Page 1 of A Lady's Wager
The Diamond of Bristol
Bristol, England
18 January 1793
FOR A BRIEF MOMENT, CORAHBradford considered letting her grandfather pack her off to London if it meant getting out of the clutches of Mr. Haltwhistle. The bachelor stood across from her as they awaited the start of the dance, his temples gleaming with sweat and shoulders dusted with powder that hadn’t stuck to his oversaturated hair. While those could be forgiven, the hungry, self-satisfied glint in his gaze as he looked at her could not.
Corah swallowed, smoothing the silk of her gown. No one had made her favorably consider dirty, overcrowded London before making the acquaintance of this gentleman. The orchestra still fussed with their music in the balcony above the ballroom. She didn’t know whether she wished them to hurry so this humiliation would pass more quickly or take their time and delay the lingering touches and leering grins her partner had manifested in the previous dance.
Either way, supper was soon expected. She had to stay with him through that to win her wager. She closed her eyes againstthe chill that oozed down her arms. Curse Melinda and her pride for getting them both into this.
Corah glanced down the set to her cousin, whose eyes were locked on a young man who was not her partner. The one Melinda was supposed to have secured as her partner for supper but clearly hadn’t managed to. Was she even trying to hide her disappointment? If so, Melinda was failing miserably, but concealment had never been one of her talents.
The humiliation of failure seemed preferable to winning the wager just now. Mr. Haltwhistle cleared his throat and leaned forward, forcing Corah to return her attention to him. “Did your grandfather mention I called on him yesterday morning?”
“I don’t believe so.” She didn’t know that her family had any connection to the Haltwhistles at all. Living across the river from Bristol had sheltered them a little from the city’s society. A blessing, if it meant fewer acquaintances like the gentleman before her.
“He seemed rather eager for us to meet.”
She drew in a breath to reply but held it when she couldn’t think of something to say. Grandfather threw young men at her rather frequently. If this was his latest attempt, he must be scraping the bottom of the barrel that was Bristolian society. If he scraped the barrel clean, it was off to London for Corah.
Off to London. Mr. Haltwhistle said something else, but she didn’t hear him. Candle wax dripped to the floor between them. The tiny flames above created a coverlet of heat that made her knees want to buckle. The thought of London, of leaving home, of securing a match to some gentleman far from Bristol and rarely returning… Her stomach twisted. Suddenly, supper sounded unbearable. She attempted a smile at Mr. Haltwhistle’s enquiring look, the muscles of her face tight and unwilling. With him as her supper partner, she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite. Theurge to excuse herself and drag Melinda and Aunt Mary back to the house nearly overwhelmed her.
A smug smile up the line of dancers kept her rooted to the ballroom floor. Miss Whiting, in her crimson gown and bright rouge, must have smelled impending victory. The young woman, a niece to the owner of the assembly rooms, prided herself in controlling the assembly ball wagers. Secure the supper dance with a man selected at random from the list of guests or subject yourself to public humiliation—that was Miss Whiting’s rule. Corah had never participated in these stupid games, not in three years out in Society, but Melinda had begged her to play along to gain the favor of Miss Whiting and her friends.
This would be Corah’s first and last wager. And she would win—not to claim the prize of arriving with the Whitings in their carriage at the next assembly, but to be able to wipe that sneer from Miss Whiting’s face.
“Perhaps, Miss Bradford, you would enjoy a ride around Kirkby Park tomorrow? I have just procured a delightful little phaeton I think you should particularly enjoy.” Mr. Haltwhistle’s brow, dusted with white hair powder, lifted saucily.
“I…” Grandfather would not approve of the phaeton, even if he approved of the gentleman.
“I would be very pleased to explore your grandfather’s estate.” Mr. Haltwhistle reached across the gap and seized her fingers. She recoiled, but he held firm. “I hear it is a rather lovely property.”
Eyes had turned toward them, and still he clasped her hand across the aisle. There, in the middle of the ballroom for all to see. He might as well have proposed to her in this horribly public setting. The orchestra continued their leisurely preparation for the next song. Corah prayed they would hurry. Miss Whiting’s grin had only deepened.
“Unhand her, you blithering, addlepated son of a blunderbuss.” The sharp voice rang in her ear as an arm appeared from behind her, taking her wrist in a firm but gentle grip. A blue silk sleeve marked it the arm of a gentleman.
Mr. Haltwhistle dropped her hand, nostrils flaring. “How dare you, sir. You have no right to insult me with such vulgarity. Who do you think you are?”
A musky scent, caught in the hazy heat of the room, enveloped her as Corah looked up at the welcome intruder. He was young, perhaps a few years older than her twenty-one. His unpowdered hair was tied back in a neat but simple queue with a black ribbon.
“Richard Bradford, and as her brother, I have every right,” the gentleman said, the shadow of a smirk on his lips.
Corah stiffened, his hand still about her wrist. This man was certainly not her fourteen-year-old brother. Though with hair nearly the same shade of brown as hers, one could possibly mistake them for brother and sister.
Mr. Haltwhistle’s gaze narrowed. How much did he know about her family?
The violin’s bow skipped across the opening chords, and couples up and down the line bowed. Those closest sent eagerly curious glances toward the trio’s altercation.
“If you would excuse us.” The imposter wrapped her hand around his arm and steered her away from the dance. Mr. Haltwhistle’s clipped footsteps followed them out.
“Now see here, Mr. Bradford…” The violin’s crescendo drowned out Mr. Haltwhistle’s whining voice.
They rushed from the ballroom into the corridor, and Corah tripped over her shoes as she studied the young man’s profile. A strong jaw and angled brow would have given him a gravity both worrisome and enticing except for the little grin he could not keep hidden. To be swept off the dance floor by a mysteriousstranger was the stuff of romance novels, and she couldn’t help the erratic pattering of her heart. Disturbances like this didn’t happen in reality.
The young man glanced at her with deep blue eyes and winked as though they were friends sharing a joke. Who was this? She loosened her hold on his arm. If word of this incident returned to Grandfather, she could only imagine his frustration.
“Halt, sir! Or I shall call you out for your nefarious slander,” Mr. Haltwhistle shouted.
