Page 30 of The Marquess' Wicked Wager
She felt a sudden chill rush through her until at last,finally, she heard something hit the bottom of the boat. He came back up on the other side from where she had been watching, and Edna had never seen anything more glorious. He thrashed about in the water, gulping like a fish and coughing until he seemed to make sense of where he was. And then, because ofcoursehe would, the villain smiled.Smiled!
As quickly as she could, she bent down to give him her hand. “Oh, heavens! I really thought…” she whimpered then tried to calm herself. “Take my hand!”
“I’ll only pull you over too,” he said, his arms arcing out before him. He laughed then and looked up at her. “How do I look?”
Edna recoiled. Surely, he was not serious. “How hard did you hit your head?”
“Hard enough to know I am still alive,” he japed. “Now move,” he ordered before adding, “Miss Worthington.”
She did as she was told. Before she could make heads or tails of things, Albert was back in the boat. She threw himself into his arms, not caring one bit for manners, then drew away to look him over.
He was drenched from top to bottom, his dark trousers clinging to his legs, his shirt practically see-through. She could make out the matting of his hair on his chest, and she had to send her eyes upwards to quell the urge to hold him again.
She swatted at him as they stood there, once on the arm then she batted at his chest. “You could have died!” she lamented. “You could have drowned!”
“You should be so lucky,” he said with a pained smile then brought his hand up to the top of his head. It came away clear. “It shall leave a nasty bump if nothing else.”
“Oh,no,” Edna crooned sarcastically. “All our fears have come true. A bump.” She turned away from him and picked up a paddle.
“What are you doing?” he said, but he was definitely shivering now.
Edna cast a look over the lake as though the water itself might bestow upon her the ability to row. “I’m taking us back over. I’m getting you home.” When she looked back, Albert had taken off his shirt and was working on his boots. She flushed furiously, “What are youdoing?”
“I’m wet,” he answered, and he wrung out his shirt over the lake.
“But what if someone sees?”
“Tell me plainly if you’d rather I catch a chill and die.” Albert grinned, looking much the imp. “Let them look. Your blush is all we need to sell the story of our engagement.”
“Oh, I see,” she said to toy with him. “This was all a trick, then. I thought the fall was rather staged. No man could be as bumbling as you!”
Albert was equal parts incensed and amused. “There are much easier ways at getting your attention, Miss Worthington, and not a one of them involves dallying with fish.”
Edna whined audibly then threw him the paddle. She slumped back down, turning away from him, praying to God he would dry off quickly.
ChapterThirteen
“That’s a woman’s bet, Remington. Five checks, or we’ll admit another player.”
Albert looked across the baize table where the insufferable Earl of Moreton was imbibing a mug of beer. He wafted away a wisp of smoke for a nearby table and settled back against his seat. “You’re an eagerbankerif I’ve ever met one.”
Mr. Gregson simpered beside him, and he had good reason—he was the man who had swiped Moreton’s home in Angers only a few weeks ago at White’s. They were at Almack’s now, and the mood was altogether different. Less seedy but doubly ruthless. This was where men came to play.
“Deal me in then,” Albert conceded as a man came around with another round of brandies. He swiped one up and pretended to take a sip, before setting it back down.
“Faro is not our game,” Gregson murmured beside him. “Beauchamp is just waiting for you to slip up.”
“As he should,” Albert purred. He was not one for gambling at the best of times, but he needed something to clear his mind. Something that was as far away from civility as one could rightly go without dealing in matters of the flesh. The thought made him quirk with guilt.
“So,” he heard from his right where the Viscount of Gerring sat. “Miss Worthington, is it?”
Albert let his head hang. Clearly, there was nowhere in London he could run where Edna did not follow him. “Actually, I’m the Marquess of Remington.”
Gerring smirked. “She’s a lovely young thing.”
“Shall we play for her instead?” Beauchamp interjected from the other side of the table.
“You can lose her the same way you won her,” Moreton muttered.
