She smiled as he threw his cards to the table in disgust, a glitter in his eyes that betrayed his annoyance.
“Well, Miss Osborne,” he said, the look in his eyes rather harder now. “It seems you have bested me.”
“It does rather, doesn’t it, my lord,” Dinah replied, amused by his irritation. “So now we must deal with the unsavoury business of my winnings.”
He grunted and reached into his pocket, peeling off a quantity of notes and throwing them down alongside the cards. “It’s all there and more, I owe you that for the education, I believe.”
Dinah let out a little breath of laughter, knowing this was as close as he would allow himself to get of accusing her of cheating. “Now, now, my lord, no one likes a sore loser. I suggest you calm yourself, unless you wish to call me out, perhaps?”
“If you were a man, I damn well would,” he growled, that glittering fury in his eyes a little unnerving. He sat back, staring at her as though he wanted to peer inside her head and learn her secrets that way. She would not give them to him as he must know by now. Apparently surmising as much, he pushed to his feet. “If you will excuse me, Miss Osborne, it is late, and as pleasant as this has been, I must depart.”
“But I don’t excuse you, my lord,” Dinah said, keeping her eyes fixed on his and shuffling the cards in her hands in a manner designed to show off her skills, and throw her talents in his face. “You see, you have only played a part of your debt.”
His jaw tightened, an almost imperceptible movement, but she knew he was deeply angry now, though probably more with himself. He was angry with her, of course, but she felt that this was not a man who would take his anger out on another, certainly not a woman, and she felt no sense of danger at being alone with him. Though the fact that Joe was listening in was a great part of her security.
“I see,” he said, his tone even. “That matter of a debt of honour.” There was a hint of mockery in his voice now, but Dinah just smiled, he was in her debt, like it or not. She could hardly blame him for not liking it one little bit. “Now we get to the point of this little interlude, I gather. What is it you want, Miss Osborne?”
“You, my lord,” she replied, enjoying the shock in his eyes and the power to tease him. It was a heady thing for a woman, to have a powerful man like this at her beck and call. Dinah chuckled and shook her head. “Oh, do sit down and stop looking like a hunted rabbit,” she said, putting the cards down. She watched as he glowered a little but did as she bid. “I have a use for you, my lord, or at least, a temporary use of your title.”
He folded his arms and Dinah felt her gaze drift to the powerful biceps that strained the fine material to its limits. His gaze was dark and glittering with fury now.
“My title?” he said, the words a sneer. “I might have known.”
“Indeed, you might have,” Dinah agreed, her tone companionable now. “But then, you were willing to play for my virtue, so why should I not for your title? We all have our desires.”
“Virtue?” he muttered, with such a tone to his voice that Dinah’s fury blazed hot. She reached out across the small table and slapped him. Hard. Her palm burned, and she doubted she’d be able to handle the cards again for days, her fingers hurt so.
He sucked in a breath, clearly shocked and then let out a soft huff of laughter. “Forgive me,” he said, sounding rather sincerer than she might have credited. “That was uncalled for.”
“Yes,” she replied, breathing hard as her temper subsided. “It was.”
They sat staring at each other for a moment, each of them trying, and failing, to get the measure of the other.
“Very well, then,” he began, breaking the silence at last. “You have need of my title, in what capacity, for I tell you now, I’ll have no hand in any illegal business.”
Dinah smiled and shook her head. “It is nothing as sordid as that, I assure you. In fact, I hope that once you hear my story, you may feel you are doing me a kindness.” There was a sceptical look in his eyes she could hardly blame him for, but she carried on, undaunted. “Did you ever hear of Charles Osborne?”
He frowned for a moment and she felt he was searching his memory. “Made a fortune in trade, I believe? I forget what. Cloth?”
“Dye, in fact, my lord,” Dinah amended, watching his face with interest. “Though he got into cloth production, too, from what I understand.”
“A relative of yours, I gather?” he asked, a curious light in his eyes now as he watched her in turn.
Dinah nodded. “He was my grandfather. He disowned his only son, my father, when he married against his wishes to a woman of no breeding and no fortune. He abandoned us, Lord Lancaster,” she said, keeping the words cool and impersonal though the sting of them had not abated, even after so many years to come to terms with the fact. “My father died when I was a baby and my mother not long after. This house, such as it is, is all I have in the world. On his deathbed, however, my grandfather changed his will, leaving everything to me … with one, rather irksome, proviso.”
“I am sorry for the difficulties you have encountered,” he said, and she sensed he was choosing his words with care. She thought perhaps that his sympathy was genuine at least, which was a start. “Am I to gather that this ‘irksome proviso’ is the matter in which my title is of use to you?”
“It is,” Dinah replied, wanting to get to the point now, as she was of the firm opinion he would dislike it intensely. “The proviso states I must be engaged to a man of worth before my twenty-first birthday, which is in six weeks.”
Dinah held her breath, watching as the notion sank in. He’d gone very still, staring at her with such an appalled look on his face she knew her concerns had been well founded.
“You’re either out of your mind, or even more cunning than I gave you credit for,” he said, his tone cold and contemptuous now. “You must think me a fool. What would happen when your birthday came and went, I wonder?”
Dinah snorted, returning his contempt with a generous heaping of her own. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she retorted, looking him up and down in a manner calculated to insult. She got to her feet, enjoying the simmer of rage beneath her skin now and intending to make him pay for one of many insults he had given tonight. “A week after my birthday, I will discover you in the arms of another woman, at which time you will acknowledge receipt of this letter.” She reached for the document she had prepared and left ready on the mantelpiece. “It is dated precisely one week after my birthday and releases you from the engagement. This will allow you to extricate yourself with no stain upon your honour, such as it is,” she added, a mocking tone to her voice, noting the anger flicker in his eyes in a manner that made her heart thud a little harder. He had stoked her indignation now though, and she could not stop the words that followed.
“Let me make this perfectly clear to you, Lord Lancaster,” she said, turning and holding his eye, speaking to him with the high-born manner she had learned with care rather than inherited. “I have chosen you for this task because you suit my criteria. You are a gambler and you have a title, and for no other reason. You may rest assured that I have not the least interest in you outside of this arrangement, for which I will reward you once I come into my inheritance. That I would hold you to your engagement is not only ludicrous but insulting. I would never consent to marry a man who is so obviously a rake and a wastrel, not if you were the last man in London.”
From the look in his eyes, which was close to murderous now, she rather suspected he had never received such a dressing down from a woman in all his days. She suspected he was indulging in a fantasy of squeezing the life from her at this very moment, but to his credit, he made no move to intimidate or frighten her. It would have been easy to do, too. He was a big man, and when he stood, the room seemed a great deal smaller.
“I see you have thought of everything, Miss Osborne,” he said, the words so clipped and precise that she felt sure he was longing to put his hands about her neck. The way his fists were
clenched, the knuckles white, seemed to support her theory, too. She took a step backwards, just in case. “And when am I to be called to arms on your behalf?”
Dinah let out a breath, relieved that he seemed to have accepted his part in her scheme even though he was incandescent with rage. “I think perhaps you should return here the day after tomorrow, when you have had a little time to cool off,” she added, careful to keep the distance between them as he moved towards her a little. He paused, perhaps realising she was a little afraid of his proximity. “Then we can arrange our next move, plan the story of how we met, and arrange that we be seen in public regularly for the next few weeks so that the story is plausible.”
“And I take it, my friends’ and family’s fury, once they discover I am to marry a chit far beneath me and reeks of the shop, is merely something I must accept as my due?” The words were cruel and barbed, and even though she’d expected as much, Dinah sucked in a breath. She took a moment to compose herself enough to reply, a fierce pride in who she was, despite the world she had been born into, blazing to life in the light of his disdain.
“You will be well compensated for any temporary inconvenience,” she replied, sneering at him now. “You’ll be able to return to your whoring and dissipation in no time at all and rather plumper in the pocket. I’m sure that will take the sting out of your association with a woman you believe fit only to warm your bed.”
The room was thick with tension now, the atmosphere between them so taut that Dinah felt moving at all was impossible.
“I think it best I leave you now, before this goes any further,” he said at length, and she could not judge what he was thinking or feeling any longer as his face had shuttered up. “I will return as you demand, the day after tomorrow at four pm. I’ll bid you a good evening, Miss Osborne.” With that, he stalked from the room and Dinah could not take another breath until she heard the front door slam a few seconds later.
Chapter 6
“Wherein our hero dreams of retribution, and plots Miss Osborne’s fall at his feet.”
Ben strode through the darkened streets, eschewing the opportunity to hire a carriage, despite the danger of walking alone in some of the areas he moved through. Sitting still in a confined space was impossible. In his present frame of mind, he almost wished for some fool to attack him. He needed a fight to rid himself of the fury crackling beneath his skin. Rage surrounded him like a cloud of insects, biting at him, irritating his already inflamed temper. God alive, he could not remember ever being this angry in all his days.
He couldn’t quite decide who he was the most furious with: Miss Osborne or himself. He’d known damn well that Joe was a villain, curse him. That he couldn’t quite figure out his lay and had been curious enough to follow him was his own damn fault and no one else’s. That he had then compounded his error by allowing his desire for the beautiful Jezebel that had lain in wait for him to colour his judgement, was also his mistake to own.
Muttering obscenities, he picked up his pace as he remembered the contempt with which she had dismissed his accusation of being trapped into marriage. That hadn’t been her aim, and he hated to admit that this was what had stung him the most deeply. He’d been the subject of marriage-hungry females’ lures for over a decade, and to be so summarily dismissed by a creature whom his own family would suffer an apoplexy over when they discovered the engagement, well… He sucked in a breath. He was Lord Lancaster, dammit, son of a marquess, and she … nothing but the impoverished daughter of a Cit who’d had the good sense to cut her free. No doubt before she’d slit the old man’s throat.
Ben ground to a halt as more familiar streets came into view and took a moment to lean against a wall. His head was pounding, his shoulders so tight with tension that his neck hurt, and the desire to hit something so strong, he even contemplated the wall. Good sense prevailed after a moment or two of deep breathing, and he decided on an afternoon of sparring at Jackson’s tomorrow, or today, as it now was. It would have to do.
Despite himself, the lovely and calculating Miss Osborne drifted before his eyes and he cursed harder as he realised his anger had not diminished his desire. It had stoked it to greater heights. Imagining her spread out beneath him, writhing with need and calling his name, was enough to make his blood heat further, and not with anger this time. God, but he wanted her, and he would damn well have her, too.
After her little games this evening, it was clear enough she was no lady and he felt no compunction in taking his own, metaphorical, gloves off. By the end of this little scheme of hers, not only would she be his mistress, but she’d be so in love with him she’d eat her bloody words. She’d beg him for marriage and he’d remind her of her words to him in no uncertain terms. It was a fitting punishment for such a cold-hearted temptress and one he would enjoy.
***
Dinah turned a little in front of the tiny hand mirror, angling it this way and that. The dress was the finest thing she’d ever owned, and for some strange reason her throat felt tight.
It was ridiculous. It was just a dress after all; she’d never had time for fripperies and longing for pretty things. Putting food on the table and keeping warm in the winter had always been rather more pressing demands. Not that she hadn’t indulged in a day dream from time to time. Her favourite dream, and the one she’d forbidden herself from reliving, had been the one about her grandfather coming to get her. He’d swept her up, full of apologies and self-recriminations, and taken her off to his grand house. She’d been given presents and pretty dresses and treats, but most of all … she had belonged.
She had always felt herself a strange creature, neither fish nor fowl. Joe had been so careful to ensure she continued to speak properly as her father had taught her. Her grandfather had packed her father off to a private school as a small boy, of course, the best money could buy. Joe said her father had been miserable, bullied by all the little lords who saw nothing but a jumped-up shop boy. So, Joe would scold her when she tried to mimic his way of speaking instead, and he made her study books. All sorts of books he brought for her, heaven alone knew how he’d gotten hold of them. Books about etiquette and manners, books on how to run a grand household, novels and encyclopaedia, and books about travel and far-off lands. Those winter nights huddled around a fire, reading out loud to Joe, had been some of the happiest she’d known. Joe would puff away on his pipe, listening and murmuring, “Well, would you believe it,” or “Well, I never did,” at appropriate moments while Dot snored in the corner.
So, she’d been a lady, superficially at least, yet she could cheat at cards and pick a lock, lift a wallet, and scam as well as the most notorious villains that lived in the darker corners of the city. She knew how to defend herself from a man if it came to it, too. Joe had been quick to show her those skills, and the little knife she kept in her boot was something she understood how to use. Yet looking in the mirror now, she wondered what her life might have been. Would she have been some giddy, empty-headed débutante if her father had done as he’d been bid and married a lady of quality? Would she have lived a life of ease and fun and laughter?
If only her father hadn’t been so foolish as to fall in love.
Dinah frowned at her reflection and then at the dozens of pretty things laid out on her bed, all of them bought with her winnings, winnings she had attained by cheating Lord Lancaster. Well, she would not go hungry anymore, and she would fill her life with pretty things. Joe was getting older now, and she didn’t want him working anymore. He was still fit and strong now, but in not too many years, he’d slow down, perhaps his reactions wouldn’t be so quick as now … perhaps some young villain would get the better of him. No. This would work. She would get the money that was rightfully hers and Joe would live out his old age in comfort. She would pay off the odious Dot so she could drink herself into oblivion, and … she would never, ever fall in love.
***
Ben regarded himself in the full-length mirror, reaching up to give his cravat one last twe
ak before it satisfied him. Frost held out his coat for him and Ben turned, allowing him to ease the fine material up and over his broad shoulders. Frost handed him a hat and gloves, and Ben nodded his thanks before going downstairs to his curricle. Taking the reins, he leapt up into position and nodded at his man to let the horse go. He set off at a smart pace, pleased to be out in the fresh air and with the sun on his face.
His anger burned lower now, the initial fierce blaze of fury having died away, leaving the coals alone, hot and bright and tightly under control. He was still aware, more than ever, of that disquieting sensation of restlessness that had plagued him of recent days. A new affair ought to be enough to keep his attention and settle him down, though, and Miss Osborne would certainly hold his attention.
Ben had never considered himself a vain man. He knew he was handsome and well made, but he had never dwelt on the fact or felt it of any real importance. He found incomprehensible the dandy set who primped and fluttered like garish butterflies. Whilst he made sure he was always well-dressed, once he left the sanctuary of his room, he felt no pressing desire to stare at his own reflection in shop windows or to check the precision of his cravat. Yet Miss Osborne’s dismissal of him and her indignation at having thought to have wanted him had gotten under his skin. He did not expect every woman he met to fall into his arms, dammit, but neither did he expect one to act as if the idea repulsed her. Truthfully, he was deeply offended, and, well … yes, a little hurt.
He snorted, shaking his head at his own idiocy. Perhaps he was vainer than he’d realised. Besides which, he didn’t believe her. She was not unmoved by him, he felt sure, and he would prove it, too. Miss Osborne would eat out of his hands by the end of the week.
***
“Bugger me.” Joe stared at her, wide-eyed, a look of such awe in his face that Dinah felt her throat grow tight. It appeared Joe felt emotional, too, as he fumbled around and drew out a capacious handkerchief. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose with enthusiasm. “You look fine enough to marry the prince ‘imself, little D,” he said, his voice rather thick. “You really do.”
The Last Man in London Page 4