Page 13 of From Duke Till Dawn
From her.
The gaming hell’s doors opened tonight, as they always did, at eight o’clock. The first surge of genteel gamblers flooded into the main area in a wave of diamonds, tobacco, and glassy-eyed excitement.
Cassandra stood in the middle of the hall, wearing a modest gray silk dress and her most welcoming smile. She murmured, “Welcome, my lord, my lady,” over and over again. “The hazard table is looking very promising this evening. Do help yourself to our excellent wine. Lovely necklace, my lady.”
She wasn’t used to playing the shill this way. Her swindles were usually more complex, involving at least a week of planning and planting seeds to gain the desired outcome—namely, a nobleman giving her a heap of money for various reasons, and then her disappearance.
The oddest aspect of Martin’s gaming hell was its legitimacy. None of the dice at hazard were weighted. The cards for faro andvingt-et-unwere unmarked. The dealers had been instructed to work with absolute honesty. Very likely, this gaming hell was the most trustworthy establishment of its kind within fifty miles.
Everything had to be on the level, or else she would walk. That had been her most important condition when accepting Martin’s proposition. To her surprise, he’d readily agreed.
Her taste for the swindling life had soured after Alex. She’d gotten by these past two years running small schemes on dishonest men, men who wanted to cheat the system. Ambition and greed never waned. She could always rely on those darker hungers to put food on her plate and a roof over her head.
Alex had never been one of those men. She’d assessed him at dinner one night, in the grand dining hall. He’d been dining alone. A few discreet inquiries had revealed that he was a duke, one of the wealthiest and most influential in the country. She’d been struck by his good looks—surely rich, well-bred men didn’t have such angled jawlines or shoulders that could fill a doorway. The way he held himself revealed a lifetime of horsemanship and fencing, as well as lessons in dancing and decorum.
Men with strong morality were not drawn to people who bent the rules. She’d seen that about him right away. And so she’d formulated her strategy. Instead of playing the beseeching, helpless female, Cassandra had tailored her role to match his pride with her own. She’d forced herself to eat the most pallid, cheap food with the air of a deposed monarch. She’d avoided nearly everyone’s company, making sure he saw her taking solitary walks with an aura of pained dignity.
Her plan had worked. He’d been drawn to the strong, resilient woman she had pretended to be.
“Will you blow on my dice for luck?”
With a polite, mildly reproving smile, Cassandra turned to a young buck. He grinned at her as he held out a handful of ivory cubes.
“I fear that if I do,” she said, “the same request will resound from every corner of this establishment, and I’ll have no breath left for myself.” She continued to smile. “Turning blue would hardly be attractive, don’t you agree?”
“You would be lovely no matter your hue,” he answered with an attempt at gallantry. “You would start a fashion for maidens to paint their own cheeks blue.”
“And you are keeping the table waiting, my lord.” She said this gently, nodding toward the other hazard players who observed the buck’s flirtatious efforts with annoyance.
With a carefree laugh, her would-be wooer returned to the hazard table.
Cassandra silently exhaled. There had been a time in her life when she would’ve relished wrapping that lad around her finger, amusing herself with seeing just how much she could manipulate him. She could praise his signet ring and touch his hand. He’d be captivated by the brief contact and stammer out some compliment, which she’d blushingly disavow. It would be a simple matter to draw him further along, flattering his needy self-image with a slight hint of her own superiority—a powerful lure for young men with too much money and not enough purpose.
But she wouldn’t do that.
Her weariness of the game had to be because of her age. The things that excited and interested her at twenty—including controlling a rich young man—didn’t have the same appeal anymore. She didn’t have a girl’s excitement about the possibilities of the world. But then, she’d never had that luxury.
What would it be like, to spend an evening not worrying about her next meal? Not agonizing about how long she could safely call someplace home?
And if she was spinning dreams... What if she had someone of her own, who knew precisely the kind of woman she was? And accepted her anyway?
A dark-haired, brown-eyed man with a hawkish nose and unshakable integrity...?
The need for such a man was so powerful that it was like a second heartbeat. Wanting him was a dream, a foolish fantasy she couldn’t dismiss as a girlish infatuation. He made her feel safe, cared for, respected. No one had ever given her as much.
And no one would again.
Yet, as if she’d conjured him from wishing, Alex appeared at one end of the main hall, looking devastating in black evening dress, his hair slicked back, his cheeks freshly shaven. Her imagination must have fabricated this illusion of him. But no, the image of Alex looked right at her, causing her heart to jump. As he began walking toward her, she realized he was no illusion, but real. He stopped in front of her.
She swallowed hard as he gazed down at her with his unwavering dark stare. Had he been speaking to people? Somehow learning her secrets? Her mind hastily slapped together stories, excuses, explanations.
He gazed at her, and she could only look back, like a doe being spotted by a wolf.
But his eyes were warm as he gazed at her. “Cassandra,” he murmured.
Her body heated in response to hearing him say her name in his low, gravelly voice. Her pulse stuttered, and that hot, bright gleam of happiness and hope cut through the darkness within her—just from having him near.
“Staying away is impossible,” he went on. “Not when I know you’re here.”
