Page 26 of A Gentleman's Wager
“Do you expect me to believe you don’t gamble, my lord?” Louisa did not believe that for a moment.
“I certainly never claimed any such a thing. Though I do believe cards a fool’s game. If one is to wager, one should always do so in a meaningful way, don’t you agree, Miss Stanley?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Nor was she altogether keen on having him extrapolate his meaning. At least it was the sort of dance where they were parted almost as often as they were together, thus allowing her the opportunity to let her gaze drift sidewards. Cards were changing hands quickly now as the men bet on several rubbers.
Abruptly, Charles shot to his feet. “Dammit!” He hammered his fist on the table, then turned and staggered off, red-faced and calling loudly for more port. Several of the onlookers crowded into the space he’d vacated. Several slapped Wakefield heartily upon the back.
“Good show.” They muttered, and “Spare me a little of that luck.” Those from the latter camp would then brush against him, as if his good fortune might then be passed on thus sparing them a visit to Denning—the local usurer—on the morrow.
A cold chill like a premonition rolled along Louisa’s spine, as Millicent Hayes of the obscenely abundant bosom pressed in close. She tittered something into Wakefield’s ear, causing him to smile. He handed her a small stack of coins from his winnings. Louisa’s surroundings seemed to collapse in on themselves. Wakefield stood, and at the same moment Millicent threw her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth in plain sight of the whole room.
“Miss Stanley.” She must have stumbled, for Pennerley caught her fast in his arms. “Are you not well?”
A jagged shard of ice was surely protruding from her chest. And not only was her head spinning, her heart was racing so fast she was sure it would burst.
“Perhaps a drink.”
A path opened before them, allowing for an easy exit from the dancefloor. Pennerley led her by the hand to – she wasn’t sure she knew where. Only that the crowd melted away and to her relief she found herself surrounded by blessed silence. Pennerley pressed a cool glass into her hand.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Port. Drink it. It’ll help.”
She felt sick, faint. In a moment, she’d make her excuses and head upstairs to her guest room. Supping liquor couldn’t possibly fix the hole in her heart. She’d been so certain these last weeks, so utterly convinced that Wakefield was the man destiny meant for her. She’d trusted in his intentions, believed he wholeheartedly returned her affections.
“Drink,” Pennerley encouraged.
Hesitantly, she brought the glass to her lips, intending only to take a sip, but when the sweetness hit her tongue, one swallow quickly became two, and shortly after, the glass was drained.
“More?” Pennerley enquired.
When he claimed the glass to refill it, Louisa followed him to the side-table. She liked that he wasn’t bombarding her with questions. Appreciated it more than she could put into words. Tears were brewing in her eyes, and the onslaught of feelings tingled in her nose.
Was there an honest explanation for what she’d witnessed between Frederick and Miss Hayes? Perhaps he had not invited the affection in the way it appeared. After all, the man currently pouring her a second drink had stolen a kiss from her lips earlier this evening without seeking any sort of permission, and Frederick hadn’t lain the blame on her.
Also, Millicent had ever been a shameless coquette.
Without even recognising her actions, Louisa drained a second glass. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure. The least I could do.”
Pennerley smiled so that only the very corners of his lips turned upwards, though his eyes continued to glitter with concern.
“I’m quite all right,” she told him, though it was an outright lie, and he likely knew it. Nor was she altogether sure what to make of him. Why had he singled her out? What motivated it?
A strand of his long dark hair fell forwards over his face. Without thinking, Louisa brushed it aside, only for him to catch her hand and press a kiss to the centre of her palm. The action caused her breath to catch and strange feeling of fluttery panic to rise in her chest. She peeped up at him, straight into those arresting violet eyes.
“You remind me of someone.” His words were a whisper against her skin. “It’s the eyes, the tilt of your chin. The smile too. Yes, you have the same smile.” A moment ago, she never imagined she’d smile again, but she did then, for him. There was a magnetism to him. Nothing she could precisely pinpoint. Yes, he was handsome—or rather beautiful, but the allure was down to something far more intangible.
“Someone you’re close to?” she asked.
His dark eyelashes flirted with his cheeks. “Emily was a great love of mine.” Woe scored his voice, gave it an endearing huskiness.
“But no longer?”
“Alas, no.” His expression grew dark. He turned away from her, head bowed. “She’s dead.”
His bereavement squeezed at her lungs, so that Louisa felt the loss as though it were her own. She had lost those closest to her, knew well the sharp edge of grief. The reminder instantly put her anguish over Wakefield’s behaviour into perspective. She would speak to him about it. That was the sensible thing to do. There was probably a simple explanation, and she was reading too much into the exchange of coins. “I’m so sorry—” She placed a gentle hand upon Vaughan’s arm, whereupon he turned to her again.
