carving, it is faster than any man can trace them.” The earl plucked the other two cards from Gunnar’s fingers, returned them to the book, and fanned them all out like a peacock’s tail. “So. Will you play?”
“Gladly, my lord, if someone will teach me.”
“Eleanor may show you.” Lord Ralph casually split the book of cards in two and ruffled the halves neatly back together, a clever trick that made Gunnar want to try his hand at it. “She is a fair player for her sex, though she rarely bests me. Percy, you will be our fourth.”
Eleanor dragged a stool over next to Gunnar, who quickly found himself learning about suits and what made a winning hand and how that ruffling trick worked—‘twas more difficult than it looked. He also found himself learning more of Eleanor herself—and suffering for what he learned.
It was odd. Other than instructions on the rules of the game, she said little and behaved herself as any modest maid helping a guest, except . . .
Except that every time she reached to point to a card, she managed to brush against his arm. Like the contact in the stairwell, her touch seemed accidental, and she gave no sign it was otherwise.
But each touch sent sparks racing up Gunnar’s arm, where they then dispersed to other parts of his body to set them aflame. Before long, it was all he could do to keep his mind on the most basic rules, much less absorb any hint of strategy. She might as well have been working to help her father win: her sweet tortures so distracted Gunnar that even playing the cards she indicated, he lost every hand to the earl. However, in the end, he threw down one particular card and Eleanor softly cleared her throat and signaled with her eyes.
He stared at the cards a moment before he saw it. “Aah. I think that that is triumph?”
“Triumph, indeed.” Henry Percy threw down his cards in frustration. “First the earl and now you. The cards do not favor me tonight.”
“You have picked up on the game quickly, Sir Gunnar,” said Westmorland. “You’re ready to play on your own, I think.”
Gunnar shook his head. “Hardly, my lord. I owe this one small success to the lady’s skill, not my own.”
“Hold fast to Eleanor, Sir Gunnar,” warned one of the earl’s older sons, laughing from where he leaned against the wall watching. “My lord father tries to puff you up, so you will think yourself done with lessons and ready to wager on your own.”
“He has done it to all of us,” said Sir Gilbert from his spot by Lady Anne. “His lordship much enjoys winning.”
“At everything,” added Eleanor, and Gunnar thought he caught a hint of accusation beneath her light tone.
But if there was, Westmorland missed it. Laughing, he scooped the cards together to begin again. “Of course I enjoy winning. What fool wouldn’t? Help him with another game or two, then, Eleanor, but don’t jump so quickly to tell him what to play. Let him try it on his own first.”
“Yes, my lord.”
So the torture continued, made worse for its inconsistency. Not knowing when she would lean in to help, Gunnar found himself waiting, anticipating. It was far more difficult, he discovered, to steel himself to touches that fell like random drops of rain.
His head whirling, he pulled out the wrong card.
“Ah, no, monsire .” She leaned especially close to point out his error, and he swore— swore —he could feel a pebble of hardness at the peak of the breast that pressed so firmly against his arm. Or was it merely a seam of her fitted bodice? If he could look, he might be able to tell, but with her father right there, not a yard away, and all her brothers and half brothers watching, too, he didn’t dare.
And yet he so wanted to know.
Sanity battled desire. His crotch throbbed in time with the minstrel’s music. Perhaps just a glance . . .
She shifted away again. “Do you dance, Sir Gunnar?”
The question, coming from nowhere as it did, shocked him back from the edge of
“Gladly, my lord, if someone will teach me.”
“Eleanor may show you.” Lord Ralph casually split the book of cards in two and ruffled the halves neatly back together, a clever trick that made Gunnar want to try his hand at it. “She is a fair player for her sex, though she rarely bests me. Percy, you will be our fourth.”
Eleanor dragged a stool over next to Gunnar, who quickly found himself learning about suits and what made a winning hand and how that ruffling trick worked—‘twas more difficult than it looked. He also found himself learning more of Eleanor herself—and suffering for what he learned.
It was odd. Other than instructions on the rules of the game, she said little and behaved herself as any modest maid helping a guest, except . . .
Except that every time she reached to point to a card, she managed to brush against his arm. Like the contact in the stairwell, her touch seemed accidental, and she gave no sign it was otherwise.
But each touch sent sparks racing up Gunnar’s arm, where they then dispersed to other parts of his body to set them aflame. Before long, it was all he could do to keep his mind on the most basic rules, much less absorb any hint of strategy. She might as well have been working to help her father win: her sweet tortures so distracted Gunnar that even playing the cards she indicated, he lost every hand to the earl. However, in the end, he threw down one particular card and Eleanor softly cleared her throat and signaled with her eyes.
He stared at the cards a moment before he saw it. “Aah. I think that that is triumph?”
“Triumph, indeed.” Henry Percy threw down his cards in frustration. “First the earl and now you. The cards do not favor me tonight.”
“You have picked up on the game quickly, Sir Gunnar,” said Westmorland. “You’re ready to play on your own, I think.”
Gunnar shook his head. “Hardly, my lord. I owe this one small success to the lady’s skill, not my own.”
“Hold fast to Eleanor, Sir Gunnar,” warned one of the earl’s older sons, laughing from where he leaned against the wall watching. “My lord father tries to puff you up, so you will think yourself done with lessons and ready to wager on your own.”
“He has done it to all of us,” said Sir Gilbert from his spot by Lady Anne. “His lordship much enjoys winning.”
“At everything,” added Eleanor, and Gunnar thought he caught a hint of accusation beneath her light tone.
But if there was, Westmorland missed it. Laughing, he scooped the cards together to begin again. “Of course I enjoy winning. What fool wouldn’t? Help him with another game or two, then, Eleanor, but don’t jump so quickly to tell him what to play. Let him try it on his own first.”
“Yes, my lord.”
So the torture continued, made worse for its inconsistency. Not knowing when she would lean in to help, Gunnar found himself waiting, anticipating. It was far more difficult, he discovered, to steel himself to touches that fell like random drops of rain.
His head whirling, he pulled out the wrong card.
“Ah, no, monsire .” She leaned especially close to point out his error, and he swore— swore —he could feel a pebble of hardness at the peak of the breast that pressed so firmly against his arm. Or was it merely a seam of her fitted bodice? If he could look, he might be able to tell, but with her father right there, not a yard away, and all her brothers and half brothers watching, too, he didn’t dare.
And yet he so wanted to know.
Sanity battled desire. His crotch throbbed in time with the minstrel’s music. Perhaps just a glance . . .
She shifted away again. “Do you dance, Sir Gunnar?”
The question, coming from nowhere as it did, shocked him back from the edge of
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