Chapter Fourteen #2
“The trick is to watch each player for a while,” she explained.
“Once you know their tells, it’s quite easy to see when they have a good hand.
One can but guess what it is, but if one memorizes the cards that have gone before and can apply probability, then one can be fairly accurate and play accordingly. ”
“And that’s how you play?” he asked, leaning forward now, his elbows on his knees.
The candlelight limned him in gold, and if she were an artist, she would want to capture that image.
Such a ruined face, such elegance of body and mind.
A bleak mouth and kind eyes. What composition it would be, how very difficult to capture.
“You learn your opponents before you ever face them?”
“Precisely,” she said. “Is that not the way of any game? One can enter with strangers, of course. And there is much to be learned in the moment. But if I am to play, I prefer to do so with the upper hand.”
“And so you would win?”
“Often,” she said, shrugging. “But I never played for the money. I used to play for the—the satisfaction of it. Pitting my wits against another’s and coming out on top. Does that make sense?”
“It does.” That bleak mouth twitched into a smile. “You strike me as a formidable player.”
“I hope I am. Will you stay here the rest of the night?”
“I expect so.” He glanced at her, then frowned, as though in thought.
“But you ought to retire, Chris. It’s late, and you look on the verge of nodding off again.
” A smile, quicksilver fast, crossed his face.
“As little as I would object to you sleeping here, you might surprise the maids in the morning when they come to make the fire.”
“No more surprised than they’ll be to see you lit one.”
“They’re accustomed to my oddities by now, I assure you.” He rose and offered her his good hand. “Come. Let me walk you back upstairs.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she placed her hand in his. His fingers curled around hers, and a shiver rocked her. Skin to skin. Her hand looked so small against his, cool against his heat, and her heart gave an odd, unsettling lurch.
Before he could notice anything out of the ordinary, she withdrew his hand and wrapped the blanket more firmly about her shoulders. Theirs was a promising friendship—she would not ruin it with the embarrassing awareness that he was the only man she had ever touched. In any respect.
“I have a question, if I may,” she said as he tucked her arm in his and they walked through the vast, silent house. “You rebuilt, after the fire.”
“I did. The work has just finished.”
“Amelia said you fashioned the rooms exactly as they had been.”
“Yes.”
“Why? If you had a fresh start, why did you merely emulate what had come before? Why did you not take the opportunity to make it more yours?”
He was silent for so long, she thought he might not speak.
When he did, his voice was low. “When I inherited the house and everything it contained, I became its caretaker. The best way I knew of preserving my mother’s memory was to restore the house to the glory she’d envisioned for it.
” He took a breath, and she was oddly aware of his proximity, the way heat sank into her side.
“If, however, there are substantial changes you would like to make—”
“You mentioned the moat.”
“That was not of my mother’s design. I have no love for it.”
“Then I will contrive its removal.” Christiana, like his mother, had no love of it—it struck her as pretentious and impractical and would require upkeep. This house was no castle; it required no moat.
They stopped outside the door to her apartments, and she looked up into his face, now shadowed and utterly impenetrable.
The oddest temptation to lean up to press her lips against his flooded her, and she took a step back before she could do something she might regret.
What did it matter to her if he wished to preserve his mother’s memory by noting all the changes she had made to the house and restoring them after her death?
If the lump in her throat was anything to go by, it mattered a great deal.
“You may trust me,” she said softly. “I would not make any changes to the house that would compromise your mother’s memory.”
He sighed. “Amelia tells me I should not live in the past.”
“Amelia does not remember the way you do.” Before she could help herself, she brought a hand to his jaw, stroking the unburned skin, not daring to caress his burns in case it should hurt.
“I am not an expert, but I believe marriage ought to be for the betterment of both parties. Help me, and I will help you.”
For the longest moment, he looked down at her, brows drawn. She dropped her hand, and—perhaps it was her imagination—but she felt as though he leaned forward slightly, as though to capture her touch for a fraction longer.
Then he stepped away, and the moment was gone. “Goodnight, Chris,” he said, his voice a little rough. “I hope you sleep well.”
Christiana watched him as he strode down the hall until he was out of sight.