By Way Of A Wager

by Solomon, Hayley Ann

  Messengers had been in and out since around seven, but traces of this fact were not to be detected in the immaculately high shirt points and the gilt-buttoned morning coat he’d chosen to affect.

  That he was tapping idly at an antiquated snuffbox was of little interest to the stiff-backed lackeys in attendance at either end of the long, damask-clothed table.

  As Cassandra entered, his eyes filled with light. The enigmatic expression that momentarily harshened his features disappeared, banished at once by the adorable picture presented by his lady.

  “Good morning, my dear Miss Beaumaris! I trust you slept sufficient?”

  Cassandra chose to ignore the pointed humor. At half past the hour of noon, it would have been surprising had she not slept sufficient. Even keeping town hours, waking at this time was the outside of enough!

  Commenting mildly that she’d had more than her fair share of slumber, she blushed at the patent disbelief on Miles’s seraphic face. Was she that transparent? She could hardly credit it.

  “And what have you been doing, Your Grace?” Her tone was dryly amused. “Up none too early either, I see.”

  She’d promised not to engage in a battle of wits with her heart’s delight that morning. How, then, came she to be the first to draw metaphorical swords? It passed all bounds, and yet she could not help herself. There was something so challenging about his indulgent gaze and his patronizing demeanor. It riled Cassandra, forcing her to respond in kind.

  It would have discomforted her to know just how much Miles relished putting her out of countenance. He loved seeing the flashing quicksilver of her indigo eyes, the impatient brush of her recalcitrant auburn locks. How he longed to give them a good brushing! To feel their softness warm against his fingers. He’d buy her a brush as his wedding gift. He’d seen just the one for her only the other day. Expensive, but superb quality. He’d get Everett to see to it.

  He grinned before helping himself to yet another slice of pink Westphalian ham.

  “I regret to inform you, Miss Beaumaris, that you are wrong in that assumption. You have but to ask Vallon to know that I’ve been quite active since we last met. Arranging a special license is no easy thing, you know.”

  He blithely sank his teeth into the ham while watching, from the corner of his eye, the comical look of dismayed confusion he’d engendered.

  “Unfair, my lord!” She leaned toward him and went a long way to knocking over the glass of Ratafia set before her. “You know I cannot quarrel in front of the servants!”

  Her fierce whisper reached him just as he extended his hand for the side dish of hot potato Anna. Steadying the glass while at the same time positioning his spoon over the tempting delicacy, he found himself choking in delight.

  Good for her! He’d not been wrong in thinking his betrothed a sight spirited. What a dance she’d lead him and how much fun they’d have. Not a trace of the vapid insipidity that so beset womankind could be detected in her being. Trouble, yes! Boring, no! He could rest assured.

  Playing fair, he thanked the liveried figures before waving them away. Cassandra was stifling a desire to snuggle into the arms that so invitingly placed morsels upon her plate. How infuriating that he was so close and there was naught she could do save preserve a semblance of outward calm.

  “You were saying?” The amused voice prompted her.

  “Your Grace ...”

  “Miles,” he corrected.

  Cassandra ignored him. “Your Grace.”

  “Miles.”

  They’d reached an impasse. Really, he was the most infuriating of men. If she did not humor him, they’d sit there the whole day. With an exasperated laugh, she bent to his will, swearing determinedly that the honors of the next skirmish would be hers.

  “Oh, all right, Miles, then!” she acceded crossly, her tongue acting traitor to her wishes by rolling with a certain pleasure over the utterance.

  Her eyes dared not meet his. The session was not going at all the way she’d planned. “About this special license thing ...”

  “Yes?” Miles’s tone was indulgently encouraging.

  “It is not at all necessary, you know. I cannot and will not marry you. Not with all the licenses in the world!”

  Miles did not seem concerned, deliberately obtuse.

  “You want me to post the banns, then? A wedding befitting the future duchess of Wyndham?”

  “No!” Cassandra was determined.

  “If I can just get to my governess in Bath, no one at all need know of this unfortunate night. Miss Plum I know will be delighted to take me in for the moment, until I can set up a suitable establishment for myself.”

  “On the fringes of society? It is not at all the thing, you know, for a young lady of uncertain years to be setting up house.”

  “Well, that can hardly be to the purpose. After all, it is not at all the thing for her to be spending the night alone with a gentleman, either!”

  He acknowledged the justice in this but stated wryly, a little under his breath, “Hardly with, my dear, hardly with!”

  She chose to ignore him, although her cheeks betrayed a faint hue the duke found both becoming and charming. His sharp eyes missed nothing and he chuckled, in spite of himself. She looked at him crossly then smiled herself. “You know what I mean, Your Grace!”

  “Miles!”

  “Miles, then! I am grateful to you, indeed, but I find I am quite determined to set up my own establishment.” She hesitated, pondering on the prospect. “I daresay I will find some genteel company if I remain a little out of the London way. No doubt Sir Robert will silence his delightful relatives. He may be the nastiest specimen I’ve ever had the misfortune of coming across, but that is not to say he is entirely without brains.”

  Cassandra helped herself to a smidgen of stuffed truffle. A man less gallant than Miles might have commented on the fact that her hands were traitorously trembling, a sure sign that outward composure was inward turmoil. His Grace noticed but said nothing. Instead, he drew closer. It was strange to him, this protective instinct. He’d only ever felt it in his dealings with his young wards and then to a less poignant degree. What he felt now was fierce and resolute and incontrovertible.

  Cassandra continued, attempting not to notice the warmth of his hand as it covered hers, casting her into a confusion that delighted its beholder. “No matter how vindictive he may be, he’ll realize soon enough that discrediting a Beaumaris is not likely to raise his consequence with the ton. He is, after all, my nominal guardian, although that will be over my dead body! If I go down, he sinks and I warrant he knows it.”

  The duke looked at her inquiringly.

  “I deplore people who puff themselves off, but truly I believe society only tolerates him because of his Surrey connection.”

  The duke inclined his head in agreement. She retrieved her hand to take a delicate mouthful. Swallowing, she continued, “God knows I despise him, but I believe, nevertheless, he is neither clumsy nor stupid. I don’t doubt he’s cut out for a spot of blackmail, but he’ll be sorry he even contemplated such a course if he tries it with me!”

  Brave words. His Grace smiled to himself at this further evidence of the treasure he’d so unexpectedly stumbled upon. “I don’t doubt you’re right, Miss Beaumaris, but do me one favor, I beg of you. Humor me at least.”

  The seriousness of his manner struck Cassandra, who left the ironic rejoinder she’d formulated dangling at the tip of her tongue. What harm could it do, after all, to hear the man out?

  “Last night’s business was both ill-timed and unplanned. As a gentleman, the fact that you spent the night under this roof must weigh with me. Wait”—Miles held up an imperious hand as Cassandra began her protest—“don’t interrupt! You shall have your say later.” His brows lightened as she sank back into her chair.

  “Now, Miss Beaumaris, I beg you to pity me.” His eyes twinkled irrepressibly. “I’m not in the habit of making young ladies proposals. I have no doubt I’m making the most d
ismal mull of it, but just so that I need not repeat the process with some equally hard-hearted young female at some other date, will you not have me? I promise to make you the best of husbands and not beat you more than you deserve!”

  Humor gleamed in his eyes. He dodged as Cassandra made to pour a glass of negus down his shirt front. “Termagant! Is this not proof enough of the sacrifice I make? When I think of those happy bachelor days ... but no! I cannot go through the torment of making another offer. You’ll have to have me, I’m afraid.”

  The temptation was almost too much for Cassandra. What trick of fate sent her way the man of her dreams and refused to allow her to yield to him in the way she wanted? She’d be but a burden to him, an odious reminder of one mad moment of chivalry. She, a duchess! It was beyond all bounds. Gently she shook her head, playing now with the clasp of her reticule. Her eyes were flashing violet, regretful, and his mood at once altered in sympathy with her.

  He wanted to throw all caution to the winds and carry her off then and there. The tilt of her lovely chin dictated otherwise. Instinctively, he knew that to marry her—and he realized with sudden, fierce clarity that this is what he wanted most truly—he must prove to her that she had no need of him. Ironic, but true. While she was dependent on his generosity she would not countenance wedlock as a convenient measure, of that he was rapidly becoming more and more certain. He loved her the more for it.

  After? The duke allowed himself a small smile. After was perhaps another matter. The memory of their encounters was still sharp in his mind. Her lips tasting of ripened blackberries, her eyes merry, changing to sadness, changing again to warmth and—yes, he was certain of it—changing yet again to passion. He had reason to believe the Honorable Miss Beaumaris, despite her protestations, was not entirely impervious to his suit. It was up to him, then, to secure her freedom and to ensure that she would be importuned no more by the likes of Sir Robert Harrington and his ilk.

  The key to this task lay in the missive in his pocket. The means in a certain yacht held at anchor for him by the Messrs. Brandon, Brandon and Longey, shipbuilders to the king. Large bundles of auburn strands escaped Cassandra’s chignon as she regretfully shook her head. The duke could not help but smile. When she was his he’d insist she wear it loose, exposing the full glory of her shining mane. The well-meaning abigail who’d tried to school it into the present fashions had undoubtedly done her a disservice. The glory of her hair was to be seen, not hidden in coils of primly pinned plaits!

  He tried once more to assure her that matrimony was the proper course.

  “Don’t shake your head at me, my sweet!”

  Cassandra blushed crimson. Miles grinned, pleased at this effect.

  “Hear me out. What I wanted to say was that I have reason to believe you are in danger. If you were to marry me I’d protect you in a way I cannot as the situation stands right now. Will you not trust me?”

  Cassandra was overwhelmed. Never had she encountered such selfless concern for her well-being, and the sensation quite shook her. She was almost inclined to wish that His Grace had indeed tried to take advantage of her. At least then she could be self-composed and resolute.

  She could not much longer stand the unspoken communication that flowed between them. His Grace was so near it seemed a sin not to place her fingers on the broad expanse of his chest. She needed something, she knew, to keep her mind off temptation. Temptation was no easy foe to grapple with.

  Whist? Dice perhaps? She was surprisingly good at games of hazard. The late earl had been an inveterate player, insisting that Cassandra be the same. Many was the time she’d beguiled away his crotchets with some spark of sporting brilliance. Indeed, when he’d fallen ill she’d been only too glad of the skill, concocting all manner of diversions for his benefit.

  Cassandra was certain that if she could lose herself in play, she’d like as not be less inclined to twirl her fingers through his pitch curls. The soft fluff emanating from the nape of his neck was just too tantalizing. Shocking, was it not?

  A speculative twinkle appeared in her eyes. Impetuously, she threw down the gauntlet. She could see her words stunned but intrigued him. She laughed. Once uttered, it was impossible to retract. “I’ll marry you, Your Grace, for a wager.”

  Miles’s arm was arrested in midair, his coffee receiving more milk than originally had been intended. He looked at her assessingly, his eyes never leaving the loveliness of her person. “A wager?”

  Cassandra licked her lips. For a second her heart failed her. What had possessed her? The instant passed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Miles looked down, scrutinizing for an instant, the large emerald at his cuff. He folded his arms deliberately, then looked directly into the indigo-blue of her eyes. What mischief could she possibly be up to?

  “What kind of a wager?” he asked cautiously.

  Cassandra’s head reeled. What could she say? The die had been cast. “A round of dice, a hand of cards, a game of chess. Best of three.” The words came unbidden as his eyes fastened onto hers. Her heart beat in heady excitement that was not entirely due to the prospect of play.

  “And the prize, my dear?”

  Miles’s eyes gleamed as he watched her, his fingers arrested round the delicate venetian drinking cup. His gaze was intent as he scrutinized her, fascination etched on every pore. Cassandra gulped, her lashes faltering under his steady scrutiny. How traitorous of her heart to flutter with such abandon! What she had started, however, she could not stop.

  “The winner decides what is to become of my honor. If I win, I will almost certainly make for Bath.”

  The words were little more than a whisper. Miles’s eyes softened infinitely.

  “Marriage is honorable, Cassandra. It is not as if I’m offering you a carte blanche.” His voice was velvety, so endearingly gentle. Cassandra averted her eyes.

  “I realize that.” What right had the man to be so maddeningly desirable? “I just don’t think it fitting that I entrap you, that is all.” She ignored his slightly raised brows. “My honor will be as nothing to my shame if I force you into a loveless union. It would be so much easier if I could just contact my governess. Between the two of us, we should make some story stick.”

  Miles relaxed, his thoughts veering between a not unnatural sense of exasperation and an infinite tenderness. Loveless indeed! He shook his head and smiled. He had no compunction in agreeing to the contract. He just might enjoy himself after all. “Done! Gentleman’s agreement!” With a mocking grin, he held out his hand and took Cassandra’s in his, shaking it as he would a peer. If he retained the small, warm palm a fraction longer than perhaps he ought, none was around to gainsay.

  He had just released it, in fact, when Rupert entered the breakfast room with all the energy of a robust lad who’d not seen food for a week. St. John must have apprised him of the night’s events, for he evinced no surprise at seeing Cassandra at the duke’s table. Instead, he greeted her with an engaging grin and how do ye do before tucking into a plate of hot croquettes and eggs with relish. Between mouthfuls of his favorite treat he managed to smile benignly at Cassandra and impishly at his guardian.

  His advent put an end to more private discussion, much to Miles’s whimsical frustration. Breakfast—or lunch to the viscount—proved to be a lively affair, the young Lyndale seeing fit to regale his elders with gossip gleaned from the previous night, including the latest odds at Brooks. It seemed, although Cassandra was not perfectly clear on this point, that Brummel had bet Bollinger an egg-sized ruby that the regent would appear in blue for the fireworks display the following week.

  The finishing touch to this little impromptu gathering was the zany entrance of the twins. They’d decided, quite naturally, that a second breakfast would be most satisfactory. Miles’s voice was lost to their chatter. He gave it up. There’d be time enough shortly.

  EIGHT

  The duke had not minced his words the previous night. Harrington winced at the thought and unconsciously rubbe
d his swelling jaw. His eyes narrowed as he recalled St. John’s insulting words and the blow with which they were delivered. So! His Grace did not consider him enough of a gentleman to accord him the dignity of a duel. Well, he would live to eat those words! Sir Robert inwardly seethed, his body still bearing the humiliating marks of his evening’s encounter. His face was tender, his cheeks puffy, and the bridge of his nose alarmingly sensitive to the touch. A suspicious patch of yellowy-blue was beginning to form on the underside of his right eye, a circumstance not unreasonably giving rise to a certain degree of wrath.

  The damnable fact was that the incumbent earl of Surrey simply could not be certain of his man. The duke might well prove too haughty a fellow to roll up his sleeves and involve himself in a sordid kind of wrangle. Jackson’s Boxing Saloon was simply not his style. Harrington’s brows knitted together at the thought of the double humiliation he’d suffered the night before. He’d get even if it was the last thing he did. And that fool of a girl, Cassandra? He’d find her and make her sorry, no idle boast!

  Her whereabouts still remained an unresolved mystery. Despite the fact that he’d sent his groom, the Surrey chaise, and a number of footmen he considered relatively loyal servants to locate her, they had yet returned empty-handed. Notwithstanding the hours of impatient pacing, the search had proved mysteriously fruitless. The problem, however, was of no great moment, since she was bound to return at some time or another. Why his mother had seen fit to discharge her was beyond his torturous reasoning.

  How much better it would have been had he been able to deal with her once and for all on their return. Even now he could have had her safely in his clutches. Bedded or wedded, it was all the same to him. Forty thousand pounds would be within easy reach. He could only hope now that she would keep her mouth tightly sealed about the events of the masquerade. It would not redound to his credit were she to reveal the shortcomings of her sojourn at Surrey Manor!