Others were as fascinated by the contest as he was, and Gareth heard something about ten thousand whispered somewhere in the background. Ten thousand! She must have been mad, or desperate. Yet she and her grandmother sat at the table as calmly as though they were playing Pope Joan or Speculation in the schoolroom.
The tricks were fairly evenly divided and Gareth could feel the tension growing among the spectators. Still, it seemed to him as though the advantage was on the side of Althea and her grandmother. He scrutinized Sir Montague suspiciously. To the casual observer the man appeared suavely confident, but to the experienced eye of a dedicated gambler who saw the sheen of sweat on his upper lip and the awkward way he held his cards, it was obvious that Sir Montague was extremely nervous. And so he should be given his opposition, Gareth thought.
Gareth glanced over again. He could have sworn that there was a card tucked into the cuff of the man’s sleeve, but it was so discreetly done he could not be sure enough to comment or do anything. Hoping to catch Althea’s eye, he stepped out of the shadows to try to signal her in some way, but there was no distracting her. She sat erect, eyes focused on her cards, her lower lip gripped in her teeth, a frown of concentration wrinkling her brow. It was an expression that Gareth always found upsettingly endearing, and he found it even more so now.
He stifled the hot flash of jealousy stabbing him that anyone else should see her in this unself-conscious state. Somehow her obliviousness to everyone and everything made her seem oddly vulnerable, and he felt the strongest urge to rush in brandishing a sword to protect her. But there was nothing clever or resourceful that he could do to save her. The Marquess of Harwood had never felt so helpless in his life.
Althea and her grandmother took another trick and Gareth saw Sir Montague’s lips tighten. Surely that was the last one he was going to allow them to take.
Spades were led. As Althea’s grandmother played the queen, Gareth, whose eyes were glued on Sir Montague, thought he saw the man’s eyelids flicker as his partner sighed, shook his head, and laid down a heart. Althea, also shaking her head, offered up a diamond, remarking quietly, “I believe that you have forced the knave out of hiding, Grandmama.”
Sir Montague blanched, coughed, and so discreetly that no one realized what he was doing, pulled out the knave that he had been holding in reserve in his sleeve.
Althea’s eyes, which had been fixed fiercely on her opponent, never wavered as he laid down the card. “Then I believe this will be our game.”
Sir Montague turned a ghastly shade of gray as he struggled to sound appropriately nonchalant. “But my dear young lady, there are more tricks yet to be played.”
“Of course. You are right, Sir Montague, there are more tricks, but I believe you will find that I am correct in saying that it is our game.” The words were spoken quietly enough, but to Gareth, at least, the menace in her tone was abundantly clear. He let out the breath he had been holding unconsciously and slumped against the wall from the sheer relief of it. She knew, had known perhaps even longer than he had, that Sir Montague was cheating. Lady Althea Beauchamp was as brilliant as she was fearless. Gareth wanted to shout and call all the world’s attention to it. He wanted to laugh and hug and kiss her until they were both breathless, and he wanted to do it now.
The four of them continued to play it out, but Althea was right, and she and her grandmother rose the victors. “I thank you for the game.”
Sir Montague gnawed his lip uncomfortably as he replied. “I shall send my man over with your winnings.”
Althea nodded and without further ado, swept toward the door, every inch the Ice Princess, not betraying by so much as a flicker of an eyelash that she had beaten a cheater at his own game and won a small fortune from him.
Gareth caught up with Althea and her grandmother as they reached the door to the card room. “Lady Althea.” He desperately racked his brains for a way to steal a moment alone with her. Over her shoulder he spied a French door at the end of the ballroom just as the orchestra conveniently struck up a waltz. “May I have this dance?”
“My mother, I must ...”, she stammered, made wary by the oddly intent expression in his eyes and unable to interpret the urgent tone in his voice.
“I feel certain that if your mother knows you are dancing with an eligible partner she will forgive your deserting her. Do you not agree, Your Grace?” He winked at the dowager.
“I feel certain that you are correct in that assumption, Lord Harwood.” The man was a scamp, the dowager reflected, much like her Harry had been. Her granddaughter needed a man like that, not some stiff-rump, prosy old bore like her own son. How she and Harry had come to produce a child like that there was no telling, though Harry’s mother had been a Featherstonaugh, and the Featherstonaughs were known for being as prosy as Methodists.
“If you insist, my lord. Grandmama, will you tell Mama where I am?”
“I shall be delighted to, child.” The dowager winked back at the marquess as he led her Althea to the floor. It was clear that the man wanted something besides a dance with her granddaughter. She had seen him watching them like a hawk as they sat at the gaming table and she could have sworn he had looked worried. Of course Rochfort was a scoundrel of the worst sort; anyone with their wits about them could see that, but no one was a match for Althea. The dowager knew that, and she also knew that the Marquess of Harwood had desperately wanted to believe it too as he stood watching them take trick after trick. But the frown wrinkling his forehead had been the frown of a worried parent. Odd that a man notoriously skittish where any connection with a lady of quality was concerned should interest himself in one who had obviously been brought to London to contract an eligible alliance.
The dowager’s black eyes gleamed with suppressed amusement as she went in search of her daughter-in-law. The Marquess of Harwood was undoubtedly an eligible parti of the highest order, but not one likely to raise any hopes in the Duchess of Clarendon’s breast. She liked her men to be biddable, and there was nothing biddable about Gareth de Vere. From the fierce gray eyes under straight black brows to the hawk-like nose and firm, unyielding mouth, from broad shoulders to narrow waist and long legs, he was a man born to command, a man who knew what he wanted and got it.
And at that moment, he apparently wanted her granddaughter. The dowager hoped she knew what he wanted Althea for. There was something between the two of them, an electricity that only someone close to either one or both of them could see.
Meanwhile, on the terrace, beyond the reach of prying eyes, Gareth was explaining to Althea precisely why he had asked her to dance—to give her a good scolding. “What were you thinking? Were you mad? Rochfort is the worst sort of a knave, a Captain Sharp as dangerous as any that haunt the hells waiting to pluck rich young pigeons. Just because he bears an ancient name does not mean he is any less likely to cheat you.”
“I know that.”
“You what?” Even though he had just witnessed her fleecing one of the most notorious gamblers in London, Gareth was still thunderstruck by her admission.
“Even if I had not mistrusted him from the very first, I would have the moment he staked ten thousand for a game of whist with an heiress from the country. It was quite obvious the man was up to no good, and I am no fool, my lord.”
“I know that. You are quite the opposite, as I have discovered, to my chagrin. But being clever at figures and cards isn’t the same as being wise to the ways of the world. And an incomparable in her first Season, even an incomparable of incomparables, is no match for a man who has been swindling young bucks since before you were born. It is only the man’s consummate skill that keeps him from being caught and refused admittance to respectable gatherings.”
Althea’s chin, which had lifted defiantly at his characterization of her as “an incomparable in her first Season” now rose a fraction higher. “My lord, an ‘incomparable of incomparables,’ as you insist on calling me, is accustomed to deception and trickery in things far more serious than cards. Believe me, I can recognize a
bad
‘un, as John Coachman calls it, with greater facility than you obviously credit me with.”
The angry sparkle in her eyes warned him that he had already gone too far, but he could not help himself. “Perhaps. But Sir Montague is an ugly customer, a very ugly customer indeed, and I cannot believe that you have encountered men of his stamp before.”
Althea drew a deep, steadying breath. “It is very kind of you to concern yourself over my welfare, my lord. I may not have your worldly experience, but I have enough people concerning themselves over my welfare as it is. I bid you good evening.”
He caught her wrist as she turned to go. “No. Althea, I mean, forgive me. I know I may sound patronizing, but ...”
“You do.”
“But it is just that I am worried for you. No, do not frown at me so. It is not that I worry you will be deceived or even that you will fail. Believe me, I have too much respect for your talents and abilities to do that. It is just that I want so much for you to succeed that I ...” He let go of her wrists to clasp her hands in his. “Have you not wished for something so much that you were afraid it could not possibly happen simply because you wished for it too much?”
She nodded slowly, mesmerized by the look in his eyes.
“Well, that is what I mean when I say I am worried for you. I want so much for you to win your heart’s desire that I cannot bear for anything to stand in your way.” A self-mocking smile twisted his lips. “Do not ask me why I care. I just do. Perhaps it is because you are so bold and determined in going after what you want. Bold and determined as I have been. I want to help you, but at the same time I want you to succeed on your own. The end result is that I have succeeded in annoying you by concerning myself with your affairs.”
He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them gently, first one and then the other. “Now, if I promise not to interfere again, will you promise to come to me if you have any doubts or questions about your opponents? I know you have parents who watch over you, but I hardly think they have any more knowledge of gamesters and questionable gambling hells than you do, and you can hardly go to them without revealing your schemes for escaping the future they have planned for you.”
Surprised by his earnestness, Althea looked up at him curiously. There was a sadness in his voice that told her the road to regaining his fortune had not been an easy one. There had been painful moments along the way that had etched the cynical lines in his face. He was not a man who involved himself in others’ affairs; he himself had admitted that, though it was certainly common enough knowledge. Why, then, was he trying to help her? Was it truly because he wanted her to succeed? The warmth of his lips on her fingers, the reassuring strength of his hands clasping hers, the glow in his eyes as he looked down at her, all told her that he did. And for some strange reason, she wanted desperately to believe him. Even more strange was that her heart was beating so loudly she could hardly hear herself reply. “I promise that I will ask you about any questionable characters.”
“Thank you.”
For a moment, Althea almost thought he was going to kiss her. He paused, looked searchingly down at her, and then smiled. “And now I must get you back to the ballroom before
I
become a questionable character.”
Chapter 15
As the ducal carriage rolled back to Grosvenor Square, Althea, a vague feeling of disappointment gnawing at her, stared blindly out the window. Had she wanted him to kiss her? Having grown up with a mother who was adept at creating illusions, who hid her own self-centeredness under the mask of devotion to her husband and child, who spent hours with dressmakers and maids in an effort to appear more youthful and beautiful than nature had made her, Althea had resolved to be utterly honest with herself and others from an early age. She had always prided herself on that honesty, and now, examining her own motives with a brutally self-critical eye, she arrived at the thoroughly uncomfortable and disconcerting conclusion that she
had
wanted the marquess to kiss her.
Ordinarily, all people were the same to Althea. Of course, some were young, some old, some clever, some not, but in general, they were just people and as such, affected her very little either way. She could dimly remember that as a very small child she had run to her parents hoping that her beautiful Mama or her handsome Papa would smile, hold out welcoming arms, and hug her tight. That had never happened. It was not that they had ignored her; no, never that. Mama was constantly adjusting her, fussing over an awkwardly tied bow in her hair, smoothing a rumpled skirt, frowning at a stain on her sleeve or a scuffed shoe. And Papa was forever admonishing her to stand up straight and carry herself as proudly as all Beauchamps did. Naturally, in an effort to win their affection, she had complied eagerly with all their strictures. She had schooled herself to become their perfect, well-behaved child, never embarrassing them with any childish outbursts of exuberance or sorrow, a tiny model of their own exquisitely well-bred exteriors, and she had never again been so unrealistic as to long for affection and attention from anyone.
It was not that she was not interested in or curious about other people. She enjoyed hearing her nurse’s stories about her childhood, her governess’s tales of family life, but she had never allowed herself to do anything more than listen. She had never shared her own hopes and fears, had never revealed her own dreams to anyone else.
But there was something about this man that was different. It was not just that he was intelligent and didn’t hide his clever mind behind fashionable concerns. It was not just that he was a fine figure of a man. Althea was sure that there were other men in London who were intelligent, and there were certainly other men possessing powerful, athletic physiques, and men who were more conventionally handsome with open smiling countenances instead of angular features that habitually wore a faintly sardonic expression.