Page 21 of The Scottish Duke Tames the Bluestocking
To her utter bewilderment, Hugh merely grinned as he met her wagers. Rather than be taken aback by her brazen behavior, he tossed his own chips into the pot with careless abandon. Harriet narrowed her eyes as she looked at him.
If anything, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, his eyes sparkling with barely suppressed mirth as he needled her with good-natured taunts.
“Careful there, lass,” he cautioned with a smirk when Harriet placed a particularly bold bet. “Wouldnae want ye to lose yer pretty little head now. Ye daenae ken what favor I might request.”
Harriet merely huffed and lifted her chin defiantly. “You ought to be more concerned with your own head, Your Grace,” she warned. “When I play... I play to win.”
Hugh's rich laughter rumbled through the room. “Oh, I daenae doubt that for a minute, ye wee rebel,” he chuckled, eyes glinting with sly amusement. “But ye'll soon learn that I'm no easy mark to best.”
To Harriet’s chagrin, the wily Scot proved to be a formidable foe. He matched her risk for risk, his quicksilver grin never faltering - even as the stakes climbed ever higher. Before long, Harriet found herself in the unfamiliar position of facing imminent defeat. Her pile of chips was dwindling - a stark contrast to the towering stack of chips in front of the duke.
She bit her lower lip frustratedly. This was not at all how she had envisioned this gambit unfolding. Hugh was meant to be shocked by her brazen outing of propriety - he was certainly not meant to be thoroughly entertained.
She watched with horror as he laid his cards on the table with a decisive snap of his wrist, revealing a hand that made Harriet’s heart plummet to the floor.
A tricon landed on the table.
A strangled groan of defeat tore from Harriet’s throat. There would be no clawing out of the wager, she knew.
“Well,” Hugh drawled, leaning back in his chair with an air of supreme self-satisfaction. “It would appear that the victory is mine, aye? And as such, I believe... I am owed a favor.”
Harriet could only stare at him, the words sticking in her throat and refusing to leave her lips. “What do you want?” she managed at last.
A grin, far more amused than any she’d seen before, appeared on his lips.
“A dance,” he answered simply, and Harriet frowned.
“Your Grace,” she almost laughed, “Are we not meant to dance at the very next ball anyway? It seems like a silly thing to wager.”
It was far too good to be true, Harriet knew, and she looked at him suspiciously. Hugh, however, was not dissuaded by her words. Instead, he merely grinned.
“Nay, my lady,” he insisted in a low voice. “I want a second dance.”
Blood rushed to her cheeks at that and she stared at him, shell-shocked. Hugh merely looked at her with a grin - seemingly rather pleased with the reaction he had garnered from her.
CHAPTER11
The Whitmore estate was one of the grandest in theton- and tonight, it was alight with the glow of nearly a thousand candles. The air was thick with the cloying perfume of women and the tinkling laughter of London’s elite.
Harriet swallowed dryly where she stood at the entrance, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Hugh’s towering form. Tonight was meant to be a soft introduction of their courtship - something to dissuade the gossipers a bit.
William had made it quite clear that the night was incredibly important and as such, she had barely slept a wink the previous night. Her mind was awhirl, not only with the weight of the responsibility on her shoulders, but there was something else she could not quite get out of her mind.
Hugh’s demand for a second dance.
Well, she thought to herself, perhaps demand was a bit much. It was, after all, her idea to put a wager on their game.
Still, the idea of a second dance was a bold declaration of intent - it was a signal to all of society that Hugh was truly courting her, despite the fact that she was not entirely sure she had made up her mind yet. The very thought made her palms dampen and set her heart aflutter.
“Oh, darling,” her mother whispered from behind her. “You look positively green about the gills.”
Harriet merely shook her head and pressed a fluttering hand to her stomach. “I feel like I may faint,” she admitted in a whisper. “I may be a touch overwhelmed by the prospect of facing the ton’s scrutiny on the dance floor.”
Jennifer squeezed her daughter’s hand sympathetically. “Courage, my darling. You have faced far more daunting challenges than a dance. I daresay, His Grace seems as though he has some time for you.”
Harriet scoffed at this. “The man is as prickly as a pincushion,” she said with angry certainty.
As if on cue, a shadow fell over them - and as though he’d been called by her words, Hugh appeared in front of them.
