All I Want (2 page)

Her nails bit into her palms. This had nothing to do with money, then. At least not for her cousin. This was a continuation of a four-year-old brawl, in an arena where Egbert held the upper hand. She could not stop them. But since she was at the root of their animosity, she would not contribute to Egbert’s cruel games.

She made her decision. “I’m in. But if I play, I play for keeps. Any spoils I win belong to me.”

The crowd roared with delight. “Already counting how many gowns she can purchase with five thousand pounds, is she? Her modiste is going to be richer than I am.”

“Gowns?” Egbert scoffed. “More like
novels
. While the lot of you are queuing up for a spot on her dance card, I’m dragging her out of the library by her bluestockinged feet. This chit would rather spend her nights with gothic melodrama than be twirled about by
you
pups.”

More laughter erupted. “You’re the marquess. Sell off the library so she has more time for her lovesick swains.”

“Sorry, lads. You’ll have to win her on your own.” Egbert grinned down at her. “Of course, cousin. Anything you win is yours.”

Matilda’s shoulders tightened. Her cousin’s teasing comments had been delivered with obvious affection, but she could not forgive him. Not for this farce he’d dragged her into unawares. And not for the devastation he’d wrought four long years ago.

She turned to face Owen, whose body was perfectly still.
 

Cousin Egbert reached for the cards. “Shall we begin?”

Chapter Two

“Stop.” The quiet steel in Major Owen Turner’s voice belied the torment churning within him.

Addington’s ungloved hand paused above the set of cards. Silence engulfed the room. The only movement came from plumes of smoke fleeing expensive cigars and the fluttering pulse point upon the neck of the only woman who had ever cracked Owen’s armor.

“I have to deal the cards for you to play,
Major
.” Addington spat the word as if it left ash upon his tongue. “My cousin wishes to retire. We cannot stay here all night.”

Owen didn’t bother to acknowledge this last. Addington was in no hurry to escort his cousin anywhere. He was too eager to deny Owen something he wanted.

Again.

“I don’t trust you to deal honestly.” Owen’s words ricocheted through the hushed room. For Addington, they would hold a double meaning.
 

Shock and a touch of eagerness widened the onlookers’ eyes, but no one stepped backward to make room for a mill. Not here. These were “gentlemen.” Peers didn’t solve problems person-to-person, a flurry of fists followed by a handshake. They preferred dueling pistols at twenty paces. One shot, straight to the heart.

Addington’s fingers curled, but he crossed his arms beneath the frosty white of his cravat before his hands could become fists. “
You
certainly won’t be touching the cards,
Major
.”

Ah. There it was. Owen almost smiled. By the nervous titter elsewhere in the room, he was not the only one who knew precisely what Addington meant every time he spat the word “major.” For most people, the soldiers who fought Napoleon were heroes. Never Owen. No military title, no heroics or self-sacrifice, no amount of medals could ever erase the blight cast upon him at the moment of his conception.
 

Nothing he could ever do or achieve would stop him from being gutter-bred Owen Turner. Bastard of an earl. Worthless.
 

“Not me.” Owen inclined his head toward the other end of the small table. “Her.”

Her
. Although he still hadn’t brought himself to speak her name aloud, it had never been far from his thoughts. Or his soul.

Lady Matilda Kingsley. He’d met her when he was ten, and she was eight. Her pinafore cost more than all his clothes combined. She’d escaped her sleeping nanny and was deep in the back garden in search of adventure. He’d been crouched on her side of the property line, peering through the fence at the adjacent estate in hopes of glimpsing his father.
 

He’d found something much better.
 

“Very well.” Lady Matilda’s voice was smoother than he remembered. More refined, like everything else about her.
 

She was no longer the lonesome sixteen-year-old he’d left behind, but a grown woman who captured the eye of every gentleman who crossed her path.
 

Like right now.
 

She was removing her gloves. Inch by bollocks-tightening inch, the rolling crimson silk revealed ever more of her perfect, creamy skin. Those fingers might be oft employed in the flipping of pages, but every man in the room was imagining them doing something very, very different.
 

The first glove fell to the table in a pool of red silk. She turned her attention to the second glove. They
all
turned their attention to the second glove. Its unveiling was even more deliberate, more sensuous than the first. Her lashes lowered. She held every eye transfixed… and knew it.
 

His lips tightened. This seductress was not the fresh-faced innocent he’d left behind. That girl was gone. The Lady Matilda seated across from him was a stranger.
 

And yet he was here because of her.

“
Vingt-et-un
,” Addington reminded her the moment the second glove hit the table.

She leveled him with a freezing look. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Owen glanced away as she shuffled the cards. He could not risk catching her eye and seeing indifference reflected back at him. Not if he wished to walk away with his heart intact. He let out a slow breath and fought to keep up his spirits.

His evening had wanted only this.

He’d been stationed all over France, and was finally back in England on a two-week leave. He’d gone straight to North Yorkshire, straight to Selby, straight to her.
 

She wasn’t there, of course. She was already in London for the Season. But rather than continue on to his empty cottage, he’d first swung by the baker’s to retrieve his dog. He’d found Ribbit the same day he’d met Lady Matilda. He’d been able to keep Ribbit. When he’d enlisted in the army, he’d entrusted his half basset hound, half lump of molasses to Mrs. Jenkins and sent considerable funds for Ribbit’s safekeeping.
 

But Mrs. Jenkins had lost the dog within days of Owen leaving.
 

As if it could possibly make up for it, she had presented him with a coin purse containing every penny he had ever sent. He’d brought the money back to London, intending to throw it away on whiskey and women until it was time to sail back to France. But he’d found himself rubbing shoulders with the very people who had never before noticed his existence. People who now included Lady Matilda.

Tonight, when he’d seen her a-swirl in another man’s arms, he’d been struck with a yearning so sharp and so deep, he’d had to force himself not to yank her into his own embrace. A mad scheme tumbled into his head. He’d hurried to the gaming parlor, intent on turning the funds he’d meant for his dog into a gift for his lady. If he won enough coin, perhaps then he would be worthy of her affection.

But instead of luck, all he’d found in the gambling parlor was Lord Addington, who was all too eager to divest Owen of his money. Addington’s eyes were as cold as Owen remembered, his nose as crooked as Owen had left it four years ago. Addington hadn’t forgiven Owen the slight. Owen hadn’t forgiven Addington the reason behind it.
 

Lady Matilda placed the set of playing cards in the center of the table. She lifted a palm toward Owen, then folded her hands back into her lap.

He divided the stack into three piles, then placed them back together. His entire body was on edge. He’d led troops, faced down enemy squadrons, taken a bullet in the thigh, and he was never more nervous than when in her presence. It’d been thus since the day they met.

She’d introduced herself as Lady Matilda. She’d dipped a curtsy, then took him to task when he didn’t bow. Why should he? He’d never been taught to bow. Or been curtsied to. He’d been mortified by his failure to please her. From that day forward, his dream no longer was to be acknowledged by the father he’d never met, but to meet with approval in the eyes of Lady Matilda Kingsley.

For a short time, he’d even succeeded.

“Ready?” Her fingers hovered just above the stack of playing cards.

No. He would never be ready. If he hadn’t been willing to lose the game to Addington, he certainly wasn’t eager to risk losing in front of the woman he most wished to impress.

“Ready.” He hoped his grimace counted as a smile.

She turned over the first card and placed it before him.
 

One-eyed Jack. Spades, not hearts. Ten points. Owen rubbed his damp palms down the soft buckskin of his breeches. So far, so good. He held his breath. The next card was hers.
 

Eight of diamonds.
 

Not splendid, but not terrible. He rolled his shoulders back. His score might be closer to twenty-one at the moment, but he wasn’t closer to winning. He needed to be closest to twenty-one without going over.

“Bets?” Addington called out. His mocking eyes cut to Owen.

Owen cast him a level stare. The blackguard
knew
Owen didn’t have anything left to bet. He’d already bet it all. Addington just wanted to parade Owen’s unsuitability in front of Lady Matilda.
 

She was the first to reply, her voice firm. “No more bets. The stakes are high enough.”

Owen’s spine went rigid. She’d saved him. But she shouldn’t have needed to. A sour taste filled his mouth. Addington had been right after all. Owen
wasn’t
good enough for her. Yet the truth didn’t stop him from wanting her. Or wanting her to know how he felt. His heart clenched. When he won the game, he would buy her what she desired most. And then… he would file onto a boat and sail back off to war.
 

She lifted the next card and placed it next to his jack of spades.
 

Eight of clubs. Not bad. He was up to eighteen. He would stand here. Taking a hit with anything higher than seventeen was to risk losing it all.
 

Her next card was the ace of spades.
 

His lungs froze. The ace was either one or eleven, which meant she now had nineteen points. She was winning. His skin went clammy. Gambling was a rich man’s pleasure and a poor man’s folly. Never had it been more apparent that he didn’t belong here. His throat was too thick to swallow. But like it or not, he would have to take another hit.

He inclined his head toward the stack of cards. He did not trust his finger to point at them without shaking.
 

He needed a three. Dear Lord, let him have a three. Surely Fate wouldn’t strip him of his pet, his home, his dignity, and his last moments with his lost love all on the same day.
 

Lady Matilda turned over the final card.

Even though his eyes were open, even though he was staring right at it, the image did not immediately register in Owen’s mind.

It didn’t have to. Addington’s crow of delight and sputtering laughter was proof enough.
 

Owen blinked at the card until it swam into focus. Five of hearts. Wrong number.
 

He had lost.

Lady Matilda reached across the table. “Owen—”

He leapt to his feet before her bare fingers could scald his. Or worse. Her cousin wasn’t the only witness to her familiar use of Owen’s given name, and he’d be damned if he ruined her on top of being a disappointment.

He gripped the back of his chair. “If I leave now, I can have the cottage clear within a week.”

Addington pealed with laughter. “What possessions can you possibly own that would need to be cleared out? That dilapidated shack is only fit to be razed to the ground.”

“I’ll do no such thing!” Lady Matilda glared at him.

Her cousin was, in all fairness, likely correct. Owen didn’t see his childhood home as a dilapidated shack because he’d remodeled every inch with his bare hands. To a marquess, however, the cottage would be nothing short of laughable. And to Lady Matilda—