It Takes Two to Tangle by Theresa Romain Page A

Emily said, her brow furrowing as she selected her next play. “You are almost as bad as my Stephen, who reads out everyone’s cards, and he is only eight years old.”
    â€œI was the one who shuffled the deck,” Frances said. “Does that mean I cheat at cards too?”
    Henry smiled. “I would believe you capable of anything, Mrs. Whittier. You are sinister; you told me so yourself.” He was inordinately pleased to see color rise to her cheeks.
    Caro began to peep at the hands of each of the card players. “My, my, Emily. Your pin money is surely gone. Frannie is frighteningly capable. I believe she could have cheated at cards anytime, and none of you would have suspected a thing.”
    Frances slapped a low diamond onto the table with a frown. “If I truly cheated, I would have made certain that I got a better hand.”
    â€œOr that I did,” Bart murmured. “I only wish I truly did have seven trumps.”
    Jem tossed his cards onto the table, facedown. “Jupiter’s nightgown, how am I to think with you all talking? Is everybody cheating now?”
    â€œJemmy, how unkind of you. I shall call you out if you say such a thing again,” Emily said. “Drat; no, I won’t. With you dead, we would surely lose the rubber.”
    Jem blinked. “Was that a compliment, Em?”
    She sighed. “I suppose, though I only implied that you played better than a corpse.”
    Before Jem could reply, there was a scratch at the door then the butler Sowerberry peeped his angular head into the drawing room. “I beg your pardon, Lord Tallant, but Master John and Master Stephen are asking you for a…” He paused and enunciated the next words as if they were in a language he did not understand. “A bedtime story, my lord. They insist that you promised them one if they spent the evening without breaking anything. They have requested that it be horrible.”
    Henry smirked. “Oh, it’ll be horrible.”
    The cuff on his shoulder as Jem stood felt blessedly normal. But after Jem left, Henry felt slow and stupid as he tried to think of the perfect thing to say. Or anything to say at all.
    Because if there was one thing he could not do, it was take his brother’s place in the game and hold a sheaf of cards for whist. Not with one hand.
    Maybe Emily noticed his sudden awkwardness, because she shrugged off the idea of further cards. “Well, that game was brief and combative. I am sorry for that. Though I am relieved not to lose any money to you flock of carrion crows. Mrs. Whittier, do come and play the piano, so Bart and I can have a dance.” She laughed when Bart’s face reddened at her teasing.
    Briskly, Emily sorted them all out. Frances shuffled through music, and Caro joined her, exclaiming over a waltz. “Rather fast of you, isn’t this, Em?”
    She looked as light and lovely as one of Leonardo’s angels as she shifted a lamp into place to study the music and began humming tunelessly. Next to her, Frances fell into shadow.
    â€œNot a waltz, please,” Bart said, growing still more red.
    Caro laughed again and set the scandalous music aside. “Perhaps a reel, then, for two couples? Frannie could play for us.” Her bright eyes twinkled as she held a hand out to Bart.
    It felt like she’d slapped Henry with it.
    So, she would write to him in private, but she wouldn’t acknowledge their closeness even in such a small party? And yet close was exactly how she wanted to hold him. She had written him so.
    He felt hot-headed and hot-blooded, wanting to cut in and take her hand, wanting her to extend it to him.
    Instead, he beat a strategic retreat to the fireside, unwilling to watch himself be defeated.
    â€œI think I’ll sit out the dancing, ladies, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Though I’ll be happy to observe and critique your form.”
    When all three women pulled faces