Tempting the Heiress by Alexandra Hawkins

Author:Alexandra Hawkins
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's
Published: 2014-08-10T21:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“You are late.”

Matteo scowled at his accuser as he entered the room. “It was unavoidable.”

He strolled to the four gentlemen seated at the table, peering over the shoulder of the rude cur who only offered his back. It was apparent they had been playing the game of connexions for hours. Matteo silently studied the stranger to the left. His face revealed much, making him at best a mediocre gambler. The trump he played seconds later was not unexpected. Winning the trick, the man crowed his triumph.

Matteo met the sardonic gaze of the man who had scolded him. Fat pigeon, those pale cynical eyes seem to say. There was no doubt who was really controlling the game.

Losing interest in their card game, he strode by the table, wondering where he could place his cloak without soiling it. The room might have been private, but it was beneath his refined tastes. A scarred table and six roughhewn chairs were the extent of the furniture. The hearth was black with soot and had not been clean in days. Utterly disgraceful. Opening a small box on the mantel, Matteo selected a brimstone match. He retrieved from the inside pocket of his coat the remnants of a cigar. Crouching down in front of the fire, he ignited the match. He suckled the cigar as impatiently as a newborn hungering for its mother’s breast as he held the flame to the tobacco. Tossing the match into the hearth, he closed his eyes and savored the cigar.

With deference to Miss Claeg he had curtailed his favorite habit. He could not properly court the lady when she complained at their second meeting that the putrid odor clinging to his coat sickened her. So he suffered. A man was willing to endure any hardship as long as the prize was worthy. Miss Amara Claeg was one such treasure.

“Remove your cloak before a spark turns you into a thrashing conflagration,” the dealer said, his gaze focused on the cards on the table.

Patience, Matteo counseled, when several of the gentlemen chuckled. Obeying the gruff order, he placed his cloak on an empty chair. Another man might have been angry, he mused, exhaling a cloud of smoke. What Matteo felt was pity. He deliberately leveled his gaze on his cohort. Threequarters of the man’s face and the left side of his neck gleamed like melted wax. This was an individual who understood intimately how fire ravaged tender flesh.

“How was your evening at the theater?”

“Sadly flat,” he confessed, questioning the wisdom of this particular discussion in front of strangers. “The uproar from the pit fatigued my ears.”

The extensive damage had left the dealer’s face an impassive mask. Only his pale eyes glowed with menace. “Fortunate for you that your interests resided aloft.”

“Yes.” Matteo paused, waiting until the man played his card. “Miss Claeg introduced me to Lady Haslake and her enchanting daughters.”

“I assume the Countess of Haslake shamelessly lapped the butter from Conte Prola’s lips.”

He flicked the ash from his cigar on to the floor.

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