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Her eyes flitted to Phoebe, but she was not there. Neither was Mr. Evenden.

Her cheeks still hot, Selina searched the room for them with no success.

“Excuse me,” she said, grasping at the excuse to escape. “I must attend to Phoebe.” Without meeting Mr. Drake’s eye, she rose and left the table.

A search of the saloon did not reveal Phoebe or Mr. Evenden, and Selina’s feet moved quickly as she traversed the corridor, going from the study to the library and then the morning room.

She had her hand on the knob to another room when she spotted Phoebe farther down the corridor, arm in arm with a young woman Selina recognized as Miss Templeton.

Selina let out a sigh of relief, for both girls were smiling as they conversed animatedly.

“Selina,” Phoebe said when she noticed her.

“I came to find you,” Selina explained. “But I can see you are well.”

“Indeed,” Phoebe replied, smiling at Miss Templeton. “Would you like to accompany us back to the drawing room?”

Selina hesitated. She had no desire to return to Mr. Drake. She needed a bit more time to decide upon a course of action. “Thank you, but I am stretching my legs a bit. I shall return presently.”

Phoebe and Miss Templeton continued down the corridor, and Selina watched them, wondering how Phoebe had come to leave the company of Mr. Evenden and the Winsers.

The drawing room door opened, letting an abundance of light into the corridor, and the silhouette of Mr. Drake appeared.

Selina grasped the door of the nearest room in her hand and slipped inside, pulse racing.

It was a music room, small but furnished with a piano, a harp, and a tall case of music behind.

A sole candle lit the space from its place on the windowsill.

The room was decorated in the Oriental style, the celadon-papered walls accented with motifs depicting blossoming trees, cranes, and peacocks, all glimmering with gold leafing in the limited candlelight.

Selina pulled in a deep, protracted breath, trying to steady her nerves as she took slow, deliberate steps into the room.

She was overreacting. What need was there for such an emotional response to Mr. Drake and his scheming?

She had but one consideration to entertain: winning this round of their game, just as she had won at Casino. To lose was not an option.

The door opened, and she spun around.

Mr. Drake stood in the doorway.

Every nerve stood on end as she met his gaze.

“I saw Miss Grant return to the drawing room,” he explained, “but you did not. And then I thought I saw you rush into this room.”

The words were benign, but the tone was not. It said, You are trying to escape. You are afraid.

“I was waiting for you ,” she said.

His brows rose. “Were you?”

She let out a laugh. “Of course. I have a prize to claim.” A shiver ran from her crown to her toes at her own words.

Mr. Drake’s gaze intensified. “Indeed, you do.” He closed the door behind him.

Every nail of propriety that had been so carefully hammered into Selina from her childhood rattled tremulously at the sound of the click.

Hang propriety. What good had it ever brought her? Of what benefit was being a wealthy widow if one did not take advantage of the liberties it afforded?

Every step Mr. Drake took toward her doubled the speed of her heart, but she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her balk or stumble.

She stood her ground, waiting for him to come so that she could claim her prize .

He stopped a few feet shy of her, his eyes watchful, gleaming with something she could not name.

Would he come closer? Or would he force her to take those final, impossible steps toward him?

He remained where he was. “You wish to claim it, then?”

She could not bring her voice to cooperate, so she took three steps toward him in response, until she was obliged to lift her chin to meet his eye.

He gazed down at her, his expression inscrutable, his eyes searching, his body still. “The prize is yours to take,” he said, his voice gravel.

Selina could barely breathe, and whatever air she managed to bring in was saturated with the intoxicating scent of cedar. But she had to do something. The thought of pressing her mouth to his made her feel faint, so instead, she lifted a trembling hand and touched a finger to his lips.

His drew in an uneven breath as she trailed her finger lightly over his bottom lip, tracing its soft curve.

His eyelids fluttered, then shut as a soft, unintelligible noise came from him.

A sense of victory trickled through her, but the roar of warmth in her veins surged over it, drowning it in a sudden desire to replace her finger with her lips, to know whether the softness she was feeling would be even greater under their touch.

Mr. Drake’s hand shot up, grasping her wrist as his eyes flew open and fixed upon hers.

She saw it there—the flame of desire she felt. Or perhaps it was the fire of anger. He had no right to that anger.

Whatever it was, it fanned the hot embers inside her until she could not separate the hatred from the want.

His head lowered an inch, his eyes dropping to her lips.

Kiss me , she said with her eyes. Dare to kiss me and see what happens .

Kiss me , his eyes responded as they met hers again. Dare to kiss me and see what happens .

Did she dare? And what would happen if she didn’t?

A burst of laughter erupted just outside the room, and they both blinked, the thread broken.

Selina stepped back, her entire body wracked with trembling. “I ought to see if Phoebe needs me.”

He searched her face for a moment but said nothing.

She swallowed, wondering if he saw this as surrender.

She forced a smile to her lips, hoping it looked more confident than she felt. “Good night, Mr. Drake.” She turned on her heel and left the room, releasing a tremulous breath when she closed the door behind her.

She had no idea whether she or Mr. Drake had emerged victorious tonight.