Page 3 of A Private Wager
Barton shrugged. “I’ve always admired Stonecrest, and you have repeatedly refused to sell it. I cannot let an opportunity to possess it pass by without making every attempt to win it. In short, yes, cousin, I most certainly would. Pursue and win Miss Dawes, or the estate is mine. You have until the end of this house party to secure her hand.”
War looked at the document—at his scrawling signature across the bottom of it—and felt a sinking feeling in his gut. He could either act against every scruple he possessed or lose the most valuable property in his possession. It would remove any semblance of security. One poor season for his tenant farmers, one year where rents could not be paid, and he would be ruined. He would not propose to her and then renege. If he pursued her and won her hand, he would marry her. To do less would be the height of dishonor.
“She can never know about the wager,” War insisted. “There is no need to cause her that sort of humiliation or shame.”
Barton nodded. “Of course, cousin. I am not a monster. Miss Dawes is a perfectly lovely person, and I would never dream of causing her unnecessary difficulty.”
“Then, the wager stands,” War agreed against every instinct he possessed.
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
Lady Pandora Osbourne was propped up in the bed in her assigned chamber at the latest house party. She was tired. More than tired, in fact. She was utterly exhausted. There was nothing she wanted more than to be resting in her own bed, in her own home, and not feeling so put upon to continue being a delightful house guest while plotting to craft yet another society marriage. Thus far, she was having great success in her little endeavor. Is she could maintain it, she would win the wager with her cousin. The stakes of the wager were less important to her than simply wiping the smug look from Octavia’s face.
Her maid bustled in, a bright smile on her face and excitement lighting her eyes as she placed a breakfast tray on the bed before her mistress. “Oh, my lady, it’s excellent news I have.”
“Oh?”
The maid nodded enthusiastically. “It seems that two of the gentlemen have engaged in a private wager, and per the terms of that wager, Viscount Harcourt must win the hand of Miss Lucy Dawes.”
“How is that excellent news? Miss Dawes is well known to be adamantly opposed to marriage. The viscount’s wager is of no significance!”
The maid gaped. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but have you seen the viscount? I daresay that even the most determined of spinsters would be hard pressed to resist him! If he already wishes to marry the woman you’ve chosen to match him with, then half the battle is won!”
Pandora blinked in surprise. Oh, she was well aware that the viscount was handsome enough. But was she really so old that she had forgotten just how much sway a handsome face could hold over a woman as strong willed as Miss Dawes? After a moment’s reflection, she was forced to admit that she was, in fact, that old.
“Quite right. I stand corrected. So, I have one eager participant for a match and one ambivalent but potentially persuadable member,” Pandora mused. “I’ve certainly faced worse odds. Talk to Miss Dawes’s maid. Find out everything you can about her and how we can help the viscount in his quest. And, Collins?”
“Yes, m’lady?”
Pandora poured herself a cup of chocolate, stirring it with elegantly idle motion. “I’ve heard unfortunate things about Mr. Barton Warfield. This wager of theirs is concerning to me. I want to be certain that the viscount is not cut from the same cloth.”
Collins nodded. “I’ll find out what you need, my lady.”
She was walkingin the garden when he found her. It hadn’t taken a great deal of effort to locate her. A coin or two slipped into the palm of a helpful servant and he’d been told exactly where she was. He had to marry at some point or other, he reasoned. Miss Dawes was an excellent prospect. Some found her to be a bit strange, with her penchant for books and her seeming disinterest in the elaborate dance that was the marriage mart. Indeed, no one seemed to know what to make of a young woman who was not eager to accept the first proposal of marriage that came her way. In point of fact, Miss Dawes had turned down more offers than many young women ever received.
War spotted her heading for the folly. It was built in the style of a Grecian temple. Many such structures dotted the elaborate gardens of the estate. They provided ample opportunities for trysts and clandestine meetings.
As he neared the folly, Miss Dawes looked up from her book. She did not acknowledge him in any way. Just looked at him and then returned to her book immediately.
“Good afternoon, Miss Dawes,” he said.
“Have we been introduced?” she asked, still not looking up.
“Many times,” he answered. “At Almack’s last year. At the Cavendish ball, and we met again at Herrington’s house party last year.”
At that she did look up. “I see. Well, you certainly have an excellent memory, my lord.”
“So do you,” he answered. “Since you are apparently well aware of my title.”
A blush stole over her, climbing up her neck and into her cheeks, coloring them a pretty shade of pink that was a perfect foil against her dark hair and pale skin. “I’m well aware of your identity, Viscount Harcourt. After all, this is a very small party. The guest list has been of much discussion by the young ladies gathered.”
He stepped up into the folly and seated himself on the bench opposite her. “But not you. You, Miss Dawes, would never be so undignified. Your behavior is always above reproach.”
Miss Dawes closed her book then, heaving a heavy sigh as she did so. A sigh which caused her rather impressive bosom to rise and fall in a manner that a man would have to be dead not to notice. He was suffering for his unintended excesses of the night before, but he was far, far from dead.
“Is there some point to this, my lord? We have apparently met on numerous occasions, and I cannot recall that we engaged in conversation beyond introductions and simple hellos on any of them.”
