Page 29 of A Gentleman's Wager
“I’m going to bloody kill him.”
“You will not. For God’s sake, man. Take a hold of yourself.”
His icy glare seemed to temporarily mollify Frederick, allowing Lucerne to remove his hands from the captain’s shoulders and straighten his back. These two, they were his oldest, dearest friends, but not once, not ever had they seen eye-to-eye. He did not wish to part company with either, but nor could he abide the notion of them being at one another’s throats until Epiphany. He’d left London to escape this sort of drama and nonsense, but all he appeared to have done was bring it with him.
“Now, what is this—” He did not finish the sentence, for now the room was quiet, his brain finally registered the heaving sobs coming from behind the thick curtains over the French windows.
After shooting both men questioning looks, he strode over to the window and pulled the curtain back sharply. Sequestered behind it, he found Miss Stanley, who gasped over being suddenly exposed, then set to sobbing into her lacy kerchief again. He might have known there’d be a woman involved. Lucerne set his mouth in a hard straight line as he cursed himself for indulging Wakefield’s infatuation. The silly fool knew he couldn’t afford to marry her, he was up to his ears in debt to a local moneylender, and his flirting was always going to end in tears. Her family would step in and make sure it never amounted to anything.
That Wakefield was penniless in some circumstances might be overlooked, but he was her social inferior too. The Stanleys traced their ancestry back four hundred years and included a former Prince Bishop of Durham. The Wakefields a mere two generations to a base-born child of a disgraced clergyman and couldn’t even make up for the lack with land or wealth.
“Stop sobbing, girl,” he snapped exasperated. His earlier arousal was now transformed into an abrasive irritation that was eating at his skin.
Clearly stunned by the rebuke, Miss Stanley fell silent. She stared at him wide-eyed. Lucerne handed her his handkerchief for her red nose, hers being little more than a soggy mess. “Bella.” He beckoned, knowing she was watching all this interplay taking it in. “Perhaps you might escort Miss Stanley to somewhere where she can compose herself.”
Lucerne waited until he heard the snicket of the door shutting before he addressed the two adversaries again. “Now,” he said, in a voice that he hoped made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate any more nonsense. “What the devil is this about?”
Wakefield opened his mouth to speak.
“On second thought, I’m not interested.” He did not wish to hear a blow-by-blow recounting of every crime they might attribute to one another. He had guests to entertain, and no desire to spend the rest of his evening stuck in this room refereeing another spat in a very long line of them. “Freddy, I understand the challenge is yours. I’d very much appreciate it if you’d retract it.”
Optimistically, he looked from Frederick to Vaughan, hoping for some sign of reconciliation. Of course, there was none. It was more likely that the sky would fall. Frederick was staring pointedly at the ceiling, while Vaughan had taken up the poker, and was fruitlessly stabbing at the coals.
“Look, I don’t give a damn why you suddenly feel the need to kill each other. I’m not having any fighting in my home, and while you are both guests in my house, you’ll obey my rules. Now, I suggest you make up like gentlemen and we can get back to the party.”
Predictably, neither man moved.
Lucerne turned his glare on Frederick, he being the least obstinate of the two. The captain stubbornly met his gaze and began to explain.
“Freddy,” Lucerne cut him off, only to then implore in softer tones, “Please, do this for me.”
The man’s jaw clenched so tight the tendons in his throat stood out.
Lucerne crossed to his side. “Please.”
Frederick dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes. “Very well,” he sighed. Still hunched at the shoulders, he rose and crossed to the fireplace. “I withdraw my challenge. Please accept my apologies, Pennerley.”
Later, Lucerne would attempt to get to the root of this enmity. For now, he breathed easier to see Frederick extend his hand.
Vaughan grasped it and broke into a triumphant smile. He pulled the still glowering captain off balance into his embrace, then proceeded to plant a kiss on each of his burning cheeks. Knowing Vaughan, this was likely the outcome he’d planned all along. Lord only knows why he took such delight in baiting Wakefield, but it had ever been a thing.
“Now gentlemen,” Lucerne stepped in before Freddy changed his mind and threw a punch. “Since that is settled, let us re-join the other guests.”
-20-
Bella
Bella retreated to the gardens after she left Louisa’s room, hoping the cool air would soothe the itch of frustration beneath her skin. It was attributable at least in part to thwarted lust. One moment, she’d commanded Lucerne’s sole attention, next she was playing nursemaid to Louisa, and Lucerne was all ears for whatever Lord Pennerley was saying.
She’d left Louisa tucked in bed, snuffling into her pillow.
Mr Aubury’s voice carried from the far side of the lawn, drunkenly extolling the virtues of large breasts to a rapturous audience. Judging from the ribald comments being made, Millicent was at the centre of things and more or less bursting from her frock.
Bella retreated further into the shrubbery, smacking her hands against the foliage as she walked, irrationally irritated by the blather. She didn’t know why it was niggling at her so, only that it did. They were in her space. Lauwine had been her paradise, and hers alone for so very long, there was something hideously abrasive about having so many people wandering its pathways.
She struck out towards her willow cave, but it too was occupied, by a trysting couple who stared at her in shame-faced panic. Bella backed away with her hands raised, then fled deeper into the gardens. She struggled through the bushes, gaining several nicks and scratches, to where the gardeners hadn’t yet tamed the wilds, where weeds and ivy still rambled and entwined with one another in a rich tapestry. Surely within the old arbour she could find enough solitude to raise her skirts and do something about the itch left behind from her flirting with Lucerne.
In the dark, she stubbed her toe, and tumbled, crashing to the earth so she jarred her elbow and muddied her hands. “Bastard, rot, and damnation!” Now she’d spoiled her dress too. Her knees were torn, and so too was her hem. If things did not improve soon, she might be tempted to start smashing windows.
