by Diana Bold
Gambling on the Duke’s Daughter
By
Diana Bold
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Gambling on the Duke’s Daughter
By Diana Bold
Copyright September 2018
Cover Artist: Amanda Koehler Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
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Dedication
To Emma and Briar, my little angels.
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Chapter One
London, 1867
The Earl of Warren’s London townhouse stood in fashionable Grosvenor Square. The Palladian monstrosity with its imposing white columns had been in the Blake family for generations. On this particular May evening, every window blazed with light, even though dawn would break in a matter of hours.
Dylan Blake, the earl’s youngest son, paid the driver of the hired hack that had brought him and alighted from the vehicle with a jaunty step. His black velvet cloak whipped in the chill spring breeze, and the solid weight of his dress sword bumped against his thigh. He strode toward the red brick mansion that had never felt like a home with rebellion in his heart.
Half a dozen footmen in deep blue livery waited on the front steps, their faces impassive as they shivered in the cold. One of the young men bowed deeply and hurried to open the door, letting the festive sounds of laughter and music drift out into the night. Dylan grinned at the lad as he crossed the threshold.
The midnight supper had ended but plenty of guests remained for the dancing. His timing couldn’t have been better.
The butler, Wadsworth, lifted a disapproving brow as Dylan entered, but the old man was too well-trained to chide his employee’s son for his late arrival. “Shall I announce you, sir?”
Dylan nodded, his blood pounding with the thrill of having thwarted one of his father’s plans. Childish, he knew, to continually provoke the man, but sometimes he just couldn’t help himself.
Surrendering his cloak to one of the footmen, Dylan followed the aging butler up the grand staircase with its intricately carved banisters, then down the long hall that led to the ballroom. He was dressed for effect tonight in his scarlet military regalia, his medals and gold epaulets flashing in the candlelight. They passed several aristocratic guests along the way, but Dylan ignored their stares and whispers.
The heady scents of beeswax and roses assaulted his senses as he entered the ballroom. The laughter and buzz of conversation indicated the earl’s privileged guests were having a good time.
Dylan scanned the crowd, his smile widening. He hadn’t been to one of these affairs in more than a decade, but nothing had changed. Society girls in elaborate gowns still whirled around the parquet dance floor on the arms of suitable young gentlemen. Titled matrons still schemed and plotted from the corners as the older men congregated in small groups, looking bored.
When the last notes of the current waltz faded away, Wadsworth cleared his throat. “The Honorable Captain Dylan Blake.”
For a moment, utter silence reigned. Scores of interested nobles craned their necks for a glimpse of the earl’s prodigal son, home at last after twelve long years of dedicated service to the Crown.
Dylan met his father’s furious gaze. He smiled, then turned his back and skirted the gleaming dance floor. Let the old bastard come to me. His days of seeking the old man’s favor were long past.
After an awkward pause, the music started up again, as did the whispers.
Julian Tremaine, Lord Basingstoke, who was Dylan’s only friend in this whole crowd, strode toward him. Dressed in austere black, as usual, the earl’s eyes glinted with welcome. “Blake! Where the hell have you been?”
Dylan shrugged, amused by the knowledge that everyone else wanted to know the same thing. “I had a prior engagement.”
Basingstoke stared at him for a moment, then chuckled in admiration. “You were with Cassandra, weren’t you?” He shook his head in astonishment. “Has there ever been a woman you couldn’t get, once you set your mind to it?”
“Never.” Dylan grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and took a long, appreciative drink. “It’s the uniform. Besides, I’m making up for lost time. I was in the Army for a bloody long time, you know.”
Basingstoke laughed, then sobered and nodded in Warren’s direction. “Well, I hope she was worth it. Your father was furious when you didn’t show up for dinner. Threw off the whole thing. Uneven number, and all that.”
Exactly one hundred of London’s most elite and fashionable attended Warren’s annual ball. Because of its exclusivity, the ton considered an invitation to be the height of social accomplishment.
The earl had debated long and hard about allowing his younger son to attend. By selling out early in his career, Dylan had taken the place of some far more deserving social climber. The earl had lectured Dylan endlessly about the importance of the occasion and threatened vague, dire consequences should Dylan do anything beyond the pale.
For these reasons and a thousand more, Dylan had taken a sinful amount of pleasure in the fact that his late arrival had turned his father’s One Hundred Ball into a dinner of ninety-nine.
There would be hell to pay for this latest transgression, but Dylan was enjoying the moment anyway.
“My father has been furious with me since the day I was born,” he told Basingstoke with a shrug. “I figured I might as well give him a reason.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan saw his older brother, Michael, confer with the earl, then move through the crowd in Dylan’s direction.
As blond and golden as Adonis, Michael had always been the earl’s pride and joy. Viscount Sherbourne from birth, Michael would one day inherit the earldom and all the wealth and privilege that went with it. In return, Michael kept his reputation above reproach and obeyed their father’s every command.
No doubt he was obeying one of those commands now.
“Let’s go down to the billiard room.” Dylan refused to stick around and be chastened in such a civilized manner. He’d much prefer it if his father made a scene and took him to task for his irresponsible behavior once and for all.
But that would never happen. The earl didn’t care enough about his second son to expend such emotion.
"HE’S A DISGRACE! HONESTLY, can you believe the nerve! Making a scene
and ruining a perfectly lovely ball!” Lady Amelia Lansdowne fluttered her filigreed fan with unusual vigor, an unbecoming flush on her pale cheeks.
“I wouldn’t call this a scene, Amelia. He merely arrived a little late. I’m sure he had a good reason.” Lady Natalia Sinclair sighed with impatience over her companion’s melodrama, but her own fan fluttered a bit faster as she watched Captain Blake chat with Lord Basingstoke.
Captain Dylan Blake, recipient of the Victoria’s Cross.
Natalia knew all about him. She’d read dozens of newspaper articles touting his courage, but she’d never actually met him.
“He’s dreadfully good-looking,” she mused, as she cast a subtle glance in the captain’s direction.
In his scarlet dress uniform, with his confident military bearing and chest full of medals, he stood out in the crowd of somber, black-garbed lords. His thick black hair, caught at his nape with a piece of scarlet ribbon, contrasted sharply with his light blue eyes. His high, chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, and clear, sun-kissed skin stole her breath.
Amelia gave a delicate shudder. “How can you say such a thing? He hasn’t a title nor a farthing to his name. He’s been in the military for years, serving with the very dregs of society, and probably doesn’t know the first thing about how to act around civilized people.”
“Surely, the fact that he fought to preserve our way of life gives him the right to a few eccentricities. He’s a hero, Amelia.” Natalia didn’t bother to point out that a man’s wealth had nothing to do with how attractive he was. It wouldn’t do any good. In Amelia’s eyes, money and power did determine a man’s worth.
Unfortunately, Natalia’s father shared Amelia’s opinions, and he would choose her future husband.
Amelia turned up her nose with a condescending sniff. “Well, hero or not, you wouldn’t catch me marrying such a man.”
“No.” Natalia fought to maintain a civil tone. “I don’t suppose so.” Not that a hero like Captain Blake would want to marry a little cat like you anyway.
To her relief, Amelia soon drifted away, obviously in search of someone more inclined to share her narrow-minded opinions. Natalia found herself alone for a few moments, free to daydream about Captain Blake.
She wanted to meet him, even though her father would never permit a man like Captain Blake to court her. It seemed so unfair. What good were wealth and a title, when so many of those who had them lacked even a hint of character?
Captain Blake had risked his life to save his men. He’d dashed back into the fray three times before he’d been wounded. The mere thought of his courageous actions sent a shiver down her spine.
Unfortunately, Captain Blake and Lord Basingstoke left the ballroom before she could work up the audacity to arrange an introduction. Disappointed, Natalia forced a smile as the next young man on her dance card claimed her for a mazurka.
Lord Roger Densby was the son of a duke. While undoubtedly her social equal, he was at least two stones overweight and stank of sweat and brandy.
He managed to step on her toes twice before he even got her out on the dance floor and didn’t have a heroic bone in his entire well-fed body.
Densby, or someone like him, was her fate. Still, her entire soul rebelled at the thought of spending her life with a man who wasn’t interested in anything but the next hunt or glittering party.
What she really wanted was someone like Captain Blake—a man with poetry in his face and courage in his heart.
Chapter Two
At least a dozen of London’s most eligible bachelors occupied the Earl of Warren’s posh, walnut-paneled billiard room. Some lounged on deep leather chairs, immersed in card games, while others stood around the billiard table, wagering on everything from who would sink the next shot to who would win the next Derby. Here they were free to drink, smoke, and gamble away from the censorious eyes of prospective mothers-in-law.
Dylan had spent a fair amount of time with this crowd, out of sheer boredom and disillusionment, but, save Basingstoke, he didn’t like or respect any of them. They reminded him of a flock of squawking crows, circling restlessly as they waited to come into the wealth and position they hadn’t earned and didn’t deserve.
Unfortunately, his own days were just as meaningless.
He’d sold his commission in hopes his father would allow him to take over the management of one of the many estates entailed to the Blake family. He’d wanted the peace of England’s lush green hills. Homesickness had consumed him during those last endless months in the Army.
But he should have known his father would never allow him to have what he wanted. The earl met his request with incredulous laughter, and nothing came of his subsequent attempts to find such work on his own. No one believed the son of an earl, even a second son with no money or prospects, actually wanted to get his hands dirty.
Was his need for peace and tranquility so hard to understand? All he wanted was a quiet place to lick a decade’s worth of wounds.
“Well, well,” Lord Jonathan Taylor drawled, as Dylan and Basingstoke took seats at a table in a secluded corner of the room. “Look who finally managed to put in an appearance.”
Jonathan had been picking fights with Dylan since they were in short pants, and he was already well in his cups, his pale eyes glittering with animosity.
The little bugger is in fine form tonight. Dylan suppressed a weary sigh and accepted another drink from a nearby waiter. The thrill of thwarting his father had worn off. He’d need plenty of liquid fortification in order to get through the rest of the evening.
“I know where he’s been.” Viscount Harding, one of Dylan’s old schoolmates, winked before he sank a ball in the far pocket. “I saw him with Cassandra Lockhart this afternoon.”
Basingstoke chuckled and quaffed his drink. “He’s a master, gentlemen. I’ve yet to see a woman who didn’t succumb to his charms.”
Jonathan gave a derisive laugh. “I’m not impressed. Miss Lockhart is an actress. What sport is there in that?”
Quite a lot, actually, since Cassandra was the actress in question. The fiery redhead had taken London’s theater set by storm. Every man in this room had tried to seduce her, but she’d refused all suitors until Dylan had charmed his way into her bed earlier this evening.
Dylan gave Jonathan a measuring look. “Do you have a more challenging target in mind? Your sister, perhaps?” He knew he was being obnoxious, but Jonathan’s last taunt had hit a nerve. The endless couplings with actresses and high-priced courtesans left him empty.
Jonathan’s homely, sharp-featured face flushed with anger. His older sister resembled a horse and had been on the shelf for years, despite her distinguished family name. “Take it back, Blake, or I swear I will call you out this time.”
Dylan shrugged. “Name your second.”
“Now, gentlemen,” Basingstoke interceded, ever the mediator. Jonathan had challenged Dylan to at least a dozen duels in the past. “We’re all friends here. I don’t think it needs to come to that.”
Viscount Harding drifted near enough to hear the gist of the conversation and clapped his hand on Jonathan’s thin shoulder. “Think about what you’re saying, old chap. Blake is a bloody national hero. He’s killed dozens of men. Do you really want to be added to that number?”
With seething impatience, Dylan waited for Jonathan to make up his mind. He wouldn’t kill the little fop. Harding was right—enough blood stained his hands.
At last, Jonathan seemed to realize the odds were against him. He glared at Dylan with unconcealed hatred. “Perhaps you’d like to make a wager, instead? Your somewhat dubious charms against a woman of my choosing?”
Dylan ignored the low rumble of excited whispers their little scene had provoked. He didn’t understand why Jonathan took Dylan’s every victory as a personal defeat. “I don’t gamble on women. Besides, Cassandra and I have barely begun our liaison.”
But he thought of the emptiness he’d felt even in Cassandra’s most intimate embrace and
knew he wouldn’t bother to see her again.
“Afraid you’ll lose?” Jonathan mocked. “Afraid no decent woman will have you?”
At this little bit of absurdity, Dylan laughed outright. “Why on earth would I want a respectable woman? If I go sniffing around one of them, I’ll end up married to the chit.”
Basingstoke raised a brow and gave Dylan a wry smile. “And what would be the harm in that? A big fat dowry is exactly what you need.”
Unfortunately, Basingstoke knew the way of it. Nine months of high living had depleted the funds Dylan had received for selling his commission. Actresses might be easy, but they weren’t cheap.
Soon, he’d be forced to ask his father for an increase of his pitiful quarterly stipend. Anything would be better than that, even marriage.
Perhaps this foolish bet could stave off that necessity for a little while longer.
“All right,” Dylan murmured. “Who is it to be, then? I’ve always wanted to make a good girl go bad.”
Jonathan stepped a little closer and lowered his voice, so only Dylan, Basingstoke, and Harding could hear. “How about Lady Natalia Sinclair?”
“Out of the question!” Basingstoke shook his head and flashed Dylan a warning glance. “Don’t even think about it, Blake.”
Unnecessary advice. Even Dylan had heard of the fair Lady Natalia.
The Duke of Clayton’s daughter had an enormous dowry, perhaps half a million pounds. But she’d cut through the men who tried to court her like a knife through butter.
Given Jonathan’s simmering anger, Dylan guessed he’d felt the sting of her rejection. The bet suddenly made sense. Jonathan wanted to see Dylan fail.
Although Lady Natalia might be a worthy adversary, Dylan wasn’t foolish enough to trifle with the duke’s daughter. Clayton was one of the most powerful men in Britain and would never allow his daughter anywhere near a penniless younger son.
“Have you seen her?” Jonathan persisted.
Dylan shook his head. He’d tried to steer clear of this kind of social event since his return. Besides, he had no interest in the marriage-minded young women who populated London’s exclusive drawing rooms.