And so it was she’d seen the arrival of Lord Knightly, a man she’d once desperately loved with every fiber of her being and now despised from the very depths of her soul. Being jilted at the altar had a way of changing a woman’s heart. Not that she’d been a woman five years ago. An innocent girl, more like, in spite of her advanced age at the time of two and twenty. Believing in hopes and dreams and the veracity of love having the power to overcome all obstacles.
Sheltered and protected. A princess, her father had always called her. He’d been her knight in shining armor and searching for someone to replace him. The Earl of Knightly had certainly seemed to fit the bill—until he no longer had.
Waiting to walk up the aisle, she’d been wearing an ivory gown designed by Charles Worth of Paris himself. She’d never known such happiness and believed the joy she was experiencing would only increase through the years.
Knightly had arrived tardily with the news he’d changed his mind, couldn’t marry her after all. No specifics, only a generalized admittance he’d decided they wouldn’t suit.
She’d not let on exactly how devastating she’d found his abandonment or how badly she’d been hurt. Instead, she’d gone on a three-year-long trek through Europe, journaling her escapades in a series of articles for a lady’s magazine. Although often what appeared in print was how she’d imagined the adventure rather than the reality of it. But no one had been able to discern the difference. More importantly, she’d discovered writing filled an emptiness in her soul, a hollow ache, a bottomless abyss into which she’d become lost on that fateful morning when she’d been at St. George’s, expecting to marry—only to be discarded at the last minute.
Now, at twenty-seven, she cared for no one’s opinion, save her own. She came here where most of the members were of the aristocracy and flaunted her notoriety while taking their coins. She projected a mien of confidence and daring. She would not be looked down upon. In spite of the circumstances of her birth, she was still the daughter of an earl, as well as the daughter of an accomplished actress. She was proud of her heritage. No one could take it away from her.
She studied the two queens she presently held in her hand. The other cards were worthless, but the queens possessed power, just as she did. She possessed the power to destroy, to destroy the one who had betrayed her. And she would. It was only a matter of time.
Glancing up, she noticed Knightly—apparently moving on from wherever he’d gone upon first arriving—now striding through the gambling area. Incredibly confident, downright arrogant really. Obnoxiously so. She wondered at which table he might alight. Certainly not this one as all the chairs were occupied. Then cursed herself for wondering anything about him at all. After all these years, her thoughts should be void of memories of him, but it was as though an artist had painted upon her mind vivid illustrations of each and every moment when they’d been in each other’s company. A polite hello, an accidental glancing touch of their fingers, a heated look lasting too long, a walk in a park, a stroll in a garden, whispered words, and broken promises.
Since that morning when he’d shattered her heart, they’d not spoken, had seen each other only in passing—at a great distance. One she very much wished to maintain. It wasn’t fair that his actions had tarnished only her reputation and not his, that the ton had celebrated his liberation from her, while vilifying her for daring to dream a man such as he could actually love a woman such as she.
Perhaps the entire point of his wooing her had been to make her believe her origins held no significance and then to make sport of her for falling madly in love with him. To humiliate her for imagining she was lovable to someone other than her parents. To humble her for the audacity of judging herself deserving and worthy of the rise from commoner to countess.
“Miss Leyland?”
She jerked her attention to the dealer. He gave her a wan smile. “Time to reveal your hand.”
Ah, yes, she’d been the last one to raise the bet amount, and it seemed only two people had called her on it. The other three had folded. With a smooth, practiced movement, she turned over her cards. Lady Warburton gave her a hard stare while revealing her two jacks. The gentleman sitting directly across from Regina groaned and tossed his cards haphazardly toward the dealer. “That’s it for me, then.”
He shoved back his chair.
“What? No. Wait,” she said with far too much command in her voice, so much so he stopped halfway up at a rather odd right angle, bent partially over the table in such a way his bottom was sticking out. But Knightly was still wending his way around the games, and she could clearly see his intense gaze homed in on this corner, like that of a predator who had spotted his prey. Lord, help the prey, she nearly muttered aloud. “Surely you want an opportunity to win back some of your losses.”
Not that he would. The man was atrocious at the game, apparently harboring the belief he was skilled at bluffing, not realizing his eyes fairly bugged when he had something of note and squinted when he didn’t, as though if he concentrated hard enough, he could bring forth the power needed to change the cards he’d been dealt. But once dealt, cards had to be made the best of—whether in a game or life. She knew that well enough.
“You’ve taken all the blunt I set aside for the night. I never wager on credit.”
“Well . . .” She nearly shoved all the tokens in the table center toward him, but she’d look the fool if she did. Desperate. People might wonder why. Just stay a few minutes longer, just until—
Too late. The handsome devil had arrived and placed his large hand on the gentleman’s shoulder. “I’ll take your chair if you’re leaving, old chap.”
The old chap, who couldn’t have seen forty years, swung around and grinned widely. “Knightly, of course!” He leaned in as if sharing a daring secret. “But keep a watch out for Miss Leyland. She took all my blunt.”
Knightly’s brilliant blue gaze landed on her like a warm caress. No, not like a caress, like the slash of a thousand swords. Did he have to be so deuced gorgeous in his black coat, bright blue waistcoat, and gray cravat? Did those rebellious front locks of his dark hair still have to fall across his brow in invitation? Her fingers itched to comb through the strands and brush them back into place as they had a thousand times. She didn’t want to remember how that forelock played over her own brow when he stretched out over her supine figure, lowered his head, and kissed her.
“I always keep a watch out for Miss Leyland.”
His voice was still a deep, rich timbre, with the power to send yearning spiraling through her. She remembered a time when she’d enjoyed his teasing and flirtation, had been mesmerized by every word he uttered. Now she wished only for some affliction to render him mute. She angled her chin haughtily. “Because you expect me to stab you in the back? Ridiculous. I’d do it from the front so you’d know exactly who delivered the devastating blow.”
Two gasps and a couple of awkward chuckles followed from the other players still seated. The old chap leapt back as though she was, in fact, wielding a knife at that very moment.
“I would expect no less,” Knightly said, bowing his head slightly in acquiescence, in acknowledgment, almost in respect—a salute—his penetrating gaze never wavering from hers. Had he been a true knight upon a jousting field, he might have extended his lance toward her for a favor. Not that she’d ever gift him with a ribbon as she had when she’d loved him.