“I got in the habit of not wandering at night, but tonight, I suppose…” She trailed off, unable to articulate what had been so difficult.
“And you favored the library?”
“It’s a magnificent room. I much prefer it over my father’s. The sight of his often made me sad.” At his inquiring look, she added, “Because there were so few books left. I would walk among the empty shelves and mourn their loss. After my mother died, books were my only companions.”
“I thought you went to school?”
“So I did, but I had few friends there. And my father recalled me before I completed the program. He paid for three years but refused to pay for more.” Nothing that required him to put forth money on her behalf would ever be an idea he welcomed.
Hugh watched her carefully, and she did her best to regulate her expression. “Then I’m glad my library could make you feel welcome.”
“You and Amelia do plenty to make me feel welcome here.”
Silence settled between them again, and Christiana contemplated returning to bed. Although she had a robe and a blanket, and the heat of the fire settled across her skin, she couldnot help thinking there was something vastly improper about spending this time with the duke. Her husband. Late at night, hardly dressed and with no one else around.
“Tell me about the Lyon’s Den,” he said, surprising her. “You told me that you used to sneak away from your school in order to visit the den and gamble?”
“We did.” Christiana toyed with the edge of the blanket, wondering how much to tell him before he judged her for breaking the agreed-upon rules of society. Young ladies ought not to visit places of ill repute, even if they were visited by other members of theton—men and women alike. Few ladies admitted to being there, and yet the rooms were filled with women gambling with their fortunes. Pin money and jewels and sometimes larger prizes.
Christiana had seen it all.
“I am not an exacting husband,” Hugh said wryly, drawing her attention back to him. His eyes were warm with humor in the dim light. “You need not be afraid to confide in me.”
“Laura—that is, my friend, Miss Crawford—used to prefer the more irregular activities,” she said. “One can gamble on a great deal of unusual things, and often, she was successful.” Other times, she would find entertainment of a different kind.
There was plenty of that to be found in the Lyon’s Den, too.
“I preferred cards,” she said simply. “Any game, really. All it comes down to is a matter of calculation—of the chance, of memorizing what cards have been played and what are left to play, and what the subtleties of others’ expressions can tell you. Most players are not as adept at hiding their emotions as they think; they reveal more than enough about themselves if you look hard enough.”
“Is that so?”
“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 havea 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—thesatisfactionof 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.”