Page 23 of My Demanding Duke

The dealer paled and cast a terrified look from Gravesend to Hugh, his expression one of a man deliberating on his next move. After a moment, he made up his mind; turning on the heel of his foot and running for the door—knocking over one particularly inebriated chap in his haste.

Gravesend, blindsided by the sudden desertion of his accomplice, blinked in confusion.

“I expect the lad did not wish to stick around to face Shatter’s ire,” Hugh called, taking great satisfaction in the way the young lord’s face paled at the mention of the infamous proprietor. “If you were a wise man—though I have my doubts about that—you’d beat a hasty retreat too. Mr Shatter does not take kindly to those who try to cheat the house.”

Gravesend shot one final venomous glare at Hugh, his pale eyes incandescent with rage.

"You’ve made an enemy, Falconbridge," he hissed through clenched teeth as he yanked the door open with such force that it slammed against the wall. As Gravesend's footsteps echoed down the corridor, Hugh returned to his seat beside Bartie.

“You did say you wanted some light entertainment,” Hugh quipped, to the shocked Lord Beaufort.

“Yes but I’d rather you hadn’t made an enemy in the name of amusing me,” Bartie answered, his eyes worried as he glanced at the door Gravesend had just stormed through.

“A small addendum to the long list of enemies I have made in my two and thirty years,” Hugh shrugged. His prowess at the card tables had earned him many adversaries; Gravesend was but a child in comparison.

“Gravesend has lost more than money this night,” Bartie warned, uncharacteristically serious in tone, “He’s lost his reputation.”

“His own doing, not mine,” Hugh shrugged again. Exhaustion had washed over him and he was in no mood to humour Bartie’s anxieties.

Lord Beaufort was many things, but he was no fool. Sensing Hugh’s impatience, he gamely changed the subject.

“How goes your engagement to the lovely Miss Mosley?” he queried, “I must say, I am quite invested in your romance, given that it was I who was witness to your being struck by Cupid’s arrow.”

Hugh hid a smile at his friend’s innocent tone; Bartie had no doubt heard that Hugh had been stood-up for the Colridge’s ball and was fishing for information.

“It goes well enough,” Hugh conceded, “We were married this morning.”

Bartie rewarded Hugh’s bald statement by spluttering on the brandy he had just lifted to his lips, so surprised was he by the news.

“You do move quickly,” Bartie grinned, once he had cleaned himself off. “Though—if I may be so impertinent as to say—in your haste, you seem to have forsaken romance, your Grace.”

“In what way?” Hugh frowned.

“You’re spending your wedding night with me,” Bartie answered, with no little exasperation. “And while I am excellent company, I am not your blushing bride. I don’t think she will be overly impressed tomorrow if she learns you spent your first night married in a gaming hell with a brace of drunks and reprobates—present company excluded, of course.”

Though Hugh didn’t want to admit it, Lord Beaufort was entirely correct. He should not have ventured out to Pickering Place, even if his wife’s bed was closed to him. He should have suffered the agony of his longing at home, with stoicism and a bottle of brandy. He had spent too many years as a bachelor, thinking only of his own needs. He had much to learn if he was to win Anna over.

It was just slightly galling to find that Bartie—the perennially single dandy—was a better husband than he.

“No need to thank me,” Bartie waved an airy hand to Hugh’s dark expression, “I just ask that you think of me when you name your first born child.”

“Maybe the second,” Hugh begrudged, as he gathered his things. “Goodnight Beaufort.”

Hugh strode from The Egyptian Room back into the main gaming hall, where he flagged down Shatter to tell him of Gravesend’s tricks.

“Your employee disappeared the moment the ruse was discovered,” Hugh finished, with an apologetic shrug.

“He’ll stay disappeared, if he knows what’s good for him,” Shatter muttered, his brow creased into a deep frown.

Hugh shivered on behalf of the errant employee; Daniel Shatter was not someone any man would want as an enemy. He was known across London for his ruthlessness; many a young buck had learned the hard way not to cross him.

“And Gravesend?” Hugh questioned, not wanting the young dealer to bear the brunt of the blame.

“The young Lord Gravesend will soon find that he’s barred from every establishment from here to the West India Docks,” Shatter shrugged, “And if I meet him down a dark alleyway, he might find all his fingers broken too. My thanks for your help, your Grace.”

With a brusque nod, Hugh took his leave, exiting Pickering Place down the same dark, damp alley, back to St James’ Street and his carriage.

The journey to St. James’ Square was mercifully brief. Once inside Falconbridge House, Hugh climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, boots muffled against the thick carpeted runners. He crossed the room quietly and eased the door open to Anna’s bedchamber. He found her asleep, one hand curled beneath her cheek, moonlight catching the soft curve of her shoulder. She looked impossibly young, impossibly innocent. Hugh stood motionless, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breath, overwhelmed by a sense of protectiveness.

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