning so easily?
Her pulse pounded. She swept her winnings into her reticule and rose. She did not hurry. Did not flee. She walked with measured steps toward the bar.
But he was behind her in an instant.
She didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.
“I’d like a drink tonight,” she said lightly.
His voice came from just behind her, low and familiar, roughened in a way that sent heat curling through her belly. “Brandy?”
“Champagne.”
She slid onto a stool, ignoring the way her skin prickled in awareness of his nearness.
Ash ordered their drinks, his eyes never leaving her.
“Why did you come here tonight?” he asked.
“To gamble.” The answer was immediate.
His brows furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“I have plans.” She met his gaze steadily. “Plans which require a certain amount of money.”
He looked even more confused. “Money? Why do you need?—”
She exhaled. The words came as evenly as she could manage. “I’ve nearly saved enough to leave England.”
A beat of silence.
Then he said softly, almost disbelievingly, “What?”
She turned, leveling him with a look. “Lower your voice.”
But his entire body had gone still. “You’re leaving England?”
“Yes.”
His jaw clenched. “Does Meredith know?”
“No. And I don’t want her to. When my mother comes looking for me, I don’t want Meredith to be forced to lie. Once I’m safe, I’ll write.”
His hands curled into fists against the bar. “Where will you go?”
“The Continent. Most likely France.” She lifted her glass and took a slow sip. “They’re more forgiving there.” A ghost of a smile. “I intend to tell everyone I’m a widow.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “When?”
“As soon as I have enough.”
She could feel his frustration mounting, the energy coiling between them like a gathering storm.
“I’m nearly there,” she murmured, patting her reticule. “And I don’t have much time. My mother is coming for me before the end of the month.”
Something flashed in his expression—something she could not name.
“Why?” His voice was raw. “Why are you leaving?”
