Regency Wagers

by Diane Gaston

  She sighed. She’d never truly believed Devlin meant to marry her anyway. But she’d thought Guy Keating to be different. Why? Simply because he’d shown such kindness to his great-aunts? It seemed an absurd notion now, to believe that one glimpse of his kindness meant he’d be kind to her.

  Guy seated them near friends of his mother’s and very properly introduced her as his wife. Emily endured the ladies’ appraising looks, knowing they were dying to ask why this attractive man had married the very plain Emily Duprey, daughter of the shocking Baron and Baroness. Never mind. As was her custom, she would behave so properly no one would have a thing to say about her.

  She chatted politely to Lady Keating’s friends, and within moments, her husband excused himself, promising to return in time for tea. Emily supposed he’d been eager to escape to his cards. He’d certainly not felt compelled to ask her to dance, though eight couples were at this moment forming the first set.

  Her mother-in-law, having her friends to converse with, required nothing of her, so Emily occupied herself by watching the dancers perform their figures. The ladies’ dresses swirled prettily, like flower petals in a breeze. She found her toes itching to tap time to the music. She kept still, however, and tried to appear perfectly content.

  Her mother glanced her way and gave her a halfhearted wave. Emily acknowledged the greeting with a nod of her head. She quickly continued to scan the room, lest she see her mother beckon her to walk over. Her eyes lit on an impeccably dressed gentleman, tall and elegant.

  Mr Cyprian Sloane.

  He caught her looking in his direction, and she could almost feel his steel grey eyes travelling over her in that manner that always made her think he knew what she looked like without her clothes. His full lips stretched into a knowing smile.

  Oh, dear. He probably thought she’d been staring at him, but she never stared at gentlemen.

  Not that Sloane was a gentleman precisely. By birth, perhaps, but he had the most shocking reputation as a rakehell. Ladies, from much younger than his thirty-odd years to much older, were said to throw themselves at him every bit as much as Caroline Lamb had at Lord Byron.

  To Emily’s total dismay, Mr Sloane excused himself from the people he was with and crossed the room. He could not be coming to speak to her. He could not.

  He walked directly to her. ‘Good evening, ladies.’

  His white-toothed smile encompassed the whole group and brought their chatter to a sudden halt. Emily saw more than one set of raised eyebrows when he turned exclusively to her.

  ‘I understand I must wish you happy, Emily…Lady Keating.’ He spoke her Christian name as if she’d given him permission. She most assuredly had not. He extended his hand. What could she do but raise her own hand to him? He lifted it to his lips.

  Her cheeks burned. ‘Thank you.’

  He held her hand a moment too long and she was forced to pull it from his grasp. He continued to discomfit her with the intensity of his gaze.

  ‘If your…husband has not otherwise engaged you, I wonder if I might have the pleasure of the next dance.’ His smooth voice paused significantly on the word husband.

  Emily wished he would simply go away, but she could think of no excuse to refuse his request. Besides, she longed to dance. ‘Very well.’

  He bowed and walked away, leaving her to endure the knowing looks of her mother-in-law’s cronies. The attention of Bath’s most notorious womaniser did her reputation no good at all.

  Emily could never quite comprehend why Sloane had bothered to pay his addresses to someone as plain as she, but, in the weeks before her elopement, he’d begun to notice her. She’d been so relieved when Guy began courting her. She’d fancied Guy had plucked her from the salivating jaws of a veritable wolf.

  That was nonsense, of course. She knew that now. Guy had been far more dangerous. She’d fallen for Viscount Keating—no, for his kindness. She’d fallen for his kindness. But he’d turned out every bit as false as Cyprian Sloane.

  Her gaze lifted to the crystal chandelier above the dancers, and she pretended to blink from the brightness of the flickering candles. Suddenly all was as clear as those twinkling crystals. Sloane must have heard her father’s tale about her being an heiress. That was why he’d given her the scant attention he had.

  But she was married now. Why attend to her still?

  When the musicians tuned up for the next set, Sloane appeared at her side and threaded her arm through his to lead her to the dance floor. Emily could hear the murmurings of her mother-in-law’s friends wafting behind her.

  Sloane faced her in the set, his intense grey eyes riveted on her face. ‘Well, Emily, my dear, you have desolated me entirely.’

  My dear. What maggot entered these men’s brains to assume she’d believe herself dear to them?

  ‘I do not understand you, sir.’

  They needed to complete the figure before he could speak to her again.

  One corner of his well-defined mouth turned up. ‘You have eloped with Keating and quite broke my heart.’

  The steps parted them and they had to thread through the other couples before coming close again.

  Emily narrowed her eyes. ‘Do not speak nonsense to me.’

  His brows shot up in surprise, but he retained the amusement in his countenance.

  For the remainder of the set Emily endured more pretty words, more falsities. She pretended she did not hear them, but instead let herself keep step to the music. At the end of the dance, he bowed and she curtsied. He escorted her back to her seat.

  To her astonishment, Guy stood there, a grim expression on his face.

  ‘I return your lovely bride to you,’ Sloane said to him with a wicked smirk.

  Guy merely inclined his head, but when the man sauntered away, he gave her a stern look. She’d clearly displeased him by dancing with Sloane, but where had he been when the music started?

  ‘You are finished with cards so soon?’ she asked in a casual tone, determined to get her barb in first.

  He did not appear to notice. ‘It is time for tea,’ he said, turning from her to his mother. ‘Shall I escort you both to the tea room?’

  As a good husband ought, he fetched tea for her and sat next to her at a table shared by his mother and two of her friends.

  As the older women engrossed themselves in their own gossip with words such as that man and shocking audible, Emily was left in Guy’s company.

  He gave her a sombre look. ‘I do not wish to criticise you, my dear—’ those words again ‘—but Cyprian Sloane is not precisely the sort of company to keep.’

  ‘Indeed?’ she responded, having difficulty maintaining her precise standard of composure. ‘And, pray tell, how am I to fend him off without creating a scene and calling even more attention to myself?’

  A flash of surprise lit his eyes. ‘I concede your point.’

  She took a satisfying sip of tea, disguising it as an ordinary one.

  The look he gave her next seemed almost…caring. ‘I…I would not wish your reputation to suffer. Sloane’s partiality cannot bring any good.’

  He reached over and for a moment she thought he might touch her, but he did not.

  ‘I shall not behave with impropriety, I promise you.’ She kept her voice low. ‘But I cannot prevent him from seeking me out and I cannot stop those who wish to comment on it.’ Her insides were churning, but she was not sure if it were because he sat so close that she could feel his breath on her face, or because he dared comment on her behaviour. After all, he had rushed off to wager sums at whist, leaving her to fend for herself.

  ‘True.’ His ready agreement unnerved her more than if he’d given her a good scold.

  It was his turn to sip his tea and for her to wonder what thoughts ran through his head. It was inconceivable he took Sloane’s attentions seriously. She had never been the sort sought after by rakes. Or any other type of gentleman, for that matter.

  He turned to his mother. ‘Mother, would you enjoy s
ome cards this evening, or do you prefer to watch the dancing?’

  ‘I had hoped to play cards, I must confess,’ Lady Keating replied. ‘Are there other ladies in the card room?’

  ‘Several ladies,’ he said. He leaned towards Emily. ‘Perhaps if you came in the card room with me, Mr Sloane would not disturb you further.’

  In spite of herself, her heart fluttered.

  ‘You can partner my mother,’ he added.

  Ah, he did not desire her company after all. Emily lifted her cup to her lips again. After a fortifying sip, she said, ‘If your mother wishes it, I should be happy to partner her.’

  Very shortly after, Emily found herself seated across from her mother-in-law at a whist table shared by an elderly gentleman and his wife, who were acquainted with the Keatings. Unfortunately, she was positioned so that her husband was in her view, seated in a corner with other black-coated men who hunched over their cards with grave, resolute expressions on their faces.

  She’d seen an identical expression on her father’s face. He was in the room this very moment. She’d seen him when she entered, but, to her relief, he was too engrossed in his play to notice her.

  Emily picked up the cards to deal. As soon as the deck was in her hands, habit took over. The cards rippled rhythmically as she shuffled. She could almost deal the cards without looking. Such were skills honed in a household obsessed by card-playing. She, her sisters and brother had been weaned on whist and piquet and quadrille. When her father could find no one else to play cards, he sought out his children. It was the only time he sought them out. In those days Emily would play whist until night left her yawning and rubbing her eyes, if it meant having her father’s regard. Like a good father’s daughter, she’d prided herself on playing better than her sisters and brother. If she’d thought it would win her father’s respect, she’d been mistaken. When she won against him, he became furious.

  The dealing done, Emily picked up her hand and spread the cards in a fan. A shiver ran up her spine. She felt the spades, diamonds, clubs and hearts call to her, as if beckoning her back into her father’s influence.

  Lady Keating and the other couple appeared not to notice. They seemed rather to find great enjoyment from the game. Lady Keating turned out to be merely competent as a player, and their opponents not as skilled. Emily held herself back from getting pulled totally into the game. Instead, she let her gaze drift to where her husband sat. He was an effective distraction.

  She marvelled at the sheer symmetry of his face, the fineness of his chiselled features, the softness of his lips. She could swear the blue of his eyes glowed like sapphires in the room’s candlelight. He concentrated on his cards, sitting very still in his chair, while the other men shifted at times, even occasionally rising to their feet when taking a trick.

  So her husband was as cool a player at cards as he was at marriage. She shrugged. She did not care, did she?

  She allowed herself to be lured back into the card game.

  Cyprian Sloane leaned lazily against the door-frame of the card room, an amused expression on his face. So Keating had persuaded the so very plain and all-too-correct Emily Duprey to elope to Gretna Green? How daring.

  He gave a mirthless laugh. With parents like the Baron and Baroness Duprey, a daughter might do anything to get away, even a woman as lacking in spirit as Miss Duprey.

  When several gentlemen, including Keating, had turned their attention to Emily Duprey, Sloane had joined the competition. Now he could not help feel that Keating had won and he had lost.

  Too bad he hadn’t thought of asking her to run away with him. Not that he’d have contemplated taking her to Scotland like Keating did. Rather out of character for Keating to be so on the ball. Sloane had misjudged him.

  He glanced at Keating, deep into his cards. That was a surprise as well, but he ought to have known. Bad blood always won out. Keating looked to be cut from the same cloth as his father and brother after all and would probably complete the family’s journey to the River Tick.

  An idea struck Sloane. Maybe Keating had believed Duprey’s hum of a story about his daughter inheriting a fortune. Poor fellow, if he had. Would serve him right for winning the girl.

  Sloane gave an imperceptible shrug. Virgins were more trouble than they were worth anyway. Besides, taking a maid’s virginity was below even his low standards of conduct.

  There were plenty of other women in the world. His eyes swept the card room. None of them, unfortunately, were in Bath.

  He cast one more regretful look towards the new Lady Keating, turned around, and left.

  Chapter Five

  Guy sat at the desk in the library, rubbing his cold hands. He’d not bothered to light a fire, though it seemed a small, useless economy against the enormity of their debts. In a moment he’d be throwing a shawl over his shoulders like Aunt Pip.

  He counted his money a third time. Last night’s winnings had been modest, but then he’d been off his game shockingly. His wife had been the distraction, no doubt. True, she’d made no demands upon him during their visit to the Assembly Rooms, but he was not accustomed to having his attention divided. Dancing attendance upon a wife took much away from concentration on the cards.

  He rubbed his face and stood.

  Let him not fool himself. He’d scarcely given his wife a moment of his time at the Assembly. He was looking for excuses to explain the hands he’d lost, the money he’d pushed over to the winners.

  The Bath crowd would certainly talk more of his card playing and lack of solicitude towards his new wife than gossip about her dancing with that rakehell, Cyprian Sloane. The man’s presence vexed him, however, and he was not sure why. Perhaps because Sloane courted trouble. Other people’s.

  Guy ought not to be so concerned. His wife was too respectable to interest Sloane for more than a moment. Still, Guy disliked him paying any attention to her. What was the fellow about? Originally Sloane might have been after her fortune—her purported fortune—but that possibility vanished when Guy married her.

  Perhaps he ought to commend himself for being the one to trick her into marriage. If Sloane had done the deed and discovered her penniless, what would his response have been?

  Guy paced over to the window.

  Could Sloane treat her much worse that he himself had done? He had neglected her at their first public outing. She did not deserve such treatment. None of the trouble he was in had been her fault.

  Even so, he could not help resenting her. This anger did him no credit at all, but, devil take it, marrying her had made his financial situation worse. He could not even bed her now, could not risk repeating that one moment of pleasure with her, not as long as their future was so bleak. He did not dare produce an heir into this life of penury. What sort of irresponsible act would that be?

  He placed his forehead against the cool pane of glass, but it did nothing to lessen the emotions boiling inside him like a cauldron of some noxious brew.

  His resentment went deeper than her lack of fortune. His meagre glimmers of hope aside, he could only resent her complete lack of spontaneity, of life.

  He ran a hand raggedly through his hair. He almost wished she would rail at him again. Throw another book at him. Damn him to the devil. At least there would be some excitement between them.

  Any chance of making this a true marriage had disappeared when he told her he’d lied to her. He doubted she could forgive him for what he’d done to her by marrying her, for what life would be like for her if he could not reclaim their fortune.

  Shivering with the chill, Guy gazed into the street.

  More rain.

  No relief to be gained by a brisk walk in this weather, he thought. Even the Royal Crescent would look dismal.

  Like his future.

  From beyond the library door he heard his great-aunts’ shrill voices and other sounds of the household stirring. Poor dears. He supposed they were becoming a bit hard of hearing. He ought to join them for breakfast. He had some resp
onsibility to keep up everyone’s spirits.

  And to smooth the tensions his wife’s presence caused. Aunt Pip seemed inclined to be friendly to her, but Aunt Pip was no match for his mother and Aunt Dorrie. They seemed determined to continue to make Emily’s life even more miserable than he had done.

  Walking back to his desk, he plopped himself in the chair and placed his winnings back in the leather pouch. At least he’d come by enough blunt to buy some winter supplies for the tenants of Annerley and to pay for Cecily’s fancy school. Along with the pouch, he placed the politely worded letter from the headmistress back in the drawer.

  Still, these winnings were only meagre patches in a dam that was bound to burst. Postponing the inevitable, unless he could raise more blunt. There was no doubt he needed to find games played for higher stakes.

  He must go to London. In London betting ran deep and huge sums were won and lost every day. In London he might win enough money at one seating to set them up for life.

  In London, of course, plenty of skilled gamesters would be equally willing to take his last ha’penny. Still, what else could he do? Quietly let Annerley go to rot and its people with it?

  Guy slammed the desk drawer and turned the key in the lock. His heart pounded in anxiety, for what he was about to propose to his mother and her aunts—and his wife. London could mean salvation or it could hasten the end. What a choice.

  He entered the dining room, where Aunt Pip and Aunt Dorrie sat at the table, sipping their chocolate.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, trying to put some cheer into his voice. He gave each of them a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘I hope you ladies slept well.’

  ‘That bed is an abomination,’ grumbled Aunt Dorrie. ‘It’s a wonder I get any sleep at all.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you get some, Dorrie, dear,’ Aunt Pip said in her soft voice. ‘I do hear your snoring from my chamber.’

  ‘I do not…’ began Dorrie in a huff.

  Guy laughed. ‘Well, I am certain you both look well rested, at least—’ He cut himself short.