He almost laughed at the confusion his philosophizing caused in her. But her manservant came to the rescue with the delivery of the cognac, an excellent blend composed of fine eau-de-vie that had been aged fifty years in old Limousin oak barrels.
They moved to the card table she had set up and she tentatively inquired if they could, at this early stage, play for something other than one-thousand-pound-a-hand stakes. “My daughter and I played for sweets, butterscotch, toffee, licorice . . . you see what I mean, Your Grace.”
“Certainly,” he said magnanimously, especially given that he had played thousand-quid hands no more than three times in his life, after which even his vice-laden heart could no longer tolerate the awfulness of losing a year's income in a single night.
She rose and retrieved a large golden embossed box. “My daughter sent me these Swiss chocolates Easter last. She knows I'm very fond of them.”
The chocolates were packed in several trays, with most of those on the top tier already eaten. She discarded the top tray, then set one full tray before herself and one before him.
“What games did you play with your daughter?” he said, shuffling the decks of cards on the table.
“The usual games for two—bezique, casino, écarté. She is an excellent card player.”
“I look forward to a few games with her when she arrives,” he said.
Mrs. Rowland did not answer immediately. “I'm sure she would be delighted.”
It would appear that while Mrs. Rowland could best a Drury Lane professional when it came to premeditated fabrications, she wasn't as smooth when a spontaneous instance of barefaced lying was required. Managing a husband and a fiancé at the same time was no mean task. He could see very well why Lady Tremaine refused to participate in her mother's harebrained schemes to add a third man to the already combustible mix. A few beats of silence passed as he dealt the cards faceup.
“Perhaps you'd rather play a few hands with her husband,” said Mrs. Rowland. “She is not yet sure of her itinerary, so he might come in her stead.”
“She is married?” He feigned great surprise.
“Yes, she is. She has been married to the Duke of Fairford's heir for ten years.” Pride still informed her answer. Pride and a trace of despair.
The first ace landed in his lap. He shook his head slightly as he collected the cards, shuffled them, and held the deck out for her to cut. “I confess myself baffled, Mrs. Rowland. When you recommended your daughter to me, I had assumed her unattached and your gentle interest in my person intended to bring about a friendship between your daughter and myself.”
She stared at him as if he'd asked her to undress. Well, he was stripping her bare, in a way. She tugged at the cameo brooch as if her collar was buttoned too tight. “Your Grace, I assure you—the mere thought of it! I—”
“Now, now, Mrs. Rowland”—he had not yet completely forgotten how to be smarmy—“a mother's machination to marry her daughter off to a man of consequence might not be the loftiest of human endeavors, but it is a time-honored one. Yet here I find that your daughter is a woman already safely and advantageously wed. For what purpose, then, have you sought out my company so assiduously, to the extent that you were willing to chase me down outside your house and promise to engage in activities that you otherwise despise?”
Her response was a resounding silence.
“Your bet, madam,” he reminded her.
Mutely, she set three pieces of chocolate on a doily at the center of the table. He dealt her card facedown and his faceup. A measly five of spades. Next he dealt both of their cards facedown.
She placed her hands over her cards but did not lift them. Her cheeks flushed wine-dark. “I should like to answer your question now, sir. The answer is one that would embarrass both you and me—mortify me, in fact—but you deserve to know it.”
She ran her tongue over her lower lip. “The truth is I've had quite enough of widowhood. And I've looked about my vicinity and come to the conclusion that you would make a fine husband for me.”
He nearly dropped both his jaw and his cards. She had caught him as flat-footed as a five-hundred-pound man.
“I've watched you walk past my house every day these past five years, on fair days and foul,” she continued, gazing at him with her beautiful eyes. “Every day I wait for your appearance at the bend of the road, where the fuchsia tree grows. I follow your progress until you can no longer be seen beyond Squire Wright's hedge. And I think about you.”
He knew she was lying as surely as he knew that there had been something going on between the queen and her late manservant John Brown. But somehow he couldn't quite prevent her words from affecting him. Images came to mind of Mrs. Rowland in her bed at night, her hair and breasts unbound, bemoaning her loneliness, wanting, needing, pining away for a man. For him.