The sudden coldness of his eyes shot ice through her veins. “I have any number of vices,” he said, low, menacing, “but cheating at cards isn’t one of them.”
She didn’t know this man’s name or his favorite food, but, so help her, she believed him.
He claimed the deck and began expertly fuzzing. “The first round of the eight is the ordinary game.”
Isabel staked one counter and experienced a startling exhilaration. Five hundred pounds. She wanted to give in to the urge to play to win, a feeling she’d never had much success in resisting. Competition had ever made her nervy.
But she wouldn’t. She was here to lose. More than a card game, at that.
He dealt the first cards and asked if she would increase her bet. She shook her head. He dealt them each another card. He revealed a seven and a knave; she a two and nine.
He met her eye and held it. “Why didn’t you take another card?” Before she could answer, he continued, “Are you even trying to win?”
Isabel’s heart stuttered in her chest. “I, um, yes,” she said, that yes emerging more question than declarative statement.
His eyebrows drew together, and he snorted. “In all honesty, I thought you would be more”—he paused for a well-timed beat—“formidable.”
Isabel’s gaze fell toward the table. Wounded pride, shame, annoyance, even anger, were all emotions that rose and swirled inside her. It was the content of his words, yes, but more it was the way he spoke them, like an indulged lord viewing her, speaking to her, as if her only reason for existing on this earth was to provide him entertainment and pleasure, and she wasn’t holding up her end.
Of a sudden, she wanted nothing more than to beat this man. The outcome of this night, of this war, was already determined. Even though once he’d had his fill, she would be little more than a nothing to be used and discarded, that didn’t mean she couldn’t win a few battles along the way.
“Deal,” she replied, the single word imbued with tempered steel.
It must have shown in her eyes, too, for the side of his mouth curled up into the semblance of a smile that made her heart skip two beats. It wasn’t a smile meant to convey joy or reassurance. It was the smile a wolf gave his prey the moment before he devoured it. This man was the physical manifestation of the word trouble.
He dealt two cards face up. “Imaginary tens. My two and your nine are tens in this round. Then we play ordinary. Understand?”
“Of course,” she snapped. The predacious curve of his mouth diminished not one iota.
He finished the deal and took the hand. Annoyance flared through Isabel. She increased her stake from one counter to three.
He took notice. “Why stop at three markers? Why not increase to five?”
She shrugged one shoulder and tossed two more onto her stack. Appreciation glimmered in his eye, and her body responded with a light flip of her stomach. A part of her that she couldn’t control responded to pleasing this man. Disconcerting, to say the least.
“You’ll like the third round. It’s played blind.”
“How fortuitous that I increased my bet,” she said drily. It was as if aristocrats sought out new ways to toss their money into the wind.
He dealt them each two cards face down. “Stand or take?”
She tapped the table.
His brow lifted, and he dealt the card. “Another?”
Reckless, she gave crimson baize two more taps. “Why not?” When another card landed face down on her stack, she waved her hand to stay.
He settled back into his seat, indolent and sure. What supreme confidence this man radiated. “Ladies first.”
One by one, she flipped her cards over. “Queen . . .”—not a good start—“. . . five . . .”—a better middle—“. . . three . . .”—she braced herself for the loss and flipped the last card over. She blinked, her brain a beat behind the number that met her eyes—“. . . three.”
Her gaze lifted and found a surprise in his eyes that matched her own, which in itself felt like a small victory. She had a feeling nothing shocked the man. Her heart a racehorse in her chest, she spoke around her triumph. “Twenty-one.”
“Well played.” He tapped his two cards. “Should I bother turning mine over?” He wasn’t truly asking.
First, he flipped a knave. An interminable beat of time dragged on as a long, masculine finger toyed with the remaining unflipped card. Isabel could have crawled through her skin. “Well?”
“Patience isn’t your best virtue, is it?”
“Never was.”
He tipped the card over, and Isabel’s stomach dropped to her knees. She blinked, then blinked again, but the card remained stubbornly the same. Ace. But . . . but she had twenty-one. Wouldn’t that be a push? He quickly disabused her of the notion. “A natural twenty-one beats yours every time.”
“¡Pero qué mierda!” she exclaimed.
“Language,” he tsked, even as his head cocked to the side and his eyes went speculative. “I thought your accent was Spanish.”
This whole time he’d been taking in the bits and pieces she revealed here and there. Now he knew something about her that was true.
Isabel nearly repeated the obscenity. She’d allowed her competitive streak to undermine her purpose. This man was her means to repay a family debt. Just as she was nothing more than a plaything to him, he was nothing more than a means to an end for her. She was here to lose, she reminded herself.
She counted her gaming markers. Thirty. In their pretend world where these stakes mattered, she had £15,000 at hand, enough to bankrupt all but the smallest percentage of the population. She staked ten of them and awaited his next deal. He matched her, his focus pulled taut, as if he’d been toying with her before and was now coming in for the kill. Dread coiled low in her belly.
“Round four is Sympathy and Antipathy,” he said as cards landed with light slaps on crimson baize. “Your preference.”
She looked him in the eye. “Antipathy.”
“Sympathy,” he countered.
He flipped the cards and won, and she hardly cared. She’d lost her appetite for the game. Why did he insist on playing? Why not take her to that ridiculous bed and get this night over with? He appeared too intelligent to be this interested in a game that held no real stakes for him.