Viscount’s Wager

by Ava March

  In any case, it wasn’t as if he’d find the answer to the night’s logistical options standing along the street.

  With that, he gave his tan coat a tug to straighten it and set off toward the red brick building a bit farther up the street. One would not know by looking at it that it was a gambling hell, but that wasn’t uncommon. What made this one unique, what made it his destination, was its clientele...if rumor proved true.

  “Unless you’re of an unnatural persuasion, best to avoid Clements.”

  Roger’s drawling voice, backed with an unmistakable note of revulsion, echoed in his head. His eldest brother, the Marquis of Haverson, would never again invite Benjamin to another hunting excursion at the family seat if he discovered his comment made during a discussion about the merits of the various hells about London had not immediately put Benjamin off the place.

  Rather it’d had the opposite effect.

  Benjamin stopped before the plain black door. The number twelve painted on a square of wood beneath the lamp to the left of the door confirmed he had arrived at Clements. A single knock would summon the guard, gain him entrance and hopefully lead to an answer to the question that had plagued him for years.

  If no one suits, I can simply leave, he reminded himself for what felt like the tenth time since he’d walked out of his town house less than an hour ago.

  The nerves gripping his stomach eased a notch. Fist clenched, he raised his arm.

  The sound of his knock echoed in his ears.

  The door opened. The burly guard barely glanced at him before stepping aside, allowing Benjamin to enter.

  Following the sounds of boisterous voices and the distinct clatter of roulette marbles, he passed through the small entrance hall and stopped just inside of what appeared to be the main room of the house.

  Brass chandeliers, which looked as if they hadn’t seen the attention of a maid in months, hung from the ceiling, illuminating the packs of bodies around the tables scattered throughout the room. The floorboards were scuffed and sticky from spilled liquor, and the lingering scent of dried sweat and greed hung in the air. Definitely a far cry from the hells he was accustomed to, but that was rather the point of the evening.

  He passed his gaze over the crowd before him, noting how a fair number of patrons stood quite close to another, more than crossing the line of male camaraderie. Shoulder pressed against shoulder, a hand that lingered on a hip, an intimate lean to whisper in an ear. Regardless, he wasn’t dim enough to believe every man there would fit his primary requirement. Surely there had to be some who favored the lush swells of breasts over a hard wall of muscle. Was there even a way to tell upon first glance if a man preferred other men? But if that was the case, then did his acquaintances already know the truth about him?

  He shook that worry aside. While he wasn’t entirely certain, he suspected a couple of his friends favored a hard wall of muscle. He didn’t fool himself into believing he was the most handsome man in a room, but he wasn’t horrid either. He had been labeled “a pleasant fellow” more times than he cared to count. If one of his friends believed he was open to male partners, certainly he would have been approached by now. A hint, a nudge, something. But there had been nothing, not even when he’d been full in his cups and had found himself alone with one of them.

  In a way he was thankful he had never received a nudge toward something more. What if his inexperience turned the thing into a disaster? What if his suspicions were wrong and in the heat of the moment he discovered he didn’t truly prefer men? Best to avoid what could prove a very awkward situation.

  Hence why the hell posed such a lure. It was far from Mayfair, far enough to bring the probability of seeing someone he knew close enough to zero for his comfort. The place had never even been listed as an option during debates with his friends over which hell to frequent on a particular night. Clements offered complete anonymity, and with that precious commodity came the freedom he sorely needed to see tonight through to completion.

  He stepped farther into the room. Might as well pick out a man that interested him first, then... Well, he could simply strike up a conversation with the fellow and see where it led. It shouldn’t be all that difficult to tell if his interest was returned. He could usually gauge a woman’s interest, and men were far less complex creatures.

  Striving to appear casual, he scanned the clusters of men as he passed each table. No, no, and definitely not that one. He cringed as a brown coat stretched across a broad back as a man leaned forward to place a bet at a roulette table. Much too large and foreboding. At five-foot-ten, Benjamin wasn’t a slight slip of a man, but that one looked like he could crush Benjamin under his weight. His gaze skipped across those with bulging bellies or balding heads. Someone closer to his own age would be preferred. He didn’t need handsome, either. An average gent like himself would do.

  His attention paused on one such average gent. Brown hair, tidy clothes, a genial smile on his lips as he picked up the chips a croupier pushed toward him. But...nothing. Not even a tiny spark of interest reached Benjamin’s prick.

  By the time he reached the back of the room, he still hadn’t felt anything that approached interest toward any man he’d seen. He cast his gaze once more over the various tables but... Again nothing.

  The heavy weight of disappointment settled over him, chasing away every trace of nervous anticipation. His shoulders slumped. After finally getting up the ballocks to come here, the effort had been for naught.

  One night, that was all he wanted. One night to determine once and for all if he truly preferred men. But it appeared as though that one night would not be tonight.

  Should he return tomorrow and try again? No, couldn’t do that. He was hosting a small dinner party tomorrow evening. Maybe the next night then? But what if it proved a repeat of tonight? Clements had seemed ideal. It was the only place he was aware of where men who preferred other men tended to gather. He knew of the existence of molly houses, but didn’t know where exactly to find one. Not that he’d ever frequent such an establishment. The thought of paying a man held absolutely no appeal. At least Clements held the hope of finding someone who genuinely returned his interest and wasn’t simply after a fold of pound notes.

  Suppressing a sigh, he took up the only empty stool at a crowded vingt-et-un table. Might as well play a few hands while he was there.

  Perhaps his expectations for tonight were too high? He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and tossed them onto the table. But it wasn’t as if he had an image of an ideal man set in his head. The wicked thoughts that fueled his solitary nights were more...sensations. A hard, strong body. Solid muscle beneath his hands. Not a hint of lilac or rosewater beneath his tongue. Nothing but the stark, pure scent of a man. The scent that pulled at his gut whenever he walked into the fencing academy.

  The dealer pushed a small stack of chips toward him. Benjamin placed one chip on the table. With a quick, practiced flick of the wrist, the dealer dealt two cards to each player and then put a card facedown in front of himself.

  Dealer’s seven versus his own ten and a five. Benjamin tapped once on the table and received a four of hearts. He waved a hand over his cards to signal the stay. Not bad. He just might win.

  And win he did against the house’s eighteen. He ignored the groan from the man on his right as the fellow shoved his losing cards toward the dealer and turned from the table, bumping Benjamin in the shoulder.

  Benjamin’s luck came and went over the next few hands, leaving him hovering around even. He watched as the dealer snatched up his single chip and his twenty-two. Deliberately keeping his bet low, he placed another chip onto the table. At least he wouldn’t arrive home disappointed and with empty pockets.

  “Good evening.”

  A masculine voice with a gorgeous lyrical hint behind it washed over him. The hairs on his nape pricked. His cock twitched
behind the placket of his trousers. He sensed a body take up the empty stool on his right.

  He hesitated before looking to the voice’s owner.

  Please, let the man match that voice.

  He glanced right and met deep blue eyes.

  Good God. The man more than matched that gorgeous voice.

  Dark blond hair with a trace of a wave curled over his ears. Full lips tipped in the beginnings of a friendly smile. A slightly crooked nose that somehow fit his handsome face. A face that still held a bit of boyish beauty. The width of his shoulders indicated he was nowhere near a boy, but Benjamin doubted he approached his own five-and-twenty.

  The man pulled a handful of chips from the pocket of his coat, dropped them onto the table and pushed two into his betting box. “Table any good tonight?”

  Benjamin snapped his jaw shut and nodded. Then he thought better of his response. The last thing he wanted was for the man to walk away, but it wasn’t well done to exaggerate either. “Well, the table’s decent. Shouldn’t take all your money, but I doubt it will leave you a rich man.”

  “Good thing I gave up that hope long ago then.”

  Cards whisked from the dealer’s hands, coming to rest neatly in front of each player. Benjamin stayed on his ten and nine. His gaze was locked on the other man’s cards as he rubbed a contemplating finger across the seven of diamonds next to a king. A knick marred the smooth skin just below his knuckle. The pale red mark bunched and flexed as the man tapped the card, asking for another.

  Three of spades. A relieved breath whooshed from Benjamin’s chest.

  The house busted, making them both winners.

  The man scooped up two of his chips, leaving the remainder in his betting box. Benjamin followed his lead, leaving his original bet on the green baize.

  “Always nice to win the first go at a table. Bodes well for a good night, don’t you agree?” the man asked.

  “Most assuredly.” He hoped it boded well for more than simply a good night.

  “Care for a drink?” At Benjamin’s nod, he twisted at the waist to motion to a serving girl passing behind them. A knee bumped Benjamin’s thigh. Sensation shot straight to his groin. “What would you like?”

  That knee stayed pressed to Benjamin’s thigh. He swallowed hard before replying, “How about a brandy?”

  “Would love one, but they don’t serve it. Only ale or gin.”

  Benjamin scowled. “Rather drink from the Thames than have a sip of gin.”

  A distinct spark of laughter lit the man’s blue eyes. Those full lips curved into a genuine smile, displaying a single dimple in his left cheek. He turned back to the girl. “Two pints of ale, and be quick about it, my dear.”

  In the blink of an eye, a pint was placed at Benjamin’s elbow. Before he could reach into his pocket for a coin, his companion flicked two chips onto the serving girl’s tray.

  “Thank you. And I’ll get the next set,” Benjamin added.

  The man tipped his head. He took a sip from his pint, leaving a faint sheen of ale on his lips. “Drinkable stuff. Not that anyone seeks out Clements for the ale.” He turned his attention to the cards before him and lowered his voice. “Or the tables.”

  “Indeed,” Benjamin murmured, before taking a long swallow of ale. The dealer started a new game, giving him an ace and a six.

  “What do you say? Split or stay?”

  Benjamin glanced to the man’s cards. “Two nines against a nine? Always split.”

  “Always?” he asked, with a teasing arch of a brow, which left Benjamin with the distinct impression that he didn’t actually need his help in the slightest.

  “Always,” Benjamin reiterated, playing along. “Well, unless the house plays by rules I’m not aware of.”

  “Split it is then.” The man pushed out two more chips.

  There was a hint of something else in his voice, a faint coarseness working against the gorgeous lilt. Chin tipped down, Benjamin studied him from the corner of his eye. Adequately tailored black coat. A black waistcoat similar to his own. Cravat tied in a simple knot. A casual informality to his posture. Likely a merchant’s son, and not the variety of merchant that owned a shop along Bond Street.

  Not that it mattered one whit to him. The man could spend his days hauling crates from the ships anchored in the Thames for all he cared.

  And he was pleased to find his advice proved true, even though his own single chip was snatched up by the dealer. As the next game commenced, Benjamin tried his best to keep his focus at least partially on his cards. But it was damn difficult. He was acutely aware of the man beside him. Of every move he made. A shift of his weight on his stool. The brush of an elbow against Benjamin’s forearm every time he moved his winnings to join his growing pile. The little noise of discontent that rumbled from his throat whenever he lost. Not that Benjamin heard that noise often.

  When Benjamin finished his ale, he made good on his word and bought them both another. Once the girl brought their ales, the man reached for his pint, fingers wrapping securely around the pewter tankard. How would those masculine fingers feel wrapped around Benjamin’s prick?

  A bolt of lust shot to his prick. He tried to stifle the grunt before it shook his chest, but didn’t quite manage it.

  The man’s attention remained on his cards, his forelock grazing his long lashes, yet those full lips quirked. A knee nudged his own.

  A fresh bolt of lust spiked his senses. The cheeky bastard knew exactly the effect he was having on Benjamin. The inane urge to laugh welled within. “You aren’t helping matters,” he said, just loud enough to reach the man’s ears.

  The man caught his eye, then his gaze quickly dropped to Benjamin’s lap before falling back onto his cards. “Duly noted,” he replied, matching Benjamin’s tone, more than a hint of a smile playing on his mouth.

  For that, he received a swift bump from Benjamin’s own knee.

  Benjamin lost track of the number of times two new cards came to a rest in front of him. Whether he won or lost held no concern. All that mattered was the undeniable interest in the deep blue eyes of the man beside him that screamed tonight would not end in disappointment. Come dawn, he’d have his answer. If the attraction and anticipation pounding through his veins were any indicator, that answer would mean he would not be in the market for a wife come mid-April.

  With a distinct clank that marked an empty cup, the man set his tankard on the table. “I’ve had enough of the table. What about you?”

  Benjamin hesitated, unwilling to lose his vingt-et-un companion. But his instincts told him the man had no intention of walking away from him. He nodded. “Always best to leave while ahead.” And best to leave before he had to concern himself with concealing a full-blown erection. Pushing from the table, Benjamin scooped up his little stack of chips.

  “A very good policy. I try to subscribe to it myself.” The man grabbed his own larger stack. He stood, revealing himself to be a hair under Benjamin’s own height. “Shall we head on over to the cashier?” He tipped his head toward a spot midway along the far wall. “If luck is with us, the wait won’t be too long.”

  Benjamin followed close on the man’s heels, gazed pinned on compact yet at the same time strong shoulders. The man wound through the crowd, moving with a fluid grace that Benjamin found highly erotic. There wasn’t even a hitch in his loose stride as he deftly avoided a ruddy-faced fellow stumbling away from a roulette table. Did he move that effortlessly when crouched over another?

  Benjamin’s breaths stumbled. He clenched his hands at his sides in an effort to rein in the sudden surge of need.

  The man came to a stop behind the lone individual at the cashier’s cage.

  “Luck is with us tonight,” Benjamin said, stopping to stand at his companion’s shoulder.

  “Yes, it is.” The man gave
him a wink then stepped up to the cage.

  Making it a point to look anywhere but at the man’s arse, Benjamin held back and waited for him to exchange his chips. Pocketing his coins, the man moved aside. Benjamin stepped forward and pushed his chips beneath the brass bars. The short, wiry cashier quickly counted them and then pushed back a small pile of coins. Benjamin made to turn from the cage, but stopped as an elbow nudged his own.

  “Wait. Count them,” the man murmured. “That cashier’s mathematical skills aren’t always the best.”

  A check proved the cashier’s skills weren’t wanting that evening. Benjamin slipped the coins into a pocket and turned from the cage. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” The man fell into step beside him. “Care to share cab fare with me?”

  It appeared he was going to solve Benjamin’s logistical question for him. “Anytime,” he replied, wanting to do far more than share a fare with him.

  The guard opened the front door as they approached. Cool night air wrapped around Benjamin, but it did nothing to cool the blood rushing through his veins, heating his skin. With a little motion of his wrist, the man hailed a hackney coming up the street. The carriage slowed to a stop a few paces ahead of them.

  He didn’t think twice as he stepped inside.

  * * * * *

  Don’t miss

  BROOK STREET: THIEF by Ava March

  Available now wherever

  Carina Press ebooks are sold.

  www.CarinaPress.com