The Earl's Wagered Bride: Christmas Belles, Book 1

by Cerise DeLand

  “Look who’s come home!” Aunt Gertrude beamed.

  Her guests murmured their cheer and others applauded.

  But then Griff stepped to take Delphine in his arms.

  And finally, her.

  “Hello, vixen,” he murmured against her ear. “I’ve missed you.” His embrace was mighty, quick, his extra little hug all too brief. “Bid welcome to Alastair, will you?”

  She did but it was composed more of laughter and unshed tears than words.

  Griff stood close behind her, his large body a magnet that drew her back to his warmth and vitality. He caught her by her shoulders and steadied her. Grateful for his support, she stood while Alastair greeted their aunt and Bee cried rivers of tears for all of them.

  Alastair turned back to her sister. “Have I so shocked you, Bee, that you cannot find a word for me?”

  She shook her head.

  “Oh, please don’t cry,” he urged her and stuffed a handkerchief into her hand. “I hoped that you’d squeal in delight.”

  Marjorie laughed. Those in the salon had frozen at this tableau of frank emotion among them all.

  Simms broke the spell and coughed. Loudly. “If you will all follow me—” he said, motioning for the family and the three men to follow him out the door.

  Marjorie nodded to Simms and stepped forward to lead them off to seclusion and the foyer.

  But as soon as she turned, she saw that her older sister who could be serene yet willful, did the most outrageous thing. She led Alastair to a nook in the stairs where they’d all hidden as children in madcap games of hide and seek. Then she and he disappeared from their sight.

  “I say,” said Griff with a wicked twinkle in his eyes, “he’s had a rough go. We must not interfere.”

  His step-mother threw her head back to laugh in sheer joy. “Not I. Not any of you either. This is marvelous news. A great Christmas surprise. I knew this party was a fine idea. I say I’m thrilled you’ve brought Lord Bromley. You are most welcome, sir. And to bring our Alastair, too. Where did you find him, eh? Oh, no matter. Tell me later. Long story, I imagine? Yes, well then. But you, you rascal,” she said and laid her hand upon Griff’s forearm, “you could have written to tell me when you’d arrive.”

  “I wanted the surprise, Mama. We all did. But we three had matters to take care of before we left London and our departure date uncertain. Bromley here had to see his solicitor and the French ambassador. And Alastair had to meet with his bankers as well as a little matter with the Lords.”

  Everyone looked from one to the other. Impolite to ask too much information, they each raised curious faces to Griff.

  “You must have heard, Mama, that the duke of Kingston passed away weeks ago.”

  At first, Aunt Gertrude only frowned at her step-son. “I’m not certain I understand.”

  But it dawned on Marjorie what Griff indicated. Her heart did a pitter-patter at the news. “Oh, my. William is gone and that means our Alastair is now the Duke of Kingston.”

  Griff nodded at her, his lips curving up in delight. “Right you are.”

  “Oh! Oh!” Their aunt fanned herself. “I must sit. How wonderful for him. Oh, dear. Our Belinda? Could he? Might he?” She mouthed the word ‘propose’.

  Griff helped his mother to take the tall wooden chair in the hall normally reserved for the nightwatchman. “He could and might, Mama. We must leave them to it, shall we? What do you say we have a glass of champagne to celebrate and a hearty meal?”

  Simms who had hung round the edge of the circle, cleared his throat. “Would you prefer that here, my lord?”

  “I think we might take it in the salon with the others, don’t you, Mama?” But Griff’s gaze drifted to Marjorie.

  “We can,” said Aunt Gertrude. “Yes, should.”

  “‘Good company, good wine, good welcome can make good people’,” murmured Simms and turned on his heel, neat as an infantryman on the march.

  As they all filed into the salon to join the others, Griff came along to take Marjorie’s arm on one side and his mother’s on the other. Leaning close to Marjorie, he asked, “Does he quote Shakespeare often?”

  “At least once a day,” she responded eager to join the others, change the tempo and the tone. She had to shake off the fog of desire that surrounded her whenever Griff was near.

  Chapter 4

  Marjorie took her place at Aunt Gertrude's dining table and shot an envious glance down the chairs. Her aunt, overjoyed at her step-son’s arrival, had put Simms to the task of reordering the place cards to give her the joy of Griff’s company. Luckily, the butler had not taken Marjorie from the side of the first man she wished to fleece. Simms, who seemed to know everything about everyone in this household, was an uncanny fellow doing what he should with deft subterfuge. Keeping her reseating of Lord Riverdale next to her at table told her the butler knew of her attempt to charm the famous gambler. Still, she sighed that Griff was seated so far away from her.

  Just as Prinny dined at his Pavilion, Aunt sat in the very middle of her long table. Griff was now on her right. He conversed with his step-mother, flashes of his lightning blue eyes meeting Marjorie’s, then sliding to her older dinner parter, Lord Dunwith, and to Riverdale with an unhappy twitch of his lips.

  Ancient Dunwith on one side of her was hard of hearing and jovial. An occasional enthusiast of chess, too. She’d play him and take his money if she could. But her skill at that game was poor.

  She tossed her head, burying her insult at Griff’s displeasure. Who was he to waltz in here and disapprove of what she did?

  She scanned the rest of the table.

  Alastair sat to her aunt’s left. Lord Bromley was two away from Alastair, but she stiffened when she noticed that between them sat her dear friend, Lady Elizabeth Kent. Eliza had helped her plan for this Christmas marathon of gaming. Learning from her town sources who was available for this party, Eliza had written what she knew of a few men. Others she’d learned of by writing to her friends, hither and yon, to garner gossip. She was a darling, out for three years and uninterested in marriage. Stifling, she said of matrimony. But her delicate beauty and refined charms were so great, men flocked to her. Most ladies were jealous of her and often snubbed her needlessly.

  Bee who normally liked everyone wrinkled her nose as she focused on Eliza’s spot next to Alastair. Marjorie sighed, unable to help her sibling. Eliza, it was true, was an Incomparable. With a giddy laugh, remarkable emerald eyes, a mane of wild red hair, she also came to any suitor with one huge asset. Upon her marriage, she would convey to her husband a dowry of an astonishing twenty thousand pounds. Estranged from her father—her mother dead four years ago—she’d leapt at Marjorie’s invitation to come for Christmas.

  The die was cast for tonight.

  Marjorie, feigning a smile, turned her charms on the man whom she’d managed to sit beside. Lord Riverdale, James Stanley, was a baron with a suitable income and estate in Yorkshire. Known to accept any wager from man, woman or—yes, he’d even played a child. A ten-year-old, his cousin’s son, in fact. Riverdale had won the bet, too, and according to the gossips, had readily taken the one-thousand pound wager the boy rashly put up.

  Over the white soup, Marjorie poured her attention on Riverdale. She’d taken trouble to rearrange the place cards so she’d cultivate this man, despite her need to fly down the table and dislodge Eliza. His interests—prurient, romantic or pecuniary—all sparkled in his dark brown gaze. Though she chose to encourage him in the latter, it was the former two that drove him to accept her offer of a game of Hazard after supper.

  “Will you wager money, Miss Craymore?”

  “Why, of course. I would not play for sticks and stones.”

  His surprise had him pondering the folds of his dinner napkin. “I would not do it, if you think it not...shall we say? Appropriate.”

  She ground her teeth. He knew of their impoverishment at the hands of their father. The man was partly responsible! But her sire had taught
her to handle dice or a deck, to bluff, to read others’ expressions and to cheat if need be. She fancied herself even better at it than her father had been. She even had proof. Unlike her father, she always won. Always! She would not miss this chance to win back some of the cash Riverdale had wrested from her father.

  “Shall we say after the port is served?” she asked him with an innocent smile.

  “And the others have adjourned to their beds?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Your aunt won’t object?”

  To the game? No. To being alone with you in the same room late at night? Most definitely.

  “Dear sir, you are a guest in her home. I trust you. I’m certain she does. Besides, I look forward to it.” You simply do not know how much. “The card room?”

  Too damn many dishes later, the party rose en masse to follow Griff’s step-mother’s lead into the Red Salon. He shot to his feet, stuck a finger in his shirt collar to cool, having burned like a bonfire through the endless meal. Yes, of course, he was delighted to be home at last. The comfort of good chairs, the sublime flavors of the elaborate meal and the luminous candlelight falling over the creamy shoulders of Marjorie in salmon silk. They mingled, all so delicious.

  Tormenting. Devilish to watch her ensnare Riverdale. That man, one of those whose character Griff questioned for his failure to volunteer to defend the country and Crown. He was an heir, but aren’t so many of us? Where was his honor and his loyalty when Britain needed men to fight? Griff was critical of those who’d stayed at home, safe in their beds, while he saw men bleed and scream, lose eyes and arms and legs and even their minds.

  Alastair was one whose personality was afflicted by the horror of conflict. And he deserved so much better than the chaos he now encountered in his daily existence. War was not just. He himself had told that to his men daily. Now he only wanted a rest, peace.

  He considered her. Lovely, gracious, she’d grown into a raving beauty. Flawless skin, soft cheeks the color of peaches and eyes that could drown a man in their deep violet depths. He’d done nothing but dream of her for nearly two years now. And in his unwanted visions of her, she’d been his. His hands on her shoulders, his lips on hers.

  What in God’s name was she thinking to spend time with Riverdale? He was no gentleman. But a roué. A gambler, a cheat. Did she not know?

  He fumed. How could she? She was a young woman protected and cosseted, dwelling in the country. Dwelling in my house. Living near me. As she always had. Burrowing her way into my thoughts, my ambitions.

  He took up a position by the fireplace in the salon. One arm to the mantel, he downed one glass of port. Then another. If Riverdale didn’t stop peering down Marjorie’s gown, he’d yank down the bell pull, truss him up like a chicken and haul him off to the kitchen for Cook to roast.

  “My dears,” his step-mother interrupted his malicious thoughts, “all of you may wish to retire early. It’s been a long day. Many of you have traveled far and I know you’d welcome your beds.”

  Alastair went quickly. Eliza excused herself, followed by Del. Then Marjorie did the same and gave a nod to Riverdale. Griff waited a minute more and kissed his mother’s hand. “I must go. Please excuse me.”

  She shooed him off with good wishes.

  As he left the salon, he caught a glimpse of salmon silk trailing the carpet around the corner toward the library. Or was it the card room?

  He halted, admonishing himself to not barge in like some savage. What would he say? “Oh, sorry to intrude.”

  Absurd. I’m not sorry.

  “It could be...’I came for a book’.”

  Which one? Gulliver’s Travels? Hell, no. I thought that one silly when I read it the first time.

  Caesar’s Commentaries! That’s the one. He snapped his fingers and hurried to the library.

  But at the double doors, he paused. What if Riverdale had her in a compromising position?

  He growled and pushed them open.

  The room was empty.

  He scowled.

  Well, of course! She was not here. She’s in the card room! Wagering away her pin money and her reputation.

  Riverdale greeted her with a secret smile on his sensuous lips. Standing over a deal table, he beckoned her with a hand.

  “Come, sit. I’m delighted to play with you.”

  I bet you are.

  “You see, I’ve heard the wags in Brighton say that you are an expert at Hazard and vingt et un. I am always drawn to a challenge. Come. Sit here!” He pulled out the upholstered Louis Quatorze for her.

  “If I sit in that, my lord, I will fall asleep!” She strolled into the room, noting the dim light from only four candles. Simms would have had at least ten lit in each room. Had Riverdale doused the others?

  “I’ll ring for brandy and food, my dear. You won’t be bored. I certainly won’t.”

  True, so true. She wouldn’t be either. If she were looking for a beau, that is. Since she wanted only his money, she’d concede he was very appealing to the eye. With that mass of coal black hair and keen silver eyes, he was a vigorous animal many a woman could savor. Dangerous, too. His sharp gaze was enough evidence of that. He had a reputation for licentiousness as well as his disreputable one for gambling. But she had no choice. She had to engage him. Win from him.

  She quashed the urge to run. But threw him a look she’d practiced just to use on him. She called it her ‘polite kitten moue’. How she hated the duplicity of it. “Thank you.”

  “Well, well.” A bass voice drew her attention to the threshold. Griff? Relief and anger mingled in a mysterious brew inside her. “You’ve not begun. Good. I shall join you.”

  Riverdale, hands on his hips, raised a brow at him. “Will you endure? Miss Craymore and I planned to spend the evening at our fun.”

  “I’m well fed and ready.” Griff flicked back the tails of his coat to sit. In his magnificent uniform, he appeared belligerent and out of place in this cozy little room. Determined, he cast her a satisfied squint and took a seat opposite. “What shall we play?”

  The mantel clock struck midnight when Marjorie could take no more. “I’m sorry. I must end this.” She snatched up her marker from Riverdale for fifty pounds and one from Griff for ten.

  Horrible man. He’d bedeviled her, his long legs brushing hers under the tiny deal table, his knees pressing hers and causing her to inch away. She couldn’t keep her distance from him, the fiend. Plus, he hadn’t lost much money either.

  “That’s an evening for me, as well,” Riverdale shook the dice once more and rolled them onto the table top. “Enjoyable. Though I lost to you, my dear, I’d do it again.”

  At the man’s endearment, she noted how Griff stiffened. This was absurd. He could not play chaperone and impede her.

  “Tomorrow, perhaps, Miss Craymore, we can repeat our fun? Give me a chance to win back my losses, eh?”

  “I’d like that, my lord,” she told him with a little lift of her chin.

  “Good evening, Riverdale.” Griff inclined his head but his tone was far from polite.

  She stared at him, arms crossed, until she heard the doors latch shut. “What are you doing?”

  He scoffed. “Saving you from a scoundrel? I’d say it’s obvious.”

  “We were playing a game.” She threw out a hand.

  “I’ll say. Do you know who you’re playing with?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know why you shouldn’t?”

  “Yes.”

  He lowered his head and peered at her, his skepticism chilling. “How?”

  “How doesn’t matter. You ruined my game.”

  “I’d say I didn’t. You still won off him.”

  She fumed. “Fair and square.”

  “Oh, do you think he let you win...fairly?”

  “Of course he did.” She glared at him. Doubt snuck in. “How could he not? Those were my dice.”

  “Matters not. It’s a trap. Tomorrow he’ll turn ruthless and win it all
back.”

  “No, he won’t. I won’t let him.”

  “Ha! What do you think you are doing?”

  She sidled up to him, one finger to his chest. “I’m winning. Money.”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Why? I should think it’s obvious! Money is for spending.”

  “You don’t have enough that you have to play with the likes of him?”

  “Why not? She asked, avoiding the issue of how much money she had and needed. “His money is legal tender.”

  “Do you think he’ll honor that note?” He pointed to the slip of paper in her hand.

  “He’d better if he knows what’s good for him,” she rejoined.

  “Or you’ll do what? Take him to court?”

  “No.” She smiled like a sleek sly cat. “I’ll tell your step-mother.”

  That shut him up.

  “And Aunt Gertrude will tell the ton what a weasel he is.” Inside, she was clapping at her stroke of brilliance. “He’d never play again. No one would want him.”

  “What he wants from you has nothing to do with money.”

  That sobered her. “Perhaps so.”

  He took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Say that again. Louder.”

  “Perhaps so,” she admitted none too happily.

  “And are you willing to lose that along with the money you wager?”

  “No.” She attempted to step out of his embrace. “He wouldn’t dare try that.”

  “Damn if you aren’t right about that. I’ll see to it.”

  “You can’t, Griff.” Fight with him? Challenge him? No! Griff was an expert with a rapier. “It’s Christmas.”

  “Honor has no season, Marjorie.” His face grew bright red.

  “Please. Don’t. You’re angry. You’re never good when you’re angry, Griff.”

  He let her go and she swayed on her feet. “I forbid you to play with him. At any game, do you understand me?”

  She swallowed back her fears. Which was greater? That she’d not win the money she needed to buy that little cottage? Or that Griff would become so enraged by Riverdale’s advances that he’d challenge him to a duel?