The Duke’s Wicked Wager - Lady Evelyn Evering: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 2)

by Isabella Thorne

  He pressed her back until she hit the bookshelf.

  “Evermont?”

  The Duke of Pemberton stood in the doorway. Evelyn jumped. She had not seen him there, but now she did see him just over Frederic’s shoulder, looking rumpled. He was always rumpled. His jaw was set in an angry line as he took in the scene. She used the moment of distraction to slip out beneath her brother’s arm.

  “Your Grace,” Evelyn said, with a curtsy of respect. She really didn’t like what her brother became around him, but he was a member of the Peerage. He deserved her respect, if not her affection.

  “Lady Evelyn.” The Duke inclined his head in gracious irony. “Lovely as ever, like a vision from beyond the grave.”

  Evelyn scowled. He had made pointed jokes about the paleness of her skin since the day they had met. The novelty had yet to wear off, it seemed.

  “She was just about to leave,” Frederic said.

  “My brother is confused. I have only just arrived.” Evelyn took the leather armchair in the corner for herself, sinking into it before her legs could succumb to the adrenaline that coursed in them from her brother’s behavior. If The Duke had not entered, at the moment he did would Frederic have struck her?

  She met Frederic’s glare. Their blue eyes were so alike, shining with the same loathing. He looked away first, turning to pour three glasses of brandy and shoving one beneath her nose so she had no choice but to accept it. Frederic drained his and poured himself another, while Pemberton seated himself in the other armchair and sipped at the drink, his gaze contemplative as he studied Evelyn. His unabashed stare rankled, and she found her skin covered with gooseflesh, but she forced herself to focus.

  Her brother broke the silence; rude as ever. “Spit it out, Evelyn, before you choke on it.” Without a chair left to sit on, Frederic leaned his weight back on his desk in affected nonchalance.

  The brandy burned her throat with the first swallow, but the second sent warmth through her and nestled down in her belly. It gave her something resembling courage. She took a bigger sip.

  “I overheard you this morning, speaking of something impossible. Marrying me off…”

  “Skulking about in the hallways now, like a nosy servant?”

  It was the drink talking, she knew, but the venom in his voice unsettled her still. He had been detached and uninvolved for years, but never cruel.

  “Well brother. You were, as always, far too loud,” she said in a soft voice.

  An indolent summer breeze stirred the curtain in front of the open window and they all turned, attention caught by the movement. The Duke wore a faint smirk, as if their bickering was nothing but a diverting pastime to him, and his fingers danced on the arm of his chair. Evelyn wished he would leave. If he had any manners at all he would have excused himself, but he seemed enjoyed things like this. She supposed she should be grateful to him for calling Frederic off.

  “Frederic,” she began again, but he interrupted her.

  “It is your duty to marry, Evelyn.” Frederic shrugged. “Did you think you could live out your days as a spinster in my home, playing with the ponies?”

  It was a sharp, poignant hit. She took another swallow of the brandy, searching for more of that golden courage it had lent her. “This is my home too,” she said weakly.

  “Father is dead. I am The Marquess now. It is not your home; it is mine.”

  “And I am still in mourning, Frederic, though I see you have given up the charade of having a heart. Did you love father at all?”

  Frederic drained his glass and poured another.

  Evelyn’s lip tightened at the drinking, but instead of speaking of it, she gestured at his flippant clothing, flamboyant as a pink’s. “Is that the sort of thing Adele prefers?”

  “Do not speak of her again, I warn you.” Frederic pushed off from the desk as if to threaten her a second time, but The Duke stood with sudden violence.

  He did not speak, only stood in tight-lipped silence until Frederic reclined back on the desk as if it had been his intention all along to do so. Pemberton scoffed and turned away to read the titles of the books on the shelves as if he were alone in the library. His fingers tapped the spines as if to music. Evelyn watched The Duke, forgetting her brother for a moment. Even with his rumpled, slip shod appearance, he was a fine figure. Why wouldn’t he be? He was a Duke. She did not like the way he cowed Frederic with a glance and stepped in to fight for her as if she needed his assistance. If he felt her glare on him, his only response was that selfsame smirk.

  “Who is he?” Evelyn asked.

  “Who?” Frederic said.

  “Do not be dense, Frederic.” Evelyn rubbed her temples with her free hand. The brandy had gone from her stomach to her head.

  “A marquess, which is more than you deserve—the way you treat me. You are not my mother,” said Frederic, jabbing a finger at her. “You may not censor my behavior.”

  “Which marquess?” She began to name them all in her mind, discarding the ones she knew to be married. Her heart sped up, a hummingbird’s wings in her chest. “Who is he?”

  Frederic’s glee was evident in his features. Perhaps the man was excessively wealthy, and he was hoping for an allowance from her future husband. She would never allow it. Supplying Frederic with money was the same as supporting his unhealthy habits and sending him to an early grave. Or perhaps Frederic was just joyful at her discomfort— neither option would surprise her now.

  “The Marquess of Ashwood.”

  Pemberton clicked his tongue. Evelyn racked her brain for the face to put to the name. Lord Ashwood.

  “No!” Evelyn gasped. “You would not, Frederic; he is far too old for me. Why he’s older than father!”

  “Some women would consider that a favorable thing,” Pemberton said, his nose tucked in a book. “Old men are far more likely to leave a wealthy widow in a timely fashion.” He looked up at her and gave a sly wink. “While you are still young enough to enjoy life, you know.”

  With his gaze fixed again on the page in front of him, he could not see Evelyn’s mouth widening in horror at his words.

  “What a crude thing to say,” she said. “You are both despicable and I see now why you have become fast friends. Please remember, that the Ton will forgive a Duke, what they will not forgive a marquess.”

  Frederic sputtered. “She censures you now,” he said to his friend, but The Duke only laughed and the sound of that laugh touched something deep in the pit of her belly. She didn’t like it--Not one bit.

  Evelyn rose from her chair, intending to storm from the room, but the drink made her sway. She caught herself on the shelf and a moment later Pemberton was at her elbow. He steadied her. For a breath, with his face so close to hers, her only thought was how handsome he was. A breath later, she came back to her sense. Evelyn clutched at her anger through the cloud of alcohol induced indifference as if it was all that could save her.

  “Let me go!” She wrenched herself from his grip and although tipsy, she managed to set her glass on the table. She wanted to fling it into her brother’s face, but of course, they had no crystal to waste.

  Evelyn stormed from the room and slammed the door closed on her brother’s string of expletives and The Duke’s raucous laughter. It sent shivers through her.

  ~.~

  Chapter Three

  Lady Evelyn spent the evening in her rooms, wishing the effects of the drink would wear off a bit faster. She had never indulged so before. Of course, she drank the clarets and punches served at social functions, but always sipped with moderation as the evening progressed, and on a stomach full of rich food to dull the rush. Losing control irritated her. A knock at the door announced the arrival of a tea tray.

  “Leave it there,” Evelyn said to her lady’s maid, Bess.

  Bess placed the tray on Evelyn’s secretary and began to arrange a plate.

  “Bess.” Evelyn tugged at her rumpled hair, pulled from the pins with careless haste. “Do you think The Duke is h
andsome?”

  “Any woman with eyes would find The Duke handsome, My Lady,” Bess said, with a coy sort of smile. “But he is not the sort that makes an easy husband, I imagine. Always chasing after the next pretty thing, that one. Just what I hear, of course. Pardon, My Lady.”

  “Of course,” Evelyn mumbled, but she was stuck on the memory Pemberton’s face so close to hers she could see the scar above his eye. She wondered where he had gotten it from. A fight? A fall from a horse? Anything seemed possible, from him.

  “Will that be all, My Lady?” Bess asked, by the door.

  Evelyn nodded and she was left alone again. She lay back on her bed in the mounds of downy blankets, looking up at the gauzy canopy above her bed until she drifted to sleep. When she woke, the tea had gone cold but her head was clear. With the clarity came a plan and Evelyn was in a hurry to enact it. With the pull of a bells ring she summoned Bess and the maid set to work on her hair.

  Evelyn dressed for dinner in a deep violet muslin gown that was suitable for half mourning. It had been almost a year since her father’s death and she had yet to don bright colors or extravagant fabrics. Evelyn was not even sure what the fashions were this Season; not that she could afford anything new. She sighed as she entered the family dining room.

  Pemberton was at the table beside her brother. Frederic must have invited him to stay the evening, or perhaps the week; as if they could afford to entertain.

  “Lady Evelyn,” The Duke said, rising.

  “Your Grace,” she said, nodding in acknowledgment for him to sit. Frederic did not so much as look up at her entrance. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  “I thought the brandy would have kept you abed,” Frederic slurred. “Shame it did not.”

  “You are not so lucky as that. Of course, if you were lucky at all, we might not be in such debt from your gambling.” She flashed him a blithe smile and accepted the offer of jellied duck from the footman. “Speaking of your poor decisions, why do you not marry a wealthy woman and make amends for your own mistakes?”

  Frederic and The Duke stared at her, shocked at her bald language. Then, The Duke laughed. “Touché, Evermont!”

  Evelyn did not respond. Her brother’s face was turning an alarming shade of purple.

  “Gads, she has a mouth on her!” Pemberton continued. He looked delighted. “I have never seen you anything but prim and proper, restrained to a fault.”

  “I will marry none other than my love, Adele. To do otherwise would be to tear my heart into a thousand pieces.” Frederic interjected.

  “You cannot marry an actress!” Evelyn was aghast at the suggestion. “Good heavens, can you imagine what that would do for our reputation? And here, I did not think it could get any worse!”

  “Best I marry you off then, before our reputation is entirely in tatters,” Frederic said.

  “Why are you doing this? You are the problem. You should fix it. Marry an heiress.”

  “To marry any other than Adele seems the cruelest kind of torture!”

  “I see the drama of the theater is rubbing off on you.” Evelyn shook her head, amazed at his hypocrisy. “And yet you have no qualms marrying me off without even the potential for love?”

  Pemberton tilted his glass at her, as if she had earned a point, but her brother still refused to see reason. If he could see anything at all, being blind-drunk as he was.

  “If you have a heart, Evelyn, it is only for the horses. Do not pretend you have ever held a man in half as much affection as you have those beasts.”

  The remark stung with its truthfulness. She had every woman’s wish of marrying a man she loved, but she had never found a man that ignited true passion within her. Perhaps the fault was with her. When her retort was not forthcoming, the men went back to prattling on about their latest club. The food tasted dull in her mouth. Every scrape of fork and knife against the plate grated on her ears. There had to be something she could do, she would not marry that man. “I will see to it, that my husband will not advance you one thin farthing,” she said.

  “Touché,” Pemberton said again.

  She glared at him, but refrained from chastising The Duke and telling him to mind his own business. “Frederic,” she said at last, trying to force her tone into sweetness. “Perhaps you could arrange a dinner at Evermont, a to-do of sorts.”

  “Why would I do that?” he asked.

  Frederic abhorred polite company, for they did not engage in any of the reckless, self-endangering behaviors he found so stimulating of late.

  “So that I may meet potential suitors. You do not need to limit me to this man, whom I have never met and is old enough to be my father. Allow me find a husband of my own.” Evelyn was begging, she knew, but she could not help herself. If she was forced to be married, at least let her have a choice in the man she would be wed to. Surely she could find someone she could respect. “I promise not to dally in my selection, but let me choose.”

  “Really, Evelyn, do not sound so desperate. It is unbecoming.”

  “It is not a terrible idea, my friend, what harm can it do?” The Duke asked. He was eyeing her with that predatory gaze again. “A dinner would be a fine enough way to spend an evening.”

  “Please, with the bores of the Ton all around me, and no escape because I have invited them into my own home? No.”

  “Oh, Frederic, you are being cruel! What can it hurt?” Evelyn cried.

  This seemed the final straw, for Frederic flung himself from his chair and slammed his fists down on the table. The vase in the center of the table upended, spilling water across the tablecloth. Evelyn tried to save the expensive vase, but it toppled off of the table and shattered.

  “We cannot host a dinner party, sister mine, because no one would attend. There, are you pleased with yourself? Dragging that admission out of me must delight your nasty little temper.”

  Evelyn pushed back from the table to avoid the cascading water.

  “What… what are you saying?”

  He shook his head at her, eyes wide in dramatic fashion as if he thought her a dullard. “I am saying that the Ton will have nothing to do with us.”

  The Duke, who sat out of range of the flood waters, was tapping his fingers on the side of his wine glass. Footmen converged to clean the mess away.

  “B-because of father’s death? That’s absurd.”

  That did seem absurdly cold, even for the Peerage. Her brother was a bachelor and a marquess. Even with his reputation, there should be women clamoring to marry him. Frederic only shook his head at her again, muttered an expletive under his breath, and left the room, unheeding that he was leaving his sister unchaperoned with an unmarried man.

  Evelyn and The Duke of Pemberton were alone in the room. Drops of water made quiet plops as they hit the ground.

  “I am afraid your family’s reputation is rather in the black at the moment, Lady Evelyn,” said The Duke. “Your brother is, understandably, touchy about the subject.”

  “But, what happened? I know he gambles but, so do most men!”

  The Duke hesitated, seeming to weigh his words before he said them. “His indiscretions have been rather more… overt, than society would deem polite. Suffice it to say, he has burned many bridges with his debts and his behavior, and the Evermont name is not as prestigious as it once was. My apologies.”

  He turned to go. It was the first time she had ever seen the collected man so unsettled.

  “Wait. Your Grace, please.”

  Up close his rumpled appearance seemed intentional. His hair was tousled, jacket unbuttoned, and his cravat loosed.

  “Yes?”

  They were almost as close as that moment in the study, when he had touched her. If he thought there would be more of that here, he was wrong. Evelyn arranged her face into a stern countenance to quash any impertinent ideas he might be having.

  “I have a proposition for you,” she said and she felt the heat of a blush on her pale skin as he raised an eyebrow. “I mean, an idea, of
something we might do together.”

  She could tell it was coming out all wrong when the smirk on The Duke’s face only grew more wicked with every word. She would slap him if he were not a Duke and if she did not need his assistance.

  “Do go on. I am most intrigued now,” Pemberton drawled.

  Evelyn’s eyes caught on that little scar. The hairs of his eyebrow split around the puckered skin. She wanted to reach up and smooth them down for they were as unruly as the man himself. He raised his fingers to it, in what would be a self-conscious gesture on anyone else.

  “It is nothing like that.” She moved a safer distance away. “You keep a stable, do you not?”

  Evelyn stood beside the hearth. It had been brushed clean and the firewood rack was filled with a neat stack of decorative birch logs. The Duke’s reply, when it came, was closer than she had expected.

  “I do, a fine one at that. Fastest horses in Norfolk.” He rested one hand on the mantle and angled his body toward hers.

  “And would you care to put a wager on that?”

  Pemberton raised his eyebrows. His face lost the perpetual arrogance, but the mask was back a moment later. He gave her a wry grin that did unpleasant things to her stomach. Why did she let him affect her so?

  “I would indeed,” Pemberton said. “But my dear, I know the state of your finances. You have nothing to wager.”

  “That is my concern. I have funds of my own.”

  “You seemed a prudent girl prior to this evening.” He grinned at her. “I prefer this new version, the kind that smashes vases and makes unwise bets.”

  “Charming, but I do not prefer you at all. Are we agreed then?”

  “On your head be it.” He shrugged. “What are the conditions?”

  “A match race, on turf.”

  The Duke named his bet. It was a sum that struck her dumb.

  “Do not tell me you are getting cold feet already. What happened to that fierce pride in your horses? You were so confident only a moment ago.”

  She knew it was foolish, but his mockery needled her. All she wanted was to wipe the smug look off his face when her horse won, and she knew her horse would win.