Once Upon a Wager

by Julie LeMense

  She’d stuck her tongue out at him in response. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean.” But she’d wondered if he were right, if it marked the beginning of something strange and wonderful.

  He’d smiled down at her, because his horse was easily a hand higher than her own. “It means that you are growing up, bit by bit. Someday, you will be a beautiful woman, and lovesick men will want to give you flowers.”

  He’d leapt off of his horse to wander in the fields, snapping off an assortment of blossoms at their stems, before returning to give her an elaborate bow. “Let me be the first to offer a tribute to your beauty, my lady.”

  She could still remember the rush of pleasure as she looked first into his smiling, handsome face, and then down at his makeshift bouquet—a mix of pink hydrangeas, French lilacs, and glossy white peonies with starburst centers.

  “Annabelle … Annabelle! Come out of the clouds and back to the breakfast room, if you please. Who are the flowers from?”

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, embarrassed again. “I was caught up in a memory.”

  Canby set the arrangement on the breakfast table and turned to offer Annabelle the accompanying card, which was engraved with the Carstairs family crest. Heart fluttering, she turned it over. There was a short note, written in Alec’s familiar hand, saying that he would think of her all day before he saw her this evening at the Hertford ball. He had signed it simply, just his first name. Like an infatuated schoolgirl, she clutched the note close to her heart before she could stop herself. “Alec Carstairs sent the flowers.” She felt exhilarated, as if the world was full of promise, and no dream was too foolish.

  “Well, that answers my question,” Aunt Sophia said. “Not just friends, then.”

  Chapter 17

  Hertford House dominated Manchester Square with an enormous stone facade five bays wide and three stories high. Its front entrance, centered beneath a large Venetian window and balcony, was flanked by high Romanesque marble columns, and the entire property was set in an elaborate garden, protected from the street by tall iron gates. So many carriages clogged the road leading to the mansion that it took more than an hour just to move around Manchester Square.

  The annual Hertford ball was the biggest fete of the Season, and Isabella Seymour-Conway, the marchioness, was one of society’s most influential hostesses. According to Aunt Sophia, she was also an especially close friend of the prince regent—the kissing kind—which explained why she’d just returned from an extended stay in rural Ireland. Supposedly, it was a common punishment for wives who courted scandal.

  Annabelle could not judge her. She’d learned that passion could seduce you, hold you in its sway, and make you do shocking things. When she thought of the intimacies she’d shared with Alec and of her own uninhibited responses, her entire body flushed with warmth. Not that she regretted anything they had done. Something so wonderful could never be wrong. Unless, of course, her heart was crushed in the end.

  When they reached the front door at last, she and Aunt Sophia were helped from their carriage and ushered into the home’s front hallway by a phalanx of footmen, each dressed in the distinctive silver and blue Hertford livery. It was less a hall, though, than a cavernous, two-story room dominated by a broad double staircase. A long line of the ton’s elite snaked up the steps, which led into the ballroom above, where an orchestra was at play. Annabelle recognized a few faces, smiling when she did. For the most part, though, she waited nervously for her turn at the top of the stairs, when she and Aunt Sophia would be announced to the assembled guests.

  Was Alec already here? This ball might be a spectacle of sights and sounds, but he was the only person she wanted to see.

  When the Hertford’s butler announced their arrival, it seemed as if every set of eyes—lorgnettes and quizzing glasses, too—swerved toward them as the din in the room quieted to a murmur. She took a deep breath as she and Aunt Sophia stepped down into the elaborate ballroom, lit with hundreds of candles, and shining with satins and silks.

  • • •

  “Miss Layton, will you honor me with the quadrille this evening?” Viscount Petersham called out, barely visible in the crowd that collected as she and Aunt Sophia finished their introductions in the receiving line. Annabelle felt as if she were being swallowed whole. Were balls always such a crush of people? “Make way,” Petersham called out again, nudging aside a young gentleman whom she’d met on Rotten Row last week, as well as several matrons with their sons. When she saw what he was wearing, her mouth nearly dropped open in surprise.

  Dressed in shades of gold, from his heavily embroidered cutaway coat right down to the bell-shaped buckles on his jeweled evening shoes, he simply glowed, like the mythical King Midas. The brown tones he wore exclusively were nowhere in sight.

  “Lord Petersham,” marveled Aunt Sophia, clearly impressed. “If we were not at war with the French, I would compare you favorably with the brilliance of Versailles.”

  “You’re too kind, Lady Marchmain,” he said as he stopped in front of them. “These sartorial flourishes come easily when the exquisite Miss Layton is your inspiration.”

  Had she missed something? So many people were around her that Annabelle found it difficult to concentrate. “I wanted to pay tribute to your spectacular eyes, Miss Layton,” he continued, “but I couldn’t decide between the purest cerulean and the sparkling hues of a sapphire. How lucky that your golden tresses, in all of their glory, offered me the perfect palette. I hope you are pleased.”

  For a moment, Annabelle was speechless.

  “I am … touched, Lord Petersham. Indeed, I don’t quite know what to say. You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble.”

  “I do nothing by half measure, my dear. If I may pencil my name onto your dance card, I shall look forward to telling you all about my new barouche, which is also gold. Its lovely sky-blue trimmings are particularly dashing. There’s nothing else like it in all of London.”

  “I don’t doubt it, Petersham,” Lord Marworth said as he pushed forward and offered an elegant bow. “Lady Marchmain, how lovely you are this evening. Miss Layton, may I also ask you to honor me with a dance?”

  “I’m flattered,” Annabelle said, smiling as she extended her card, which dangled from her gloved wrist by a silken ribbon. Before either gentleman could sign it, however, a gruff, much older man maneuvered a path through the crowd. “Don’t let them waste your time, Miss Layton,” he called out. “Neither of these dandies knows how to please a woman.”

  Lord Petersham drew back in affront.

  Annabelle was certain that she’d never met the man. He was slight of stature, with a bald head and a nose that was hooked like a talon. Surprised as she was by his indelicate comment, however, she was even more shocked when he turned to Aunt Sophia with a lascivious grin. “Too bad you are past the age for childbearing, missy. I would snap you up instead of going after the young one. I’d wager you know what to do with a man behind closed doors.”

  Several in the crowd stiffened with indignation, but Aunt Sophia merely smiled. “Lord Higgins, you made a similar proposal thirty years ago. If I recall, I said I would snap something off.”

  The old lord raised his nose a notch and turned toward Annabelle. “Miss Layton, we have not been introduced, but if you’d do me the great honor of becoming my wife, you’d save me a lot of trouble, and we could get on to the baby making.”

  Were she not so horrified by the prospect, she would have laughed out loud at his audacity. Had she stumbled into the center of a circus? “My lord, you don’t even know me!”

  “I don’t need to, my dear,” he replied with a leering smile. “You are beautiful and well placed, and that’s all you need to be.”

  “You, sir, are an outrage!” Petersham gasped, as several gentlemen closed around Lord Higgins, bent on removing him from the ballroom. Luckily, the first strains of a Scottish reel started up, and Lord Marworth seized the opportunity to lead Annabelle onto the dance floor with an am
used grin.

  • • •

  Alec was trying to concentrate on what Lord Fitzsimmons was saying. He was. But when Annabelle had arrived, descending into the ballroom like a princess, her eyes sparkling, every sensible thought raced from his head. She was dressed in a white silk gown overlaid with embroidered tulle, the pattern a delicate tracery of flowers on trailing vines. Its short, puffed sleeves and sloping neckline highlighted the sweep of her shoulders, while the fitted bodice drew his eyes toward her breasts, then down to her waist and the sensuous curve of her hips. A flurry of excited whispers had followed her into the ballroom, and the men who’d tracked her so relentlessly these past weeks watched her too, eyes covetous as they swept her from head to toe.

  He wondered how long it would take him to poke their eyes out.

  Lord Fitzsimmons was still talking—as he had since their arrival—but his words droned meaninglessly, because Annabelle was dancing with Benjamin, smiling at him when Alec wanted all of her smiles for himself. As she spun about the room, he remembered how she’d looked this morning, her silk nightgown falling from her body, her lips swollen and wet. Desire flooded through him, but that wasn’t the whole of it. There was something else too, something far deeper.

  The realization nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

  He wanted all of her, as much as she could give for the whole of his life and beyond. He wanted her sighs and her laughter. Even though he didn’t deserve her. Even though there was every chance that she’d merely been satisfying her curiosity last night. He’d promised to show her around the ton, to introduce her to eligible men. It was the right thing to do. She should have the opportunity to find out what sort of man she wanted. But for the first time in a long while, he didn’t care about what was right or wrong or expected.

  At long last, the dance was done, and as Benjamin bowed to Annabelle, Alec found the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He excused himself from his conversation with Jane and her father, moving toward the couple as they left the dance floor. When Annabelle saw him, she grinned.

  All the candles in the room could not match the incandescence of that smile.

  • • •

  Was he thinking about what had happened last night? Was that why his eyes seemed to shine so brightly, and his gaze felt like an embrace? Alec was walking straight toward her, as if she were the only person in the ballroom.

  Had he guessed it, then? Was her heart in her eyes, laid bare to the whole world? She was nervous, excited, and awkward all at once. In a heartbeat, he was beside her, giving a quick nod to Lord Marworth before turning with a look that made her legs feel like buckling beneath her.

  “Miss Layton,” he said, his voice warm and rich, his eyes dancing. “I confess I’ve been thinking of you since the early morning hours.”

  “You’re not the only one, Dorset.” Lord Marworth chuckled beside her. “Have you seen Petersham’s get-up? The color is an homage to our lovely Miss Layton.”

  “The man is an offense to good taste,” Alec said. “Annabelle wouldn’t be swayed by such a ridiculous gesture.” He turned back to her. “How was your day?” he asked gently. “Did you like the flowers? I remembered they are your favorite. I gave very specific instructions.”

  “They are beautiful.”

  “I warned you that lovesick men would send you tributes when you grew up.”

  “Is that what you are?” she asked, lowering her eyes to the intricate folds of his cravat, wishing that they were back in the library, alone, so that she could remove it from his neck, and kiss the pulse point at the base of his throat.

  Marworth cleared his throat, as if to recall her attention. “I sense that my presence here is redundant,” he said with a wry smile. “Ah! There is Miss Fitzsimmons, watching us all rather carefully. Perhaps I’ll ask her to dance, to see if I chase her frown away. It will be a difficult task, but that’s the fun of any challenge.”

  He kissed her gloved hand, and then with a scandalous wink, he wandered away. When Alec’s eyes flared, Annabelle was torn between jealousy and a question she couldn’t help but ask. “Do you mind?”

  “That he just winked at you? Of course I mind.”

  “No. Do you mind that he is asking Jane to dance?” She hated the insecurity she could hear in her voice. “I know you care for her.”

  He grew serious then. “I do care about Miss Fitzsimmons, because she is a good woman, but my feelings for her are nothing like my feelings for you. Surely you know that?”

  Looking into his eyes, she couldn’t miss the sincerity there, or mistake the emotion. Joy swept through her, the force of it so strong that she wouldn't have been surprised to find that her feet were no longer touching the ground. It was only briefly dimmed by the sight of Aunt Sophia approaching with a horde of gentlemen in tow.

  “They’re like locusts,” Alec muttered. “Quickly. Hand me your card before they claim every dance. I want all three of the waltzes.”

  “You know we can’t dance more than two of them,” she said with an impish smile. “Even I know that. People will be scandalized. Think of your reputation.”

  “Let them have their scandal,” he said with a wink of his own. “The waltzes are mine.”

  • • •

  Damien Digby moved through the Hertford Ball, focused on his revenge so long in the making. He had less than a month here in London, and it had taken every bit of his guile to negotiate that much leave. His regiment, the 10th Hussars, would have a new commander in place by the time he returned, and by all accounts, the man was a sober sort, distressingly disinclined to gambling, whoring, and drink—all the things, in fact, that made the barracks in Brighton tolerable.

  Which meant that he had very little time to orchestrate the downfall of Alec Carstairs, the Earl of Dorset.

  His life had taken a decidedly nasty turn since his last encounter with Dorset. The man had interfered with that highly lucrative Layton deal, and the result had been Gareth Layton’s inconvenient death, not to mention his delectable sister’s maiming.

  Damien had returned to London to find his memberships at Brooks and Boodles rescinded. His account had been closed at Tattersall’s, and suddenly, up and down Bond Street at the best haberdashers, his patronage was no longer welcomed. The consequences, it seemed, of being blackballed by a peer of the realm.

  A gambler needed easy access to the ton, and without it, his creditors had been increasingly insistent. Painfully insistent. After a particularly frightening encounter on Fleet Street—one that left him with an ugly scar that ran from his left cheek to his chin—Damien had decided his country was calling. Surely the Peninsula was preferable to back-alley beatings.

  As it happened, neither was pleasant. But he'd bribed his way back to England, preying on the vices of his commanding officers until he was posted to Brighton, a plum assignment if ever there was one. His uniform with its gold braided coat never failed to attract women, who one and all were drawn to gaudy, shiny things, just like magpies. If this evening went as planned, he would celebrate by pumping between a long pair of shapely thighs.

  But first things first.

  He scanned the crowded room. Long rows of chairs were set up on either side of the ballroom, with clusters of potted palms arranged in various alcoves, ideal for those who wanted to indulge in a flirtation away from prying eyes. However, he was headed toward the gaming tables in the ballroom’s antechamber.

  If he were careful in a place like this, the winnings could be grand indeed, but he had only one target tonight: Lord Reginald Fitzsimmons, whose daughter Dorset was courting.

  He’d tracked Fitzsimmons to Sharpe’s last week, a notorious hell for hardened fans of cards and dice, where Damien studied his every move. What his eyes betrayed when the cards were dealt. If he flinched when a stronger hand was laid down. If he perspired when a hand turned against him. If he cheated. In the end, Fitzsimmons had been guilty of all save the last. The fool. Making a habit of the last was the only way to mitigate the
first three.

  How convenient that Dorset’s future father-in-law was a gambling man.

  He spied the older gentleman in a corner, deep into a game of Pontoon with four other men, an empty seat beside him. Short and paunchy, with a receding chin and a hairline to match. His face was flushed, a tall snifter of whiskey by his side, another empty glass beside it. And Damien knew what that meant. The man was losing, and badly.

  He made his way across the room, smiling at strangers to create the illusion of being widely known, before sitting down at the table. The play was deep enough that the others merely nodded their greeting, but Fitzsimmons took note of his uniform and smiled.

  Before long, his smile vanished. One by one, the other players took their leave as Damien took control of the game and its winnings. Not Fitzsimmons, though. He played on as the stakes moved higher. Perspiring heavily, he downed another whiskey, and then another. His eyes took on that fevered look, the one that appeared when a man was gambling with money he did not have.

  “My lord,” Damien said after the final hand was played. “I believe the total owed is 3,000 pounds.”

  Fitzsimmons took another swig of whiskey. “Well, lad,” he said, obviously trying not to panic. “I hope you will give me a few days to collect the funds. I do not, of course, carry that kind of money with me, but I’m good for it.”

  “I don’t doubt it, Lord Fitzsimmons. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. I am Corporal Damien Digby, of the 10th Royal Hussars, the prince’s own.”

  “Have we met before?” Fitzsimmons asked, surprised to be called by name.

  “I’ve not had that honor, my lord, but your reputation as a strong voice for our troops precedes you. May I speak for my fellow soldiers and offer our thanks?”

  The old man brightened, puffed up by that bit of hyperbole. “I know the challenges you men face. I’m happy to make a difference in your lives.”

  Pompous ass. Weak men always touted their influence.