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She’d have to pretend she was fresh and in love, still hopeful a man who didn’t want her would change his mind and admit he loved her.

He would not. He would never.

Even though she was carrying proof he’d once believed he could.

***

In contrast to his three companions around Blackwell’s drawing-room card table, Asquith leaned forward, elbows on knees. He’d lost track of time. But every second that passed increased his distance from the scene outside Almack’s—a scene he could still hardly fathom.

He’d required that break, the silent company of friends, and the quiet click of cards, to orient himself. Setting things right felt impossible and yet he must.

How remained unclear.

But he knew the rest—who: Lenora; what: restore her affection; when: as soon as humanly possible; why: because he would prove to her he could rise to Willard’s challenge without violence, and then he’d show her how much she meant to him.

He loved her. He suspected he always had.

From the first frisson of fear to the awakening of carnal desire, every meeting had deepened their connection. She was important to him.

Essential.

He’d been a happy child. Then, a terrorized one. Then, he completely lost control, and what should have been a triumph—besting his bully—turned to a festering wound. Until now, he’d carried a question mark in his heart—if provoked, would he lose control again?

Her compassion, offered first through the dark, soulful gaze of a girl, hinted that his fractured pieces, both in spirit and in body, could once again be whole. That he could be trusted. Loved.

But tonight...

“Asquith?” Neville prompted.

He placed a card as if his delay had been deliberation; the game moved on.

Performing proved more challenging than one might surmise. He had to admire Lenora. And for the same skill, his mother.

Unbeknownst to anyone but himself and Daughtry, his mother had faked her near-faint. She’d told him she’d arranged for Daughtry to catch her. Why, she’d told him, was none of his concern.

What a damned night. Lenora. Neville. Willard. And now the vingt-et-un.

The game rolled around again, following Neville’s bet. Asquith strained to focus, but the cards blurred, cycling in and out of clarity before his eyes. Ignoring Neville’s impatient glare, he drew a hit.

Queen of hearts. He nearly snorted. Exactly what he needed.

He placed down the card, aligning the bottom edge with the table’s inlay. There. Something in his life ought to be perfectly placed.

After over a decade of careful living, of never missing his mark, in only a few short weeks, everything had gone askew.

Blackwell whistled low. “Bad luck, Nev.”

“Indeed. I cannot top that hand.” Neville drummed his fingers. “You’ll take a vowel, will you?”

“Of course,” Asquith replied, frowning. “You’re good for it, I know.” But why would Neville need a voucher for so small an amount?

Neville pushed back from the table.

Neville had his own problems with concentration tonight. Multiple times on the way here from Almack’s, Neville had asked ‘Where did we pick up Daughtry again?’ even though the four of them had stood outside Almack’s and decided on Blackwell’s together.

Both he and Neville were thinking of Willard. But Asquith’s primary concern was Lenora.

Neville went to the window.