The Wagering Widow

by Diane Gaston

  Jealousy flashed though Sloane’s eyes. ‘A paragon,’ he said.

  At least she had the satisfaction of making Cyprian Sloane jealous. But what about her husband? Could she make him care? If not for Emily, could she make him care for Lady Widow?

  She forced a laugh at Sloane. ‘Come now, Mr Sloane, you will convince me you have a tendre for me, which I know is a mere hum.’

  ‘Have I not been attempting to convince you of this these many nights?’ He glared at the men around her until they all shifted in their chairs again. ‘I wonder if you gentlemen might give me a private moment with the lady,’ he said in a deceptively smooth voice. ‘You have monopolised her company quite enough.’

  Amazingly, the gentlemen at her table all rose and bid her pretty words of farewell.

  Only Sir Reginald hung back. ‘Feel I ought not to leave you alone with this fellow,’ he said. ‘Say the word and I won’t leave your side.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, sir!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is hardly a private place, and your friend Lord Keating will be returning any moment. I shall be well chaperoned, I assure you.’ It was not that she wished to be alone with Sloane, but rather she wished to limit the distractions around her when her husband returned.

  Sir Reginald clutched her hand, kissing it with much more feeling than was comfortable. ‘I am at your service, always, good lady.’

  When he’d left, Sloane drawled, ‘Can’t see how you tolerate that encroaching prig.’

  She affected a deep sigh. ‘He is my gallant.’

  Sloane gave a snort. ‘Enough sauce from you, my dear…’

  Lady Widow’s brows rose at that familiar endearment.

  ‘I wish to speak with you before your besotted Keating returns.’

  She feigned mild interest.

  ‘I won a small fortune this evening. Was unusually lucky.’

  As was her husband, then. What a relief.

  He went on. ‘I’ll give all my winnings to you—’

  ‘To me?’ She toyed with a morsel of food left on her plate. ‘Do not be absurd.’

  Sloane moved his chair closer. ‘I was never more serious. Come above stairs with me tonight and it is all yours. That and more delights than you can imagine.’

  She gaped at him, her cheeks burning with deep shock. What he asked of her was no less than Madame Bisou’s gaily dressed girls were paid to do each night. Walk above stairs with the gentlemen and dispense favours for money.

  What did she care that he was reputed to be an ideal lover, an experienced pleasurer of women? He had cast her in the role of harlot.

  He did not know, of course, that she was the respectable wife of Lord Keating, his recent whist partner. She doubted he would have made such an offer to Lady Keating, in any event.

  She glanced at her husband still at the sideboard. Would he care that his wife had been so propositioned by Mr Sloane?

  Not his wife. She forgot. Lady Widow had been propositioned.

  Sloane said, ‘I await your answer, my lady.’

  She swallowed and made herself give him a direct look. ‘You misjudge me, sir.’ She spoke in a serious voice, not like Lady Widow, but not like Emily either. ‘I come to this establishment to play cards. Nothing more.’

  At that moment, her husband, his expression alert, walked up and handed her a glass of champagne.

  How had this encounter with Sloane appeared to him? Emily’s stomach fluttered in anxiety.

  She covered it with Lady Widow’s grateful smile. She accepted the glass. ‘I thank you, Lord Keating. I was quite pining for more champagne.’ She sipped, gazing at him over the rim of her glass.

  Sloane slumped back in his chair.

  ‘My pleasure, ma’am,’ Keating said.

  His eyes captured hers, with a questioning look at first, then darkening with all the carnal desire she’d perceived the previous night. If he’d considered Sloane a rival, with such a look he was certainly placing himself in the game. His way of informing her was vastly more subtle than Sloane’s, however. And much more powerful.

  Emily rubbed the edge of her mask, where it almost moulded itself to her face.

  Though Emily might resent his clear desire for Lady Widow, Lady Widow was thrilled more than she cared to admit. The mask concealed who she was, but it offered no protection against her emotions. Instead, sensations that had only twice known life again poured through her. The desire to have him once more unclothed in bed with her, joining himself to her body, creating a paroxysm of pleasure she’d never before dreamed could exist.

  The blatant sexual invitation by Cyprian Sloane held no appeal, but this one look from her husband laid raw the aching wish to couple with him once more. She’d not known such sensuality existed within her, that a look from a man could elicit it, making her feel alive, giving her spirit a flight to the heavens.

  From deep within her came another emotion as passionate, as consuming. The searing knowledge that the man she married would never give his wife such a look. He looked at Lady Widow, not Emily. She made a bold decision. If Emily could not have her husband in bed with her, Lady Widow would. She would do more than toy with his affections as first she’d planned. She would devastate them.

  She favoured her husband with one of Lady Widow’s most inviting looks. ‘Mr Sloane tells me you won a great deal of money this night.’

  ‘Luck was with us,’ he replied modestly. ‘Though it was a near-run thing.’

  ‘Oh, I suspect you relish such sport,’ she said, truthfully enough. He would discover in time that there could be something more enticing than cards. Lady Widow would see to it.

  ‘Perhaps you would fancy to play at my table.’ She fluttered her eyelashes and brushed her fingers across his sleeve. ‘As an opponent this time.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, with a gleam in his eye. The gleam of a gamester or a lover?

  ‘You should like to conquer me, I fear,’ she purred. ‘Must I be afraid…?’ Her finger drew a circle on the back of his hand.

  ‘I might wish to win, yes.’ His eyes reflected the exact seductive look she sought from him. ‘I always wish to win.’

  She laughed, and rested her hand lazily on his.

  Cyprian Sloane glared at this exchange between Keating and Lady Widow, one foot swinging up and down at an irritated pace. She was definitely throwing out her lures to Keating.

  None of the other gentlemen posed any real threat. Keating was his chief opponent. He had to admit Keating had played this particular hand with skill. Keating had kept his cards close to his chest, while he had impulsively exposed his whole hand.

  What a fool he’d been to use money to entice the lady, rushing his luck, playing his best cards first. Keating’s game was obviously more to her taste.

  ‘I’d be honoured to play you, my lady,’ Keating was saying. ‘Either as your partner or your opponent.’

  Honoured, repeated Sloane in his head, mocking the words. Either as your partner or opponent.

  Bah! Keating would deal him out of the game, if he were not careful. Again. Not that he cared that, out from under his nose, Keating had married the Duprey chit. Served the man right to be shackled to such a colourless creature. It would be vastly more entertaining to free Lady Widow of her mask.

  He’d be damned if he let Keating beat him to it.

  Sloane pushed his chair forward, creating a barrier between Lady Widow and Keating.

  ‘Why don’t Keating and I play as your opponents, Lady Widow?’ he said. ‘I warn you, though, luck has been riding with us this night.’

  She turned her smile on him, just as he’d wished her to. ‘But you have much to lose, don’t you?’ Her eyes were cold. He’d made her angry with his proposal. ‘Perhaps your luck will run out.’

  He needed to intensify his efforts to charm her, since his own mistake had created a setback.

  Sloane put on an expression of deep regret. ‘I fear I have made my own ill luck tonight with my rashness. For that I am deeply regretful.’

/>   One thing was certain. He would do anything necessary to win. Anything.

  Chapter Twelve

  It seemed to Guy that the gaming room hummed with excitement when the foursome sat down to the game of whist Lady Widow had dictated. Certainly envious gentlemen in the room looked up to see whom she had favoured, but the real excitement was inside him.

  How often had he sat beside his wife at the breakfast table, at dinner, in the parlour? At such times he had been conscious of an aching regret, because he did not know how to heal the breach between them, but this temptress incarnate stirred his blood. To have her arm so near his, her skirt brushing his leg, her face almost kissably close—how was he to attend to cards?

  She smiled like the hostess of a Mayfair ball. ‘Sir Reginald, you shall shuffle the cards. You are so skilled at it. Mr Sloane, you may cut them to see who deals.’

  On the other hand, perhaps she was more like his company commander.

  Poor Sir Reginald was obviously in as sad a state as he. The man’s colour was high, his eyes bright. Sloane was harder to read, but Guy had no illusion Sloane would abandon his conquest or forgo the gentlemen’s bet. He had seen Sloane speak privately to her, had seen her respond. What had Sloane said to her? What had she replied?

  A moment later he’d reached the table, and she’d turned her charm fully on him, her husband. Sloane was all but ignored. Was that part of her game, or had she truly dismissed the man?

  Lady Widow won the deal.

  Guy’s first hands were unremarkable and he had no difficulty adhering to the unwritten rule that Lady Widow must always win. She and Sir Reginald took the first game. But the next hand! The ace, king, queen and knave of trump. Two other aces besides, and four other face cards. He couldn’t be an idiot and lose this hand, even if Sloane played like a gudgeon. He could not help himself. At ten pounds a point, it was sure to be a heavy loss for the lady. But the money remained in the family, did it not? What harm was there?

  Sloane shot him a sharp glance when he caught on to Guy’s hand. Guy returned it with an impassive expression. Sir Reginald fidgeted in his chair. Lady Widow, however, remained engrossed in the play, watching every card thrown on the table. At the end of the hand, Guy had won the honours points. Once scratched, the itch to win took over. Guy played the rest of the hands to win.

  At the end of the game, Lady Widow’s eyes danced with excitement. ‘Well done!’ she exclaimed.

  Both Sloane and Sir Reginald raised their eyebrows in surprise, but Guy knew what she was about.

  His suspicion had been confirmed. His wife Emily, Lady Widow, was mad for cards. The more challenging the game, the more she liked it. She, like he, could become lost in that thrill of luck, that intoxication of wresting a win from what might have been a loss.

  Guy also played the third game to win. Sloane glared at him half the time, but went along with it, apparently not so willing to let the lady win if it meant crossing a partner. Sir Reginald became as caught up in the fever as Guy himself, and Lady Widow was delirious with the play. What parts of her face were visible were flushed with excitement. Her eyes had a sparkling clarity. She sat erect, economising her movements to what entailed playing the cards.

  Guy and Sloane won the game and won the rubber.

  ‘Oh, that was fun!’ Lady Widow said, reaching into her reticule for more coin.

  ‘Allow me to cover your losses,’ said Sloane, pushing his stack of counters to her side.

  ‘I would be honoured to pay your debt as well,’ Sir Reginald piped up, clearly upset that Sloane had thought of it first.

  ‘No, indeed.’ She laughed them both off. ‘How shabby would it be for me not to pay my own gambling debts?’ She counted out coins to both Sloane and Guy. Sloane pushed the coins back at her, but she ignored him and left them on the table.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen, for much amusement.’ She looked directly at Guy. ‘Perhaps you will allow me a rematch another night?’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He inclined his head, but was not so certain he was happy to discover she could become as deep in cards as could he.

  When the more serious gamblers in this room caught on how much she loved the challenge, she would certainly continue to lose. How long before her debts became unmanageable? In spite of that worry, the game had invigorated him as much as it had her, bringing no credit to either of them.

  She rose. ‘I must be leaving.’ Before Sir Reginald or Sloane could interject, she added, ‘Lord Keating, would you escort me to my carriage?’

  Yes, he would certainly like to discover who transported her back and forth. More so, he’d like the time alone with her.

  ‘Another pleasure,’ he said.

  Knowing Sloane’s eyes shot daggers at his back, Guy threaded his wife’s arm though his and walked her to the hall. He directed the footman to bring her cloak and his topcoat, and placed her cloak around her shoulders, enjoying having his hands upon her again, even if through layers of cloth.

  When he stepped out into the night air with Lady Widow on his arm, fog muted the street lamps and swirled at their feet like smoke over a cauldron. Guy fancied it was like a blanket wrapping around them both, blocking out the rest of the world. He would much prefer they be wrapped in a real blanket.

  As they neared the end of the street, a hackney emerged from the mist, its driver holding the horses and nodding familiarly to Lady Widow as she became visible. Guy could barely see the man, and the hackney looked like a dozen others that might pass by in the space of an hour. How had she managed this arrangement?

  ‘Allow me to accompany you, my lady, to see you arrive home safely.’ It was worth a try.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she said in all seriousness. ‘That would never do. You might discover where I live, and my secret would be out.’

  Her secret had been out with him within a few moments of seeing her. He helped her in to the hack, amused by the irony of her statement. ‘Would I know you, Lady Widow? Have I seen you before this?’

  ‘No,’ she said, with a confusing note of sadness in her voice. ‘You have never seen me.’

  The hackney driver flicked the ribbons and the coach moved down the street, soon disappearing into the mist. Her words seemed to float back to him on the droplets of moisture in the air.

  You have never seen me.

  Emily slept late enough to hope everyone had finished breakfast. She heard the aunts’ voices in the back parlour as she went downstairs. With any luck, Lady Keating would be with them or in her own room. Guy’s room had been very quiet. He was either still abed—and she did not wish to reflect much on that idea—or he was up and away. At least she hoped so. She said good morning to Rogers, who passed her in the hall, and made her way to the dining room.

  At first glance it was blessedly empty, but as she entered, a voice came from the sideboard. ‘Ah, good morning, Emily.’

  Her husband. She nearly jumped in fright. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she mumbled.

  She had no recourse but to stand at his side to fill her plate. He seemed inordinately slow, choosing this or that, picking at the slices of ham as if one mattered over another. She was forced to wait or lean over him for a bit of toast.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said, interrupting his interminable selection process and putting a slice of toast on her plate. ‘Or would you prefer a fresh one? I’ll call for Bleasby.’

  What was this solicitude?

  ‘No, do not trouble him,’ she said. ‘I’m quite content with what is here.’

  She took her slice of toast and hurried to a seat, busying herself with spreading the jam. Her husband whistled a Scottish air while he finished filling his plate. He sat in the chair adjacent to hers.

  She poured him tea, knowing from other mornings how he liked it.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. His whistle became a hum. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  This cheerfulness addled her. She glanced down at her plate to regain composure. ‘Very well, thank you.’

  His humming recommenced.


  She did not think she’d ever seen him in such a jolly mood. He had won at cards, both with the gentlemen he’d played first and later from Lady Widow. Had the sum been so large to precipitate this good humour?

  Or was he cheerful because Lady Widow had singled him out? Once planted, that idea grew like a bramble, wending its way through her insides, prickling wherever it touched.

  ‘I have some errands on Bond Street,’ he said, interrupting his infernal humming. ‘Would you care to accompany me?’

  She shot him a surprised glance. Luckily he was busy cutting his meat and had not noticed. She swallowed. ‘If you desire it,’ she said, keeping her voice steady.

  He raised his head, smiled, and resumed humming.

  This attention seemed too pointed to be due to winning. It smacked of…guilt. That was what it was. Guilt.

  Whenever her father had done something particularly reprehensible, like staying out for days without a word then waltzing in big as you please, reeking of rosewater, he always fussed over her mother, bringing her trinkets, plying her with treats, escorting her to the theatre.

  The door opened and Lady Keating entered. ‘Ah, there you are,’ she said to Emily, then, seeing her son, swished over to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Guy, I did not see you at first.’

  ‘Good morning, Mother.’ He stopped humming.

  ‘Yes, to you too, my son, but I came in search of…of your wife. To see if she may accompany me on calls today.’

  Emily opened her mouth to reply, but her husband spoke first. ‘Then I suggest you ask her. She is right here in front of you, Mother.’ His voice had hardened.

  The Dowager went red. With anger, Emily supposed. Or embarrassment. ‘What do you wish of me?’ Emily asked in a mild tone.

  Her mother-in-law looked almost grateful. ‘I…I do beg your company this afternoon. To accompany me on my calls.’

  Emily glanced at her husband whose expression remained stony. ‘I would be honoured to come with you, ordinarily, but I am not entirely certain I will be available…’ Her voice trailed off.