Page 7 of The Marquess' Wicked Wager
Edna stiffened. “And the most rakish.”
“Perhaps,” Janine said, her eyes sparkling.
Edna could not help but roll her eyes. “Well, tell me what must be awful news. For any one of those three in a story alone would cause it to be a terror. All three together must be apocalyptic.”
Janine cleared her throat and leaned even closer, this time her voice low enough to be telling a true secret. “Margaret has informed me that at this very moment they gamble away your courtship rights. A day alone with you. No chaperone. The scandal!” Janine pulled back before changing her mind and leaning back in. Her words were hot on Edna’s ear. “And would you like to know the counter-bet deemed equal to your potential wifely duties?”
Edna most definitely did not, but most of Janine’s questions were rhetorical, and this was no exception. Still, the agonizing pause Janine chose to linger upon set Edna’s worries afire.
“A horse!”
Edna snapped her eyes to Janine’s. She was sure the humiliation she now felt ran amok as bright pink patches all over her normally ivory skin. “A horse?”
“The one your father gambled away last week. Or so the rumor goes.” Janine chose this moment to finally show a bit of propriety and looked away. Margaret too had her eyes trained on a lovely set of brocade curtains on the other side of Edna.
That was how Edna knew the gravity of the situation. If it was awful enough that not only would her shameless best friend not look at her but a pure gossipmonger as well? A line had clearly been crossed. She slapped her cup down on the table next to her, so it splashed red droplets upon the white tablecloth and her lambskin gloves.
“I will not stand for it.”
“I know how these affairs are coming about is appalling, but marriage to a duke is a high honor. You should count it a blessing that he seeks your attention.”
It took everything within Edna’s powers to keep her temper. “I will not stand for it. Duke or no, I am not some mare to be traded. You may marry the Duke if you are so inclined!”
“Would that I could, my darling, but his mind is righteously made up.”
Both Janine’s and Margaret’s eyes widened, but Edna marched off before they could dissuade her. She made her way to the end of the ballroom behind the stairs, ignoring an offer to dance from a dark-haired man with long eyelashes, and out into the hallway. Straightway, she could see the plume of smoke that always permeated the air around a group of rakish gentlemen. She walked to the door, skipped a deep breath to avoid the awful dead grass smell of cigar smoke, and pushed the door open a crack.
There at the back, as if they had been awaiting her arrival for afternoon tea, sat one man who thought he owned her and two more who thought they could win that right. Her father sat hunched over in his seat, a flop of chestnut hair hanging over one eye and his hand twisting nervously at his mustache. The Duke of Craster was there too, leaning lazily back against his velvet chair, a grin on his face and cruelty in his eyes.
Between them, a man not more than twenty-five stood bent over, his hand flat on the table. His shoulders were one and half times that of her father’s slight frame. He had deep brown hair the color of nutmeg chocolate and green eyes that nearly caught her off-guard.The Marquess of Remington.She could have sworn for a brief moment that his eyes found hers, but if they did, he gave nothing away.
She pulled back, hesitating. Entering such a room would be highly inappropriate—a scandal even her polished shine would not easily overcome. But she did not care one wit. Not this evening. She pressed her fingers once more into the cherrywood, ready to burst it open when familiar voices filtered out from the smokey room.
“Just throw your hand down and admit defeat, Lucius,” her father’s voice came first, gleeful and excited. “You’ve been had by your own boy.”
The Duke snarled. “This game is far from over. And myboyhas neither me nor your daughter. I will have her just as I did your horse, regardless of any loss. Even if that means keeping her in my stables with everything else I’ve won off you, Bloomsday.”
“I will never let you take her,” a new voice rang, a tenor that cleared the air like a church bell. She leaned in, seeing the handsome young man slap the table, and hoped the rumors were not true. Hoped that somewhere in that infernal room of rakes, there was a single gentleman who would stand up for her. “You’re a scoundrel,” the Marquess continued. “I should have known better than to think you would ever abide by the hand you were dealt. I shall win her out from under you, and we’ll see who has who. My hand is enough to keep her from you twice over.”
I shall win her. Edna pressed a hand to her lips to keep them from shaking. She had been wrong to hope. A vain little numpty who wished for things that could not be. Who thought she could find love in a single night when there might have been no love to be found at all. She should not be listening in like this. She either needed to make a stand or flee. She pressed a hand once more to the door and swung it open an arm’s length more just as the Duke of Craster grabbed his son’s shirt and yanked him close.
“The diamond will be mine,” the Duke sneered.
“Not in a thousand years,” the Marquess shot back and spat on the Duke’s shoes. “I would sooner die than let you take the prize that is rightfully mine. And I hope you choke on that.” Then he slapped a hand on the table.
Edna spun around, heat and anger and humiliation coloring her neck. She pressed against the way of the corridor and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, there standing before her, cheeks equally as flushed, was the Marquess, green eyes wild as the sea.
* * *
Albert had lost himself. Somewhere between the cards being shuffled, recognizing he’d drawn a queen-high straight, and the argument that ensued afterward, he’d let his temper overcome him. So, when he turned to march out just in time to see Bloomsday’s daughter rushing toward the door, he was overcome with the need to speak to her.
He followed her quickly into the corridor and grabbed her by the shoulder. When she whirled around to face him, and he found himself gazing into her bright, shimmering blue eyes, the words on the tip of his tongue faltered.
“Miss Worthington,” he said, “this is no place for you.”
“No?” she quipped, stepping away from his touch. “And what, pray tell, would you presume my place to be? Your stable, perhaps?”
Albert tried to push down the growl in the back of his throat. He wondered how long she’d been listening. “I think you have me confused with my father.”
