Table of Contents
HIS PERFECT GAME
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
HIS PERFECT GAME
JENN LANGSTON
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
HIS PERFECT GAME
Copyright©2013
JENN LANGSTON
Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-339-8
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To Samuel,
for your encouragement
and that we may live out our dreams for you.
Acknowledgements
I would like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to everyone who had a hand in making my dream a reality.
Chapter 1
Greyson Thorpe, Viscount Merrick, gritted his teeth as perspiration dripped down his face. This was it: The game he had been waiting for. After months of preparation and endless plans, everything rested on this one moment, on this one hand. Piercing his opponent with a steely gaze, Greyson reveled in the man’s discomfort.
Hammond Everett, Duke of Donetic, had something Greyson wanted, and he would do anything in his power to obtain it. The stakes in this particular game were higher than he could afford to lose, and he didn’t refer to the paltry funds scattered about the gaming table. The meager sum wagered didn’t amount to anything compared to his vast fortune amassed from his practiced skill at cards.
The duke shuffled his cards again. Although his face remained masked, his fingers shook and his Adam’s apple bobbed, betraying his true state. He presented the sight of a man who lacked faith in himself. Greyson could not have asked for a better display.
Slicing his gaze to his own hand, he saw that the cards neither assured his victory nor elicited distress. Normally, overconfidence served as his gambling companion, but tonight it eluded him.
“Place your final bets,” Andrews commanded, signaling that the end drew near.
“Hauney is a sizable estate and has always managed to run on its own income.” The duke’s wager, no doubt, was meant to prove his assurance in his abilities.
Greyson froze. Could the duke be bluffing, or had he lost? He could not bring himself to believe it was over.
“Very good, Your Grace.” Andrews accepted the paper. “Lord Merrick, your counter?”
“Ambliet will do. It’s equal in size and fortune.” Greyson’s attention slid back to his opponent. “I also wager Merrick.”
The duke’s eyes widened before he regained control. Greyson didn’t change his expression nor did he lower his gaze. He knew the only other estate owned by the duke was Donetic. Judging by his narrowed eyes and thin lips, the duke would not back down.
“I accept and add Donetic. I suppose the outcome of the game will see one of us ruined.”
Greyson inclined his head, biting back the response that these two estates were not his only holdings. Instead, he silently accepted his final cards from Andrews. Desperate to learn his fate, he glanced down at his hand. His heart accelerated and his stomach clenched, but he showed no outward sign of his reaction.
With an arrogant smile, the duke waved his free hand forward, indicating he expected Greyson to tip his hand first. Without removing his eyes from the duke’s face, Greyson placed his cards face up on the table. One second passed before the duke’s face fell, and he slammed his cards down.
After years of masking his responses, Greyson had no trouble containing his relief. The moment felt surreal. He finally held the means to obtain something more valuable to him than all the estates in England.
“You are a-a cheat,” the duke sputtered, his face red. “The odds of you drawing a better hand than mine are too great.”
Greyson gripped the arms of the chair with more force than it deserved. Although familiar with this reaction from his opponents, countering in his usual manner would not serve him. He needed to remain calm.
Glancing at Andrews, he noticed the man had moved back several paces and eyed him warily. As most of the employees were aware, being called a cheat was the one insult Greyson could not abide.
Refusing to be baited, he turned his attention to the table and pocketed his winnings. As he lazily turned his gaze back to the duke’s now purple face, he fingered his brandy glass.
“In a room with this many patrons, I can’t believe you would make such a claim,” Greyson replied, lifting the glass to his lips.
“It’s possible.”
“Are you challenging me?” Greyson’s voice shook, unable to disguise the depth of his rage.
“I have nothing to lose. You have drained my coffers and taken my estates.”
The matter-of-fact response helped Greyson regain control of his anger. “Don’t be too hasty in declaring your ruin. Allow me to buy you a drink. Then we can discuss this civilly.”
“I don’t have anything more to add.” The duke crossed his arms as if daring Greyson to refute him.
“I do.” Greyson stood, stretching to his full height, and stared down at the man. “Will you not humor me?”
“Five minutes,” the duke conceded, shifting his eyes around to the gathered crowd.
Greyson nodded and then stepped away from the gaming tables. What he wanted to say would be better suited at a more private location. Their repartee already drew more attention than he’d intended. He could see the tongues wagging with tales of the bastard viscount.
His hands involuntarily clenched into fists. Over the years he had perfected his mask of indifference, but, unfortunately, he had never managed to prevent his emotions from presenting themselves in some other manner. Relaxing each finger individually, he reclaimed his calm demeanor.
After they were away from the majority of the curious ears, he turned to the duke.
“The brandy at Thorpe House far exceeds the quality of the swill they serve here. Perhaps we can take our discussion there.”
“What is your game, Merrick? I demand you tell me now.”
Greyson leaned forward, pitching his voice low. “Don’t forget I hold your v
owels, and therefore the power. I could easily make my new holdings widely known. Your cooperation, however, will keep my mouth closed . . . for now.”
“So, you wish to hold this over me first? With or without my fortune, I’m not a man you should cross.”
“Neither am I.” Greyson kept his challenging gaze focused on the duke until the man began to squirm. “Now, I think we can come to an agreement. If you wish to hear me out, join me at my townhouse. However, if you prefer not to, I’ll be lenient and give you one month to vacate my property.”
Without waiting for a response, Greyson turned and strode from the club. At this point, he didn’t care if the duke followed him. If the man refused to accept the offer, it would not set him back far.
With the holdings gained tonight, he could find someone else to buy. Everyone had a price; determining it just took time. The idea didn’t bother him as he had become accustomed to waiting.
Regardless, he still had faith in the duke. Although prideful, the duke wasn’t a fool. Greyson fully expected the man to join him that evening. With the duke, he would be a step closer to gaining the one thing he craved, the one thing he had been denied all these years.
“Wake up, my lady.”
Willimena Abigail Everett, or Abigail as she preferred, rolled over and drew the sheets over her head. She could not think of one good reason why Mary would wake her at this hour, so she didn’t feel inclined to listen. The sun had not even snaked its way through the curtains to drag her from the world of dreams.
“It’s your father,” Mary pressed.
The mention of him ripped Abigail from her drowsy state the way nothing else could. Dread sliced through her body, leaving her gasping for breath. Good never came out of a summons from her father, particularly in the middle of the night.
“How long has he been calling?” Abigail asked, jumping out of bed and settling herself at the dressing table.
Sweeping the black powder forward, she began generously applying the coloring to her hair. If he were in one of his dark moods, it would not serve her to flaunt the reminder of his late father’s penchant for redheaded women.
Seeing her hair in the looking glass also reminded her to disguise her slight Scottish lilt. Although she had spent many years practicing an English accent, her heritage always threatened when she was unaware.
“Not long, but Lewis told me he has been drinking.”
“Then I want to wear my brown dress.” Abigail now had no question about his plan for the evening.
“But it’s—”
“I know it’s becoming threadbare in places, but I will not have him destroying another one of my gowns. I don’t have that many left.” She kept her tone level, as if discussing the beatings she endured at her father’s hand was a most natural occurrence.
The sorrow and pity in Mary’s eyes nearly destroyed her calm. “I’m sorry, my lady.”
“Come, quickly help me cover my hair.”
There was no time to style her hair, so Abigail wore it loosely down her back. If nothing else, the fullness would add more protection between her flesh and her father’s belt. Brushing a lock of hair off her shoulder, she took a deep breath. Every second she wasted here would make her punishment more severe.
“Where is the dress?” Abigail inquired as she looked around.
“I haven’t finished collecting your armor.”
“We don’t have time. I don’t believe he would notice the change in my appearance if he has been drinking.”
When Mary appeared with the dress, Abigail quickly tugged the thin fabric over her head. The armor would have offered additional protection, but it was too late. She would have to manage without it.
Years ago, before her debut into society, her mother had suggested Abigail make herself less presentable in order to deter potential suitors. In agreement with their scheme, Mary had fashioned several pieces that affixed under Abigail’s clothing in order to obscure her curves and make her appear larger in places while downplaying others. Any gentlemen still showing interest changed their mind after speaking with her mother. Abigail had no idea what occurred during those discussions, but she felt grateful for them regardless.
They had also conspired with the dressmaker to select colors that were unfavorable with her light skin tone. The final piece of her armor was a pair of black oversized glasses to obscure her face. Her mother had had them specially crafted for her with glass lenses.
Glancing over at her glasses, Abigail decided to forgo them tonight. The chance of them breaking was too great, and it only enraged her father more to be forced to replace something he damaged during one of his fits.
Once ready, Abigail squared her shoulders and made her way downstairs. Crossing into the drawing room, she was surprised to find it empty. Her father always conducted this business here, and his absence struck her with fear. Could he be planning something worse than normal?
The sound of her father’s laughter brought her eyes to the open doorway.
“There you are, my dear,” her father exclaimed. His face hardened as his gaze dropped down to her threadbare gown.
As he stepped several paces into the room, Abigail noticed a gentleman following him. She immediately realized her mistake and dropped her head. Not only was her clothing choice wrong, but she regretted her decision to forgo the rest of her armor.
“Willimena,” her father snapped, drawing her attention back to him. “I have found a husband for you.”
Abigail gaped at her father. Shock robbed her of the ability to speak. After years of avoiding the fate she would suffer with a husband, in one instant, all her efforts had been rendered useless.
Her head spun. Surely this was a bad dream, or at the very least a misunderstanding. Sliding her eyes to the unknown man, she hoped he would refute her father’s words. Unfortunately, his unblinking stare only served to confirm it.
As she surveyed him, steely grey eyes assessed her from under dark lashes. His black hair was cropped short around a masculine face. A dusting of hair shaded his cheeks as if he had forgotten to shave that morning. Standing taller than her father, she found him to be quite an imposing figure.
“I-I don’t understand,” Abigail sputtered.
“This is Viscount Merrick, and, as of right now, you two are betrothed.”
Merrick. The name sounded familiar, but she could not place it. Although she realized she must have met him at some point, she couldn’t recall having ever seen him before.
Eyes still focused upon him, she tried to recall a memory. She would not call him handsome by any typical definition of the word, but there was something striking about him, something not easily forgotten.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Viscount Merrick said, as he bowed to her. “Please excuse me.”
Without another word, he left.
Abigail stared after him, unable to process what was happening, particularly at such a late hour. Was she still betrothed? Had he taken one look at her and changed his mind? She secretly hoped so.
At age twenty-four, she thought herself to be past the time when gentlemen would turn to her for marriage. Enduring her father’s anger was enough, as she knew what to expect from him. A husband, however, would be different. He would own her and have the right to do with her as he pleased. Her mother knew that well.
Her father swung around, turning his furious gaze upon her. She shrank back. The level of anger on his face far surpassed anything she had seen before. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as heavy breathing rocked his body.
“How dare you come down here dressed like that? Are you deliberately trying to ruin me?”
“I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t know,” she defended herself.
“That is no excuse. I should beat you senseless.” He raised his hands to his temples. “Next time—if you are lucky enough to have a next time—not only will you make yourself presentable, but you will entice him.”
“I-I don’t understand.” Although terrified to
enrage him further, she couldn’t contain her confusion by the whole situation.
“Merrick agreed to marry you, and I will not have him rescinding his offer. You are to use all your feminine wiles until he is panting at your feet. If you fail, you will not live long enough to regret it.” With those parting words, he turned and stomped from the room.
Abigail stumbled backward until she fell against the soft sofa cushions. What had happened? Had her father paid Lord Merrick to marry her? Although distasteful, she would not be surprised by it.
Turning her thoughts to her “betrothed,” she wondered what kind of man he was. Certainly one who would accept money in exchange for a bride would not make a good husband. Her position within her father’s house verged on being unlivable, but would the viscount force her into something worse?
The next morning didn’t offer her a better outlook. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep as the sight of Viscount Merrick fleeing the room invaded her dreams. How could she obey her father and entice a man who could not stand to be around her for more than five minutes?
Rubbing her hands over her eyes, she could not believe she would even contemplate such a thing. Everything within her rebelled against the idea, but her father could do much worse to her if she didn’t comply with his dictates.
Dragging herself out of bed, she rang for Mary. As she dressed, she decided to seek out her mother. Although knowing her mother could not offer any form of aid, Abigail hoped she could shed some light on this sudden change in her life.
Once equipped with her armor, Abigail made her way to the breakfast room to speak with her mother.
Rowena Everett, Duchess of Donetic, appeared to be as exhausted as Abigail. Even sitting, Abigail could distinguish her tall, although gaunt, frame. Her mother once had been considered a great beauty, but now her looks had faded along with her spirit. It broke Abigail’s heart to see her mother suffer at the duke’s hand, but she was powerless when it came to her father.
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