The Betting Season (A Regency Season Book)

by Knight-Catania, Jerrica

  But what else could she have done? St. Austell was here! In the park! Blast it! She didn’t even know what the man looked like. How was she to avoid him?

  “Waiting for someone?” drawled a rich baritone voice.

  Pippa’s eyes flew open. The most breathtakingly handsome man stood just a few feet away. Hair so dark across his brow it would blend perfectly with the midnight sky, which was contrasted by the softest, bluest eyes she’d ever seen. He looked almost like a dark, fallen angel as he reached into his jacket for a cheroot.

  Pippa managed so shake her head. “Hiding.”

  “Hiding?” He quirked a grin at her and when he did, she tingled all the way to her toes.

  “There’s someone here I shouldn’t be seen with,” she said, then frowned at her own foolishness. What a ridiculous thing to say to a stranger. She was clearly not herself these days. What would the man think of her?

  “Indeed? Who are you hiding from, sweetheart?” He popped the cheroot into his mouth. “I’ll tell you if I spot him.”

  Pippa winced, then glanced over at all of the fashionable people back on the path. It would be easier to avoid St. Austell if she remembered what the man looked like, but perhaps this fellow could help her in that regard. “Are you acquainted with Lord St. Austell?”

  “St. Austell?” An amused look flashed in the stranger’s eyes. “As it happens, I am familiar with the man, yes.”

  “Thanks heavens,” she sighed.

  “You’re hiding from St. Austell?” the man asked, a line appearing between his brows. At her nod, he continued, “Hardly strikes me as the type to trouble himself with girls fresh from the schoolroom. Tell me, has the blackguard been troubling you?”

  Not really. At least Pippa didn’t think so, not that she could remember in any event. She shook her head. “I just shouldn’t be seen with him is all. My brothers would be most unhappy with me.” And Pippa hated to disappoint either Berks or Harry. The two of them had raised her since she was ten. More like fathers than brothers sometimes. If someone mentioned St. Austell to either of them… Pippa turned her attention back to Rotten Row. “Do you see him anywhere?”

  The stranger came up from behind Pippa and placed his hand on her shoulder. The heat from his body seeped through her walking dress and warmed her back. “Hmm.” His voice rumbled over her like a caress. “No, I don’t see him at the moment. Are you sure he’s out there?”

  Pippa wasn’t sure. Not of anything. “Someone said he was,” she muttered.

  “People are often mistaken,” the man replied.

  “I wish I knew what he looked like so I’d know how to avoid him.”

  “Difficult avoiding a fellow you can’t pick out of a crowd.” The stranger chuckled. “Should I happen upon St. Austell, I’ll warn him away from you, if you’d like.”

  Pippa spun around to face the stranger. Heavens, he was much too close and much too handsome. She took a slight step backward. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mr….?”

  “Colebrooke.” The man dipped his head in greeting. “Viscount Colebrooke at your service, Miss…?”

  “Lady Philippa Casemore,” Pippa replied and her breath caught in her throat as she gazed into Lord Colebrooke’s blue eyes. A lady could drown in those eyes, happily drown and never even know how it happened.

  “Well, Lady Philippa, I hate to think of St. Austell causing you worry, black-hearted villain that he is. Are you certain you don’t want me to dispense with the man? It would be my honor.”

  Pippa shook her head. “I’m certain my bothers will protect me, should the need arise.”

  “Brothers do have a way of doing that.” He touched a hand to his nose. “If you are quite all right, I will take my leave.”

  “Thank you, Lord Colebrooke. It was kind of you to help me.”

  “My pleasure.” He grinned back, which made Pippa’s belly flutter then flip. “Perhaps I’ll see more of you in the days to come, sweetheart.”

  What a lovely thought. Pippa would dream about such occurrences from this day forward, she had no doubt. “Perhaps,” she returned coyly.

  Then as quickly as he’d appeared, Lord Colebrooke took his leave without a backwards glance.

  Lord Colebrooke. She doubted any other man in all of London was as dangerously handsome. And he’d offered to be her own Sir Galahad where that despicable St. Austell was concerned. She couldn’t keep from sighing.

  Colebrooke. Jason scowled at himself as he pushed past London’s fashionable out for a stroll in the park. He stopped at the Park Lane entrance and looked back where he’d come from. He was too far away now to spot the enchanting chit, but he could still see her in his mind’s eye. Pretty light brown tendrils framing her face, perfectly kissable lips pursed in worry.

  Why the devil had he told her he was Colebrooke? Colebooke, for God’s sake. It wasn’t a lie. Not really. He was Viscount Colebrooke, though no one had called him that since he was seven and his father had passed the earldom and the St. Austell name on to Jason. But that wasn’t really the point. Though as he stood alone on the edge of Hyde Park, he wasn’t certain what the point was.

  He’d gotten his blasted nose smashed in because of Philippa Casemore. He should have demanded some sort of recompense from the girl, but… Well, he just somehow lost his head when she’d looked at him, when her big green eyes, so sincere and so troubled, had landed on him. If he’d admitted to being St. Austell at that moment, she’d have bolted like a skittish mare. And then where would he be? Arguably in a much better spot that he was now, with her thinking of him as his lesser title. And with him thinking about her at all. Quite disconcerting, that.

  Jason should have told her who he was, but he’d quite enjoyed her discomposure, her concern in searching for him when he was only a hairsbreadth away from her.

  That enjoyment quickly evaporated when the truth of the situation settled in his mind. Damn it all to hell, why didn’t she remember him? He remembered her. He remembered the way her breasts had pressed softly against his chest and warmed him despite his coat. He remembered the way her brandy-scented breath had tickled the side of his neck as they’d danced. He remembered how well she’d fit against him, almost perfectly. Damn it all, his cock twitched at the remembrance.

  It was more than a little lowering to think he hadn’t made any sort of an impact on her. It was more than a blow to his ego. More than disconcerting. Women remembered him, after all. They all did, didn’t they? Of course they did. He was the Earl of St. Austell, for God’s sake.

  But not Pippa Casemore. She didn’t remember his face nor his voice; only his blackened name was at the forefront of her mind. Wicked St. Austell, debaucher of the innocent, ruiner of reputations, the devil incarnate. Damn it all to hell. He’d never debauched one innocent. Not one. But there was something about Pippa Casemore that made him think he might enjoy the experience immensely. If she were the innocent in question, anyway. She wouldn’t forget him after that, would she?

  Lord Cleasby bets Mr. Potsdon five hundred pounds that Lord St. Austell will bed Lady Philippa Casemore before the end of the season.

  Jason snorted. Albie Potsdon was going to lose five hundred quid if it was the last thing Jason saw to. All he needed was a plan.

  A scratch sounded at the parlor door. Pippa looked up from her needlepoint, happy for the interruption to her constant stream of inappropriate thoughts concerning one very striking viscount. “Come,” she called.

  Davis, the butler, stepped over the threshold, “You have a caller, my lady.”

  Colebrooke? Pippa’s heart leapt to her throat at the same time she leapt to her feet. She glanced over her shoulder where her great-aunt Eunice slept, sitting upright in a straight back chair. A chaperone was a chaperone, even if she was asleep, wasn’t she? Pippa didn’t want to waste any time on the particulars, not when Lord Colebrooke had come to call. “Do show him in, Davis.”

  The butler departed, but not before casting Pippa a dismissive look as she began pinchin
g her cheeks. But she paid no attention to the servant’s censure. Who would have thought the viscount would call on her so soon? She’d just met him that afternoon. He must have thought about her as much as she’d thought about him.

  Pippa quickly smoothed her skirts into place and tried to assume a pose of nonchalance as Albie Potsdon stepped over the threshold… Albie Potsdon? Pippa blinked at Harry’s old friend and swallowed down the lump of disappointment. “Albie?” She tried to keep her apathy from reaching her voice, and worried she’d failed miserably when he winced. Or was it simply the blackened eye he sported? Or his discolored jaw? “Albie! What happened to you?”

  “Nothing,” he tried.

  “Nothing?” she echoed. “It looks like you were set upon by a pack of brigands.”

  “Not a pack.” A slight smile settled on his face as he crossed the floor. “It really is nothing. My face accidentally met Harry’s fists a couple of times, that’s all.”

  Harry’s fists! Pippa gasped. “My brother hit you?”

  Albie shrugged. “After all the trouble I caused you, I’m sure I had it coming, Pippa.” Then he took her hands in his and tugged her back down onto the settee beside him. “How are you feeling today?”

  Slightly euphoric after her meeting with Lord Coleboork, but Pippa didn’t think it was wise to mention that part. “Just a slight headache,” she said instead.

  “I truly am sorry about the brandy.” Albie frowned most contritely.

  Pippa closed her eyes, still not able to remember anything from the Heathfields’ ball. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve never had a drop to drink before.” And after all the trouble she’d landed herself in, she’d never have another the rest of her days.

  “My fault.” Albie winced. “You were anxious and I told you a sip would settle your nerves.”

  A sip? All of this trouble over a sip of brandy. How in the world did men imbibe so regularly? And so much? Poor Albie, all bruised and downcast. Pippa squeezed his hand. “How were you to know I wouldn’t handle a sip?”

  “Well,” Albie’s voice came out more like a squeak. “You had more than a sip, really. My whole flask,” he stressed the last. “I forgot completely about the opium until after you’d swallowed every last drop.”

  “Opium?” Pippa thrust Albie’s hand back in his own lap and sat up straight as a board. “I had opium?” No wonder she didn’t remember a thing. It was a miracle she was up and walking around today.

  “The brandy disguises the flavor,” he said as though that answered anything. It didn’t.

  “Why in the world would you put opium in your brandy?”

  “I don’t like to smoke it.” He shrugged.

  That hardly answered her question. “Albie, why are you carrying opium around with you?”

  “Something I started in Bombay. The Chinese have been doing it for centuries. Makes everything seem so much more calm.”

  Pippa scowled at the man. She suddenly wished Albie’s face had accidentally met Harry’s fists a couple more times. “Do you know what sort of trouble I’m in, Albie?”

  His brown eyes drooped like a chastened puppy. “I’ve come to make everything right, Pippa.” Then before she knew it, he was kneeling before her. “If you marry me, everyone will forget all about last night.”

  Pippa’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t help it. There were a million things she wanted to say, but they all got caught in her throat at once.

  “I’ll be a good husband,” Albie promised. “And—”

  “Albie!” She finally found her voice. “What are you doing?”

  He blinked up at her as though he wasn’t sure. “Proposing?” he asked.

  Pippa raked a hand down her face. “Albert Potsdon, get off your knees. You do not want to marry me.” And she certainly didn’t want to marry him.

  “It’s because I don’t have a title, isn’t it?” He raised those sad brown eyes back up at her. “But I’ll make a fortune, Pippa. You’ll see, and—”

  “No, it’s not because you don’t have a title. And I certainly don’t care about the status of your fortune.” She heaved a sigh. “You’re like a brother to me. Marrying you would be like marrying Berks or Harry.” Though neither Berks nor Harry had ever given her opium-laced brandy before.

  “But I don’t know how else to make it right,” Albie replied, pain evident in his voice. “If you had my name—”

  “Then we’d both miserable,” Pippa said as gently as she was able. “I know you, Albie. You want to marry some girl whose eyes brighten when she sees you. An adventurous girl who doesn’t mind running off to Bombay or the Orient or wherever else you want to take her. A girl who will love you all of her days. You know that’s not me.”

  “But I’ve ruined you, Pippa. St. Austell is out there and—”

  “I’m not ruined. And I don’t care one whit about St. Austell, nor that insulting bet. I’m in control of my own person. As long as I stay away from mixes of opium and brandy, no one will make me do anything I don’t want to.” Then she smiled at him and patted the seat beside her so he’d finally get off his knees. “I want the same, you know. A man who will love me just as dearly… And not like a sister. I know you love me, but I want more than that.” An image of Lord Colebrooke flashed in Pippa’s mind and her face warmed.

  Albie finally sat beside her again and he took both of her hands in his. “My offer stands, Pippa. If the season becomes too unbearable or you simply change your mind, I’ll acquire a special license and we’ll be married in the blink of an eye.”

  All things considered, it was rather generous of him. But Pippa meant what she’d said. She wanted more for her future than marriage to her brother’s friend for the rest of her life. “Albie,” she began quietly, “what do you know about Lord Colebrooke?”

  “Colebrooke?” Albie frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know a Colebrooke.”

  How could he not? “But he’s the most beautiful…” She let her voice trail off when Albie’s eyes began to sparkle with their usual mirth.

  “Already found my replacement before my proposal is even cold, huh?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear.

  Pippa smacked him lightly across the chest, which only made him cower in mock fear.

  “Oh!” he chortled. “You violent Casemores! Take pity on me, I’m already bruised from head to toe.”

  Service was much better at White’s than it was at St. Austell House. Jason glanced up from his empty whiskey glass, and a moment later a footman had handed him another, just the perfect amount. Perhaps he’d just stay here and never return home.

  “Ignoring me, are you?” Daniel Cardew asked, breaking Jason from his thoughts.

  “I beg your pardon?” Jason sat taller in the overstuffed leather chair and re-focused on his friend.

  Cardew gestured across the room. “I said…There’s the one man in all of London who doubts your virility.”

  Jason glanced in the direction Cardew had indicated to find Albert Potsdon, a bit downcast, truth be told, slinking through the doors. ‘The man’s an oaf.” And he was. Who would bet against Jason, for God’s sake? No one in his right mind.

  “Looks like he’s been standing in for the punching bags at Gentleman Jackson’s these days,” Cardew added in sotto voce.

  Berkswell must have been busy after his impromptu visit to Jason’s breakfast room that morning. Potsdon had been completely unblemished the night before. Jason supposed he should feel a bit guilty for sending the rabid Berkswell in search of Potsdon, but he wasn’t. The oaf had supplied Pippa with an entire flask of brandy, after all. He deserved whatever punches landed his way.

  Albert Potsdon caught Jason’s gaze from across the room and started towards the small group of men assembled together. What the devil did the man want with Jason? Retribution for sending Berkswell in his direction? Well, he could turn right back around and leave the way he’d come.

  “Berkswell find you?” Jason asked when the man reached him, not able to hide h
is smirk.

  “Harrison Casemore,” the man replied.

  Ah, so Heath was right. The younger Casemore’s fists were more fearsome than the elder’s. “And now, what? Looking for Cleasby to cry off from your wager?” Jason drawled.

  The young gentleman narrowed his eyes on him. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re sure to lose five hundred pounds?” Jason suggested, which earned him a peal of chuckles from his friends.

  Albert Potsdon snorted.

  “Do you even have five hundred pounds to lose?” Cardew asked, merriment dripping from his words.

  Potsdon folded his arms across his chest like a stubborn, petulant child. “When Cleasby pays me my five hundred pounds, I’ll make a fortune with it. A wise man would follow my lead.”

  “Very sure of yourself,” Jason replied.

  Potsdon snorted again, not a terribly attractive trait, that. “Very sure of Pippa…er…Lady Philippa, I mean.”

  His words were drowned out by a chorus of laughter from the assembled men. But Jason had caught the very familiar way with which Potsdon had referred to Pippa and irritation settled in his belly. “Is the lady a paragon of virtue, then?” he asked, knowing the answer before the question left his lips. Philippa Casemore might be the perfect lady in the light of day, but uninhibited as she had been the previous evening… Well, he’d gotten a glimpse of what lay beneath her perfect exterior. Virtuous she might be on the outside, but inside hid a passionate woman just waiting to be discovered by the right man, a very practiced man.

  “Virtuous and everything that is sweet and innocent,” Potsdon said. “So stay away from her.”

  A smile twitched at Jason’s lips. This was hardly the first time he’d been told to keep his distance from a woman. But there was something amusing about being warned away by a man covered in bruises. “That’s not really in the spirit of your bet, is it? Hardly seems sporting. Poor Cleasby.”

  “Sporting,” Potsdon dismissed the comment with a roll of his eyes. “More like looking out for you, St. Austell. Lady Philippa knows her own mind and even your silver tongue wouldn’t dissuade her from her path.”