Page 8 of A Duke Makes a Deal
“Done.”
Silas had hoped the man would at least pause and think about what he meant to do—that the words would shock some sense into him. But that hadn’t happened. At this point, Silas knew there was nothing he could do.
It seemed the other men were holding their breath as the croupier shuffled and cut the deck before dealing out the cards. Silas picked up the edge of his hand, seeing that he only had a pair of threes. It wasn’t a good draw, but then it wasn’t terrible either. He’d managed to win before from a worse starting position—and if he lost, it would hardly be a tragedy. He would only lose money, of which he had plenty.
His eyes landed on Dilworth, who sat a little straighter with his shoulders pressed back as if he were pleased with his hand, even as the light from the oil lamps made the perspiration on hisforehead glisten, betraying his anxiety. He handed in two cards and received his new ones, while Silas threw his three spare cards on the table for the dealer to retrieve and was handed three more. Silas pulled the edges of his cards up and was somewhat surprised to see that he had recovered the other two threes. A four-of-a-kind was a good hand, but was it good enough? The viscount puffed out his chest like a preening peacock, blatantly satisfied with his cards. Dilworth tapped the table to signify that he would bet.
“Let’s not go round and round then,” Silas said. “You’ve only one thing to bet. Or rather, one person,” he said pointedly. “Show your hand.”
Dilworth smirked as he laid down his cards. Five cards, all clubs, gave Silas a moment’s pause until he realized that being the same suit was the only organization they had. It was a flush, but not in any order, which meant his four-of-a-kind was the superior hand.
Silas laid downhiscards and watched the man before him shatter. Dilworth’s eyes bulged out of his head, staring at the hand. He seemed frozen, unable to comprehend that he had lost. As the others came up to pat him on the back and say poor luck, Dilworth did not acknowledge anyone. Silas nearly felt pity for the man, but in the end, there was no room for it. Dilworth had done this to himself.
Silas had just begun to stand, with intentions to leave the table and partake in a cigar, when Dilworth finally spoke.
“Again,” he said desperately. “Please. You must let me try again.”
Silas’s jaw clenched as he attempted to swallow down his growing anger. After betting and losing everything, including his fiancée, had the man truly not had enough? He turned on the young lord and was about to dress him down when he spoke.
“I’m begging you, Combe, please. You must play me again.”
“You’ve nothing left to bet with, Dilworth,” Silas said, his tone rough, his patience coming to an end. He wasn’t sure if it was his anxiety or this man’s audacity, but Silas was losing his calm façade. “Go home and lick your wounds.”
“I have money. It’s coming, I just have to—”
“You’ve already lost a dowry and a wife, Dilworth. Now I’m losing my patience, and unless you want to witness the full extent of my temper, I suggest you leave now.”
Dilworth seemed to snap out of his trance when he heard the word “wife.” He shook his head slightly in disbelief.
“Surely you don’t mean to take Miss Woodvine from me? She’s nothing to you.”
“Nor you, apparently.”
“But if I don’t marry her, I can’t pay you her dowry.”
“A dowry I can collect myself now that you’ve lost her,” Silas said.
The intention of his words was clear, much to the surprise of several gentlemen in attendance. Dilworth gawked incredulously. A murmur broke out among the men around them, and Silas made the mistake of turning around.
The familiar thread of panic threatened to take hold of him as his eyes took in the scene around him. These were men he had known all his life, friends, and acquaintances but with all of their attention focused on him—many of them pressing in close so as not to miss a word of the exchange between him and the viscount—their presence unnerved him. The hot hands of dread seemed to reach over his shoulders and wrap its fingers around his neck, constricting his airway. He swallowed uncomfortably as he shifted, turning back to face Dilworth.
Not now, for God’s sake. He couldn’t have an attack here, in front of all these people.
“You don’t mean to marry the girl,” Dilworth said in disbelief. “She’s practically an old maid.”
“Combe,” Derek said, coming towards him as his voice dropped. “You can’t want the girl. Let Dilworth keep her and take what he has offered.”
Silas squinted at his friend, close to telling him that Dilworth didn’t own the girl and therefore had no right to keep her, when a strained, feminine voice suddenly sounded from above.
“I’m afraid that won’t work,” the voice said, loud and clear from the second story.
All the men in the room’s heads snapped up, startled. Silas felt hostile at the idea of being spied on. Still, when the same frizzy-haired, curvaceous woman he had bumped into earlier that night came down the secret spiral staircase that led to the main floor, he felt something else stir within him, beneath the crippling panic that had tried to settle around him.
Was this Miss Woodvine?
Chapter Three
The sparkling lusterof the ballroom had certainly kept Clara distracted for a time, and while she had hoped to be asked by at least one gentleman while waiting for her dear Dilworth to return, none had approached her. But as melody after melody played, Clara grew tired as boredom settled into her restless heart. Where had Dilworth gone to, and why hadn’t he returned? She had moved throughout the manse with her mother for the better part of half an hour, hoping to find him, but they hadn’t had any luck.
