Page 42 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

“To see your establishment for myself,” she said with some indignation. “I wanted to try the roast beef and report to Lily, and Giles recommended the play. I was accosted by your mistress before I could decide on a game.”

“She is not my mistress.”

“No, it seems she is now Humphrey’s. Best of luck to him. Is this faro?”

“Is that the game you want?”

He was very tall and large, this close to her. She would have to stand on tiptoe to reach his lips. She pushed that foolish thought away at once.

“I had thought hazard. Or perhaps roulette? Giles says you have the French version, and I have never tried it. I have never tried any gambling, really, beyond betting pence now and again with our aunts at whist.”

“Hazard has worse odds, but you get to throw, so it feels like you have more influence over the outcome.” He drew her toward that table. Immediately a cluster of players moved apart to make room for the two of them.

She didn’t miss the admiring gazes that came from several women, or the murmured greetings of a few.

“Ladies,” he said cordially to the table at large. “My friend has never played. Might she take a cast when you are finished?”

“She might have my turn. I’m making a dismal show of myself tonight.” A woman with an exquisite face and guinea-gold hair handed Rowden a pair of dice. She wore a modish gown with a silk robe and turban, and an enormous velvet muff clung to her left arm.

“Lady Amalie, it is always an honor when you visit us. I hope you know we will hold your tab against future winnings, whenever your fortunes should turn.”

“Silver-tongued scoundrel.” The lady smiled sweetly at him, then nodded to Sophronia. “You know this, yes?”

Something about her manner made Sophronia like her instantly. An answering smile tugged at her lips. “I am aware, on the basis of a long acquaintance.”

“Win thousands, then, and embarrass the house,” said Lady Amalie with a wink.

Sophronia looked anxiously at the dice as Rowden placed them in her gloved hand. “I oughtn’t be placing bets. My money should be saved for my school⁠—”

“I’ll stand your losses, of course,” he said.

She scowled at him. “That hardly seems fair.”

“I am the setter, the house, the owner, and the bank all in one. I can do whatever I wish.”

The rumble of his voice stirred something within her chest, a wicked, restless tendril born of longings she had buried long ago and paved over so they might never push up toward the light of day and wound her with reminders of what she had once dreamed and lost. But here he came along, cracking her façade and her careful pavements. Poking at the foundations of her very life.

“How—how much is proper?” She looked to Lady Amalie, seeking the advice of a more experienced woman.

“Five hundred pounds,” Rowden said smoothly.

Sophronia gasped. “Far too much to lose.”

“I told you, you will not lose it. This is what you do.” He curled a hand around hers, closing her fingers over the dice. “Call out a number. That is your main. Then roll.”

He then recited a list of complicated outcomes she had no chance of comprehending, because he stood too close to her, and he smelled of bergamot and some delicious tobacco, and her head was bubbling like a kettle coming to boil.

“You understand?” he concluded, watching her. His breath smelled of cinnamon.

“Yes,” she lied.

“Then name your number.”

She did, then pointed. “I simply roll there, onto the table?”

“Yes, but first you must set your luck.”

He uncurled her fingers and leaned his head close. A lock of his unruly brown hair fell over his forehead, escaping the clutch of pomade. Then he breathed on her gloved hands, and she felt his warm breath through the kid of her glove, and she closed her eyes for a moment, riveted by the sensation.