When they were finished, the hodgepodge of chairs, benches, stools, and even overturned crates formed a large, neat oval that could seat at least a couple dozen people.
“It’s a fine start,” Sophie mused, slowly turning in the center of the circle like a dancer on a dais. “Thank you for your help.”
“My pleasure,” he said, surprised that he meant it.
“I brought more tea,” she said, gesturing toward her reticule. “Would you like me to prepare some?”
He thought about it for two seconds and decided he’d rather expire from lack of sleep than have her treat him like a feeble curmudgeon. “Thank you, but I think I’ll stick with brandy for now.”
She looked suddenly self-conscious. Almost nervous. “It’s late, and I happen to know you’re in need of rest. Perhaps we should go to the back room and see if we can make you comfortable.”
Good God. He didn’t want a nursemaid. In fairness to Sophie, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. “Are you tired?” he asked. “You’re welcome to curl up in the chair back there. I can stay out here, so you’ll have some privacy.”
She shook her head. “I’m not sleepy. Maybe if we play cards for a while our eyelids will grow heavy.”
Reese took a deck of cards out of the side table’s small drawer and loosely shuffled them in his palms. “Shall I bring a larger table out here?”
Sophie grabbed a few cushions off the chairs and threw them onto the carpet in the center of the circle. “No need. We can play on the floor.”
“Vingt-et-un?” he asked, sinking onto a cushion across from her.
“As long as you don’t mind losing.” There it was again. That sensual, slightly suggestive lilt to her voice. The one that made him feel like he’d just taken his first shot of whiskey.
He propped himself on one elbow and dealt the cards. “Care to make a wager, Miss Kendall?”
She met his gaze and pursed her lips, thoughtful. “I believe I would, my lord.”
It seemed to him that the room grew warmer. More intimate. “What did you have in mind?”
“Money is too commonplace,” she said, tapping her plump lower lip with an index finger. “Surely we can do better than that.”
His blood heated a few more degrees. “I concur.”
“I have nothing of value to wager,” she drawled. “So we will need to be a bit more creative.”
No problem there. He’d already imagined half a dozen wagers ranging from mildly improper to wildly wicked. “Name the stakes,” he said. “Anything goes.”
“Are you certain?” As she picked up the cards he’d dealt and glanced down at them, her face gave no indication of her hand.
“Positive.”
“Very well.” She set down her cards, slowly stood, and walked behind the counter. She bent down, and when she straightened, she was hiding something behind her back. Deliberately, she returned to their spot on the carpet and eased her way to her cushion, the skirt of her dress billowing around her like a frosted cake. “Tonight we will wager…”
She produced a crystal bowl from behind her back. A bowl filled with—
“… buttons.” She spilled them onto the carpet and then scooped them in her palms, letting them run through her fingers like pirate’s gold.
“Buttons,” he said flatly.
“The pink embroidered ones are the most valuable, obviously.” She held one up for him to admire.
“Obviously,” he repeated, impressed that she’d managed to surprise him.
“But the ones made of bone are also sought-after,” she said matter-of-factly.
He shrugged, playing along. “Personally, I prefer the polished brass.”
“Rather unimaginative,” she teased as she began divvying up the pot. “Can’t say I’m surprised. I hope you’re prepared to lose your entire share.”
“We’ll see about that,” he growled, but Sophie wasn’t intimidated by his bluster. She merely picked up her cards, arched a brow at him, and made her wager.
An hour later, there were more buttons on her side than his, but he didn’t mind in the slightest. He was too distracted by the strange, buoyant feeling in his chest. A sensation he vaguely recognized as enjoyment. It was a feeling he associated with his days at Eton and summers with his brother and the first time he’d kissed a girl.
A lifetime ago.
But as long as he played cards with Sophie, he wasn’t thinking about his problems or his past or his inability to sleep. Instead he focused on his cards, and her blue eyes blinking at him above her hand, and the mesmerizing movement of buttons from one pile to another and back. His muscles relaxed. His breathing slowed. And some of the tension drained out of him.
As the night wore on, her eyelids drooped, and when he caught her trying to hide a yawn behind her cards, he took pity on her and tossed his almost-certainly-winning hand facedown onto the carpet. “You’re exhausted,” he said. “Why don’t you go the back room and make yourself comfortable in the chair?”
She set down her cards, stretched out on her side, and tucked her elbow under her head. “I’d rather stay here and just close my eyes for a bit,” she said, shooting him a sleepy, grateful smile.
“Of course.” He grabbed one of the soft cushions and nudged it under her head.
She sighed as she nestled her cheek against it, and he suddenly felt intensely and irrationally jealous. Of her pillow.
“If I doze for more than a half hour, wake me,” she mumbled, her eyelashes fluttering valiantly but ultimately losing their struggle.
“Sleep well, Sophie,” he said, more to himself than her. When he sensed he could move without disturbing her, he quietly rose, retrieved his jacket from the chair, and gently laid it over her, covering her from her shoulder to hip. He turned the lantern low before returning to the floor, where he reclined and laid his head on a cushion across from her.
Somewhat shamelessly, he watched her. Wondered at the ease and perfection of her slumber. Someone who drifted off to sleep in the space of two sentences surely had a soul as pure as the driven snow, a conscience as clear as a cloudless sky—and Reese couldn’t begin to fathom what that must be like.
He studied the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the slight parting of her lips. He observed the faint twitching of her eyelids and wondered if she dreamed of yellow roses or pink buttons or something else entirely.
As he watched her, he tucked his hand beneath the pillow and bent his knees, mirroring her pose. He inhaled and exhaled in time with her breathing. He closed his eyes and pictured her—greedily sifting buttons through her hands, helping him move furniture around the shop, smiling in the moonlight in Lady Rufflebum’s garden.
He lingered with her in that peaceful twilight, calm and content, until eventually—miraculously—he fell asleep.
* * *
Sophie stirred, squeezing her eyes shut to protest the beam of sunshine slicing through the narrow opening between the drawn curtains. Her muscles felt a bit stiff, but she was warm and comfortable beneath a soft wool blanket that smelled like leather, brandy, and … Reese.
She moaned softly, rubbed her eyes, and peeked down at her torso to find that her blanket wasn’t a blanket at all, but Reese’s jacket. Heavens. She hadn’t meant to sleep through the night. The whole point in her staying at the shop with him was to help him fall—