She studied him as she made her way around the tables to reach him. He was dressed as well as the men he entertained with nothing about him to indicate he owned the club and they were customers. His clothing was bespoke like theirs and had probably come from the same tailor. He was the son of an earl after all, though born outside of wedlock. He had been raised by his father and that aristocratic arrogance shown on his face and in his mannerisms, except he wore it more naturally than many. It wasn’t conceit with him, so much as grace and charm.
His well-formed lips parted in a smile as he dealt another hand of Vingt-Un and made a joke she couldn’t hear. The men at the table laughed as they added to their bets. Thorne picked up the deck of cards with a skill born from years of practice and tossed another card onto each stack. His hands were strong but graceful with long fingers and clipped nails. If all went to plan, he could be touching her with those very hands soon. She paused as a flush warmed her face, but it was too late. He’d caught sight of her.
“Your Grace.” He smiled as the other three men greeted her in turn. “Have you come to join us?” he asked, his voice rich and smooth.
She swallowed and willed the butterflies in her stomach to cease their antics. She’d talked to him many times since joining his club, and tonight didn’t have to be any different. Only it was. Fighting past her nerves, she took the chair at the end of the crescent-shaped table. “Yes, but I’m afraid I’ve never played the game before.”
“Not to worry, Your Grace. We’ll teach you, won’t we, gentlemen?”
They murmured their agreement. A footman came forward almost immediately, bearing a small tumbler of her favorite whisky on ice. The service here was remarkable. Accepting it with a smile, she spent the next several minutes watching the men play. The game seemed easy enough, one simply tried to get the sum of their cards to add up to twenty-one without going over. It wasn’t complicated. Finally, Thorne dealt her in, and she promptly lost the first two hands.
“Too aggressive,” he warned her with a shake of his head when she asked for another card on the third round. The gaslight played in his thick black hair, and she wondered if it would be as soft as it looked.
“I’m not aggressive,” she said.
“Stand on anything higher than fifteen,” he instructed. “The risk is too high otherwise.”
“Good God, Thorne, don’t help her. You already win most hands; if you teach her to best us, there will no use in any of us playing.”
She recognized the man who spoke as a young lord who had inherited his title a few years ago. Most men at the club had been a bit reticent about her presence; they accepted it but didn’t embrace it. Their clubs had long been a refuge from female companionship. He’d been one of the few who had not been bothered by her.
“Come now, Verick, you can’t be upset that a mere woman might best you?” she teased.
Verick grinned and said, “My male pride can only take so much, Your Grace, before it needs soothing.”
She didn’t miss the inuendo, but Verick wasn’t who she wanted. She also didn’t miss the way Thorne’s eyes cut to him at the comment. A little whisp of pleasure flickered to life in her belly that Thorne would care.
“All right, I’ll stand.” Her cards added up to sixteen. The other men went over and she won by default. She smiled in satisfaction.
The game continued for a little while with her winning a few more hands before the men drifted away, leaving her alone at the table with Thorne. He handled the cards easily as he shuffled, his gaze flicking up to her from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “Another hand?”
“Actually, I hoped we might talk a bit.” She cleared her throat as it threatened to close. “In private,” she forced the words out.
“Intriguing.” He shuffled the cards and set them in the small tray on the table before placing his palms on the green baize and leaning toward her a bit. “It almost sounds as if you have a proposition for me.”
She swallowed under the force of his gaze, letting her eyes take in the strong lines of his face to avoid meeting it. He had high cheekbones that any woman would kill for, and his nose was blade straight. “Of sorts.”
“Shall we go to my office?” The inky slash of one brow rose in question.
No! That would be too intimate. What if he refused her and she was forced to sit there beneath the intensity of his stare? What if he said yes and expected to follow through tonight? It couldn’t be tonight. She’d only concocted the scheme over the last week. If he agreed, she would need a couple of days to prepare herself.
“Perhaps semi-private would be best. One of the lounges.”
He nodded. “Follow me.”
Taking one last fortifying sip of her drink, she left it there as she walked with him. He led her through the larger rooms where a few groups of men congregated on leather chairs talking politics to a smaller room in the back corner of the club. A small fire roared in the hearth and bookshelves lined one wall. It faced a side street that was quiet at this time of night and, though it was adequately lit, the moonlight that came through the windows made it seem more intimate than she would have liked. The door was open to the nearby lounge, however, so they weren’t completely alone.
“Will this do?” he asked, indicating she should take one of the chairs before the fire.
“This is fine.” She had to walk by him to sit and caught the scent of his cologne, a very pleasing mix of sandalwood and vetiver. She had admired it before but this time it made her thoughts swirl in her head, or maybe it was because she had to move so close to him. He was tall and broad, and the very indecent question she meant to ask him made her aware of how very large and solid he actually was. Her breath hitched in a strange mix of fear and anticipation.
He waited for her to settle herself before he sat down opposite her, his long legs stretching out before him as easily as if they were old friends convening for a visit. His gaze searched her face, the firelight casting a sable tint to his deep brown eyes.
“A drink for you, sir?” A footman materialized in the doorway.
“No, thank you, Frederick.”
The footman gave an abbreviated bow and left them alone.
“So what is this proposition, Your Grace?” he asked.
“Camille,” she said, but he didn’t reply. He simply watched her with the corners of his mouth turned up in that easy way he had about him. That expression always seemed to say that he knew far more about you than you knew about him. “I’ve been having an issue . . .”
God, is that how she meant to ask him? To come to him as some sort of charity case in need of his help? To admit that something was wrong with her? Had she not once practiced what she might say in this moment? No, she’d been too focused on the goal to actually plot out a persuasive argument. Her heart pounded as her mind went blank.