Page 2 of When the Marquess Was Mine
“Sir Charles,” said Dashwood evenly, “do not wager what you cannot afford to lose.”
Winston scooped up the scribbled paper and added a line, signing his name with a flourish. “I won’t, sir.”
But he did. Within four hands, he’d won a bit and then lost it all—including the deed. Suddenly he did not look so belligerent or so stubborn. He looked young and quite literally green, staring at the winning hand, lying on the table.
“Should have listened,” said the unsympathetic Heathercote. “Should have left.”
Winston puffed up furiously. “Should have known better than to play with the likes of you!”
“Di’n’t y’know that before you sa’ down?” Marlow’s words slurred together. “Stupid bloody fool!”
“That’s my home!”
“And you risked it at loo!” Heath made a derisive noise. “Idiot.”
Winston was the color of beets. “Don’t call me that.”
Sackville raised one brow. “No? ’S notyourhome anymore.” He reached out and plucked the scrawled paper from the pile of markers and examined it, although his eyes never quite managed to focus on it. “It ’pears to be West’s.”
West’s friends howled with laughter. “He doesn’t need it,” cried Winston. He made a convulsive grab for the paper before his lone remaining friend caught his arm. “He’s got a dozen houses!”
“Set it up as a brothel, West,” suggested Forester. “And give all your mates discounted fees.”
“Free!” yelped Marlow with a wheezing laugh.
Winston drew a furious breath, but instead of continuing the fight he turned and rushed from the room, rather unsteadily; he wrestled with the door, and then almost tripped on his way out, causing more howls of laughter from the table. His friend helped him back onto his feet before the door closed on them both.
“Who invited him?” asked Heathercote in disdain.
“Marlow.”
“Ballocks,” mumbled Marlow, putting his head down on the table. “Never did. Was Forester.”
Forester made a rude gesture. “I vouched for the other man, Farley.”
“Your friends are all badton,” said Sackville.
Forester’s face tightened. He rose and swung his wineglass into the air in a toast, spilling some. “Thank you all for a most exciting evening, gentlemen.” Pointedly he bowed only to Viscount Heathercote and Lord Westmorland. Sackville repaid him with a rude gesture at Forester’s back.
Heathercote protested, but Forester waved him off and left. With Marlow asleep on the table and Sackville still giggling drunkenly to himself, West placed his hands on the table, hesitated as if gathering strength, then heaved himself to his feet. “The carriages, Dashwood.”
Stone-faced, the owner left. West—the Marquess of Westmorland—surveyed the table. “Did I win the last?”
“Aye,” said Heathercote with a wide yawn.
“Credit it all, Forbes,” said the marquess. “God above, I’m tired.”
As expressionless as his employer, the manager stepped forward. With an air of distaste, he picked up the deed promise and held it out. “I cannot credit this, my lord.”
West stared at it. “Damn. Right.” He stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket and staggered out into the morning sunlight with Heathercote, never guessing the trouble that wagered deed was about to cause him.
Chapter 2
Georgiana Lucas was having an absolutely splendid visit in the Derbyshire countryside when the letter arrived. That simple page of folded paper would, unwittingly and unintentionally, disturb the equilibrium of her life and send it veering wildly off course.
Of course, she did not know that at the time.
It came while they were at the breakfast table. Georgiana was idling over her tea, savoring the freedom to do so since her rather starchy chaperone, Lady Sidlow, was still in London while she rusticated in Maryfield. Her hostess and dear friend from school, Kitty, now Lady Winston, was cuddling her baby at the head of the table, rapt with adoration for little Annabel, six months old this day. Geneva, Kitty’s sister-in-law, was reading aloud the amusing bits from a local parish newspaper, giggling over the tale of Mr. Pott’s pigs, who had got loose in the lane and caused an uproar. The dowager Lady Winston, Geneva’s mother but called Mother by all the family, was listening to her daughter while she went over the menu for that night’s dinner, when the local vicar and his family were to dine with them.
