Page 102 of When the Marquess Was Mine
“If only you’d come sooner,” exclaimed Philip with a neat bow. “My luck surely would have turned.”
“Such beauty might prove more of a distraction than anything,” said Forester with an ingratiating smile. Rob fought back a scowl at the way the man’s eyes moved over her.
Tom stubbed out his cigar. “The last thing you need is distraction, Forester. And if you mean to keep playing, Wakefield, sit down.”
The earl had risen, his hands flat on the table. His glare at Georgiana was positively murderous. “Females,” he said through his teeth, “do not belong in a gaming establishment.”
“Goodness,” said the duchess lightly. “One might think the gentlemen are frightened of losing to a woman, if they want us excluded.”
Wakefield’s eyelid twitched. Philip laughed. “Is that it, Wakefield? I’ll take your place if you’re upset. She’s a better player than most of you lot.”
Slowly the man sank back down, to Rob’s disappointment. As much as he would have enjoyed ruining Wakefield, too, it was better to have control of the table. “Deal,” snarled Wakefield.
Rob opened with a high ante. The duchess quirked a brow and made a smart comment, but she played along with him, and then everyone else had to as well. Marlow lost and paid the pot with a string of curses he abruptly choked back, looking at the duchess.
“That’s the trouble with letting women play,” muttered Wakefield.
She smiled. “I assure you, I’ve heard all those words and survived the experience.”
“Nevertheless,” he said acidly, “a man cannot speak them in the presence of a lady. What sort of club is this?”
“She’s been a member here longer than you have,” said Philip. “Ah—I beg your pardon, sir, you’re not a member, are you?”
Wakefield went rigid. He started to rise. “Insolent little...”
“Is there a problem?” Mr. Dashwood had appeared, as silent as a ghost. He turned to Wakefield. “Have you a complaint, my lord?”
A vein throbbed in the earl’s forehead. “Women gambling with men is appalling. One bad hand and we’ll be treated to a case of hysteria and tears.”
“I doubt it. Of course, you are welcome at the hazard table. I do not believe any ladies are playing there at the moment.”
Again Rob hoped he would go, but again Wakefield kept his seat, scowling furiously at his cards.
“Very good, sir.” Dashwood nodded to the dealer to proceed.
The pot grew by leaps and bounds. Rob made sure to lose one round to drive the pot higher. Wakefield lost, then Forester. Marlow staved off a loss only because he held the top trump in a hand of worthless cards. The depressed basin in the center of the table filled with markers. With every hand, Rob saw Georgiana’s face. Her eyes were wide and anxious as she watched. Once when Rob glanced at her, the Duke of Ware was beside her, silent and watchful.
Because most people at the table were playing in concert, they made Forester lose again. His eyes darted from the pot to his markers, and Rob realized Forester had lost more than he had. Forester had to pay the pot, and if he folded he would lose everything he’d put in. That was how loo ruined men; once they had risked too much, their only hope was to stay in and pray their luck turned.
“Problem, Forester?” Heath asked.
The man cleared his throat. “Er—yes. I... I seem in need of more markers.”
Heath made a noise of impatience. “Go on, then. Sackville, note how much he’s lost, he can pay up tomorrow. Lindeville, do you still want to play?”
Forester yanked his gaze from the pot, brimming with his markers, to Philip. “I’m not bowing out!”
Sackville snorted. “No more markers, no more cards. We’re not a charitable institution.”
“I’ll get more!” Forester insisted. “I—I have to request credit, but I’m not bowing out.”
“Then pay the pot,” said Rob. “Just not with a property deed,” he added, causing guffaws from Marlow and Sackville, who’d seen him win Winston’s deed but been treated to a highly fictional account of his trip into Derbyshire.
Forester took the bait. His face brightened. “I’ll stake shares of my company.”
Rob’s heart leapt. Beside him, Heath tensed in excitement. Lord Wakefield growled something to Forester, who waved it away as he beckoned a waiter to bring paper and pen.
“Shares,” said Rob dubiously. “What are those worth?”
