Page 7 of His Forbidden Duchess
“That we do, old boy.” Percy grinned as he downed his drink then gestured at Felix that they ought to have their glasses refilled.
As the night wore on, the atmosphere became even thicker with smoke and chatter. Felix stood by the bar, a glass of fine brandy in hand, surveying the room with a sharp, calculating gaze. His earlier victory over Lord Radcliffe had only heightened his confidence, and the subtle buzz of admiration from onlookers did not go unnoticed.
“The way you took him down, Your Grace,” one man said, gravitating toward him as many had throughout that evening. Alcohol had made his voice loud and his laugh boisterous, and he looked at Felix with something akin to awe.
“Indeed,” Felix replied, not meeting the man’s gaze. Though he feigned disinterest, he rather liked the sycophancy.
“It is no wonder that God chose you to be a duke,” another inebriated fellow uttered. “A nerve like that—it is nearly unheard of.”
Felix deigned to throw him a weak smile. “One either has it or does not. I would wager that you do not.”
“But that final hand!”
He continued to listen with waning interest, allowing each of the various men their moment as they relived the final hand ofhis game, each one exaggerating the stakes. He sipped his drink slowly, his mind already a step ahead. Felix always planned two moves in advance.
Winning the game had been satisfying, but he could not help the feeling that something was missing. He needed more. A bigger thrill.
When Percy returned to his side and leaned against the bar, his face was flushed with brandy and laughter. “It seems Radcliffe still has not recovered from the thrashing you gave him,” he remarked, nodding toward the far corner where Lord Radcliffe sulked, his wounded pride on full display. He knocked back another drink and immediately demanded a refill.
Felix’s eyes briefly flicked over to Radcliffe before returning to his drink. “Men like Radcliffe do not take defeat well,” he said coolly. “But they forget that arrogance blinds them. He never stood a chance.”
Percy chuckled. “You make it sound so easy.”
Felix turned to face him, the intensity of his gaze as sharp as a blade. “It is. People are rather predictable, my friend. You study them long enough, and they all show their hand. Radcliffe plays as he lives—reckless, overconfident. He thinks wealth and a title give him power, but it only makes him a bigger fool. It is almost enough to pity him.”
“Almost,” Percy teased.
“Indeed. He chooses to put himself into these situations. Therefore, he must deal with the consequences.”
Percy gave a low whistle, shaking his head in admiration. “That makes me wonder if you see through everyone like that.”
Felix’s lips quirked into a half-smile, the glint of mischief evident in his eyes. “Everyone who matters,” he replied smoothly.
His gaze roamed the room again, briefly landing on the widow who continued to watch him from across the hall.
The silk of her gown clung in all the right places—Felix could easily picture her naked, and he did so now as he looked her up and down.
“Most people are too self-absorbed to realize how much they give away,” he added.
Percy followed his gaze, spotting the widow. “Seems you have attracted some attention.”
Felix grinned. “It would seem so, but is that not always the case when one wins a substantial sum?” He emptied his glass in one thirsty gulp then slammed it on the bar. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have some business to which I must attend.”
Felix woke up late that morning, much later than he usually did. As he stirred from his deep slumber, his mind was already rattling with plans for the day ahead. He slowly turned to see Radcliffe’s mistress, whose name he only vaguely remembered, still fast asleep in his bed.
Lydia? Claudia? Amelia?It could be any of those. Not that it mattered. Felix chuckled. He’d taken more than just the man’s money.
With practiced ease, he extricated himself from the bed and dressed in a set of simple but well-tailored clothes. He pulled on his shirt and trousers then added a waistcoat and a cravat, his movements efficient and silent. He wanted to avoid waking his guest, a delicate process he had perfected over the years.
Felix slipped silently out of the room and down the corridor to where his butler awaited him. The house was still in the early stages of the morning, and the servants moved about with quiet efficiency.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” the butler greeted him with a nod of respect.
“Morning, Hargrave,” Felix replied, glancing back at the closed bedchamber door. “Make sure that my guest is given a proper breakfast before she departs.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Hargrave assured him, as always, his expression one of practiced discretion.
The man had seen this routine many times and knew exactly how to oversee such matters.
