Page 6 of A Duke Makes a Deal
“I’ve heard of Woodvine,” Silas said. “He has a daughter?”
“He does,” Derek said. “And Fredrick invited him and his fiancée here tonight as a congratulatory gesture.” Derek gave his brother a pointed glance. “Without thinking.”
“He’s not a bad man,” Fredrick tried, eager to defend himself. “He’s quite good company, and he’s always up for a fencing match at the club.”
“He’s an addict,” Silas said. “He shouldn’t be here.”
“He’s his own man,” Derek said. “If he chooses to put himself in this situation, then it’s hardly our place to stop him. To toss him out would be an insult at this point.”
Silas exhaled, conceding the point. Dilworth was his own man, and even if Silas was aware of the signs of addiction, he could not and would not intervene. The viscount would hardlywelcome a stranger telling him how to conduct himself. Besides, Dilworth was not his concern.
“Very well,” Silas said. “But he should have to prove his coin. He’s been denied entry at White’s several times due to unpaid bets.”
“He eventually pays,” Fredrick tried.
“I’ve little interest in being paid several months from now,” Silas countered.
Fredrick appeared irritated but nodded.
“Very well,” he said, going over to Dilworth.
Derek poured Silas a glass of scotch and handed it to him. Silas took it and sipped the amber liquid slowly as he looked over the gentlemen taking their seats.
“Thank you for coming tonight,” Derek said after downing his drink.
Silas only nodded.
“I understand it’s difficult for you to attend these sorts of things these days. Balls and soirées, I mean.”
“It’s of little consequence,” Silas said, shaking his head, uncomfortable with the entire conversation.
He took another sip of his scotch, put down the crystal glass, and headed back to his table without another word. Silas had become a recluse since his divorce, and while Derek was one of the few people in the world to understand his anxiety, Silas still didn’t like to talk about it. Just as he didn’t like to discuss the divorce that had triggered his anxiety—or the woman who had been his wife.
The image of Cynthia’s lithe body and cold brown eyes sent his body on edge. As if thinking of her name could conjure her, Silas dug his fingernails into his palms to distract himself from his memories.
Though he had been convinced they had been a love match, three years of marriage had proven to him that no suchthing existed. He and Cynthia had a tumultuous relationship, one revolved around arguments, jealousy, and power over the other person. It had been an exhausting marriage. They had been hostile towards one another, like oil and water, yet had always reconciled passionately, making the riotous angst of their arguments seem almost worth it. That was, until Cynthia had gone too far.
Silas clenched his jaw as he took his seat. The game was set to begin with Dilworth, Lord Fishburne, Mr. Grant, and the dealer.
“Combe,” Dilworth said, an eager smile on his face. “It’s good to see you out and about.”
“Dilworth.”
“Have you come to lose your coin?” Dilworth tried to tease.
“I doubt it will be you whom I lose to.”
“Come now, I have a good luck charm, now.”
“Is that so?”
“It is,” Dilworth pulled out a velvet box and opened it to reveal a large, oval amethyst stone on a gold band, surrounded by tiny opals. “Here it is.”
Silas glanced up from the ring. He was only six years older than the viscount; Silas felt an eternity older.
“Is that it?”
“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Dilworth said, closing the tiny velvet box. “I bought it for my fiancée. Miss Clara Woodvine. Do you know her?”
