Page 31 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

He breathed that in, astonished. How long had it been since she had touched him like this, not in passing as he helped her mount her horse, but a deliberate reaching out?

When they were younger, Sophronia’s touch was a given. Her punch to his shoulder when he said something rude, her pokes to his back when she feared he was about to give away a hiding space. The casual way she had leaned against him on a picnic or when fishing, when he helped her down from a horse, when she was trying to peek at his hand at cards.

Even after he had become all too sharply aware of her and the effect her touch had upon him, she had seemed innocent of her effect and had not ceased their casual interactions. Not until the day the portrait painter put her behind that easel and she became someone else. Someone destined to bestow herself upon a Henry Hinton.

She turned to Foster and smiled sweetly. “Why do you want to send Rowden to Russia?”

The golden warmth drained away in an instant. He was a marsh swamp, everything running through him, and she had reduced him to this.

A smile quirked up one side of Foster’s mouth as he met her direct, inquiring gaze, and Rowden could see the man falling under her spell. Feeling the effect of that oval face, the bright blue eyes, the full lips that showed so many varied expressions. The thick lashes that made her eyes seem deep-set, and the pert point of her chin that it took one a while to realize was a badge of her stubbornness. Foster was charmed too, damn his eyes.

“You must be the family friend staying with Rowden. The one Fan—that Mrs. Glass went into a temper about.”

“I have no doubt Mrs. Glass is possessive. I have seen evidence that she is much attached to Rowden.” She picked Rowden’s hand up and shook it. “He’ll introduce us in a moment. It takes him a while to recall the courtesies.”

The movement was so achingly familiar, so like the friend he had known for so long, that Rowden felt a weight of despair slam into him. Years they had lost, years together, because she had not thought he was enough, either.

“Mr. Thomas Foster, undersecretary to Lord Grenville of the Foreign Office,” Rowden growled. “Foster, this is Mrs. Hinton, recent widow of the banker.”

“My family banks with Hinton’s,” Foster said with a small bow.

“And I hope will continue to do so, as my husband’s partners are scrupulous about their careful management.” She tapped her fingers on Rowden’s hand. “So Lord Grenville wants Rowden in Russia? For what purpose?”

Hell’s knees, how much had she heard? He had thought her deep in conversation across the room. When had she crept up on him, listening?

And what did it mean, that she seemed to be inserting a wedge between him and Foster?

“Diplomatic relations run on intelligence, Mrs. Hinton,” Foster answered. “And Rowden, as you know, is adept at gathering information. He was very handy to have at the Treaty of Campo Formio, advised the Prime Minister on terms before the regular dispatches could arrive. Britain can’t fight the French alone—we need another Coalition. And Russia could be primed and ready, with the right coaxing.”

Rowden wanted to close a hand around his friend’s throat to silence him. Foster clearly thought he and Sophronia were on easy terms, to speak so freely, expecting her to know this about him.

Soph gave no indication that any of this was new to her, merely absorbed the information, drat her quick wits. “But Rowden does not speak Russian.”

“He speaks Dutch, German, French, Italian, and can make his way through most of the Austrian dialects. Russian should not be a far stretch,” Foster said.

“You are aware Russian is not like any of the Romance languages, nor any of the Germanic ones?” Sophronia inquired. “Slavic tongues have quite different constructions, starting with the alphabet.”

Rowden hid a smile. She looked so fetching and docile in her beribboned capote bonnet, so soft and feminine with that bosom filling out her simple gown, so nurturing with her hand still resting upon his. It took people a while to realize she was a vixen with saffron hair and small, even teeth.

Foster appeared to be realizing this. “Well, we can’t send him to the Mediterranean to track Napoleon,” he answered, not quite as confident in his tone as before. “Man’s a terrible sailor. Learned that in the Battle of Camperdown last year.”

“The naval battle against the Batavian Republic?” Sophronia turned to frown at Rowden. “You were a combatant?”

“Not in any way that counted,” he replied.

Her brow furrowed. “You don’t like boats. You’d get nervous when we went punting on the Kennet.”

“They told me larger ships aren’t the same. Turns out that’s not true.”

She stared into his eyes, and the moment stretched out, as if she were taking the time to read his memories and find out everything she could from the years they’d been separated.

There was so much he didn’t want her to see. He turned his face away from her searching gaze and addressed Foster. “I’ll consider it, but I can’t commit to anything.”

Soph’s fingers squeezed around his. “We need you here.”

Those words again, wrapping around his heart and pulling tight. He couldn’t believe they were true. They never had been before. She’d enjoyed his company, that was evident, but the moment she’d needed someone, she’d turned to Hinton. Older, smug, a tyrant, but a wealthy tyrant. The man who had taken his Sophronia away from him forever.

Whoever stood before him now, it wasn’t the same girl. She was an unfathomable woman.