A Wedding Wager (10 page)

“Lord Bradley, this is indeed an honor.” General Heyward came rapidly down the stairs, having been alerted by the servant. “I hardly dared hope we would have the honor of entertaining you in our new home.” He bowed with a flourish. “Will you play in the salon, my lord, or would you prefer the private room?” He gestured to the door to the small card room. “Several gentlemen are playing dice.”

“Faro,” the viscount stated, moving slowly to the stairs. “That stepdaughter of yours still holding the bank?”

“Serena, my lord … I believe she is playing hazard in the upper salon. She’ll be delighted to see you.” The general escorted his visitor upstairs.

Serena had yielded the faro bank to an inveterate gambler and was engaged in a lively and not too serious game of hazard with some of the younger players in the smaller salon when the viscount and the general appeared. She was laughing at some quip made by one of the young men at the table as she cast the dice, then she glanced up from the table towards the door and stiffened, the laughter dying on her lips. Her stepfather beckoned imperatively, and she excused herself from the table, making her way over to the two men.

“My lord.” She curtsied, her voice without expression, her countenance impassive.

The viscount put up his glass and surveyed her. “You seem none the worse for your travels, my dear. Still the beauty. Who’s in your toils these days?”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.” She returned his look steadily.

He gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Butter wouldn’t melt, eh?” He turned to the general. “Can’t say I blame you for keeping her on the market. Good for business, I daresay.”

The general cast his stepdaughter a warning look before acceding to this apparent witticism with a smile. “What will you play, general?”

“Oh, this pretty young thing shall engage in a game of piquet with me,” he responded, taking a japanned
snuffbox from his deep pocket. “Your wrist, my dear, if you would be so kind.”

Serena extended her arm and set her teeth, concealing her distaste as he dropped a pinch of snuff on the underside of her wrist. He bent his head and inhaled the scented powder, before dropping her wrist and mopping at his nose with a snuff-stained handkerchief. “Lead me to the cards, my dear. I have an amusing stake in mind. You shall stake a kiss and one dusky curl against my hundred golden guineas. Fair enough?”

“Oh, most amusing and very fair, indeed,” the general declared, his eyes gleaming at the prospect of a windfall at no risk to his own funds. “Serena will be delighted to accommodate you, my lord. Indeed, I am sure she’s very flattered. Are you not, my dear?”

Serena gave him a look of unutterable contempt. The general would ignore it, she knew, but it relieved her feelings somewhat. She moved towards a small card table in an alcove at the side of the salon and sat down, cutting the pack as the viscount took the chair opposite.

He was a good piquet player, as she had learned in the past, but in the last three years, she had sharpened her own skills and realized quickly with a wash of relief that his lordship was out of practice. She played in a cool, calculating silence as she selected her discards shrewdly, counted the odds against finding a desired card in the pickup almost without error, and took the first two games relatively easily.

She laid down her cards and said, “Two out of three gives me the win, sir.”

The viscount did not immediately reply. He took a rouleau of golden guineas from his pocket and placed them on the table, then said, “You have learned a lot since we last played together. But I insist on a consolation prize, my dear.” He reached out and took her hand in a surprisingly firm grip. “One kiss.”

Serena could barely conceal her revulsion. Three years earlier, the viscount had made her pointed and definitely less than honorable advances, which she had turned down flat. The general had been furious when she had refused to entertain the viscount’s protection, but before he could do anything to persuade her, his lordship had for some reason withdrawn his offer. Now, looking at the old man’s wizened countenance, in which only the eyes retained any signs of the vigorous, good-looking man of his youth, she felt a flicker of dread that he was going to renew his offer.

“No kiss, my lord,” she said firmly, withdrawing her hand with a jerk as she stood up. “But a curl you may have, if you wait here for a moment.” She whisked herself away from the table, just as the general, who had been watching them from a faro table across the salon, started towards them.

How long can I keep this up?
Serena felt exhausted, drained, as if she’d been playing for her life instead of a degrading kiss. Every day was like this, and she couldn’t
drop her guard for a moment. There was no knowing what move her stepfather would make next.

In the sanctuary of her bedchamber, she took a moment to herself, examining her reflection in the mirror. The strain of her struggle was there on her face in the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, the slight blue shadows beneath her eyes. The signs were not too pronounced yet, but at the present rate, they would be etched as deep as canyons by the end of the year.

She took a pair of tiny gold scissors and snipped a lock of hair from behind her ear. Its loss would not be noticed. She brushed a little rouge on her cheekbones and a touch of paint on her lips. Three years ago, she would have scorned such cosmetic aids, her fresh complexion had no need of them. But things had changed, she reflected grimly.

When she returned to the salon, it was time for the second supper. “I will take you down, Lady Serena,” the viscount declared, tucking the dusky curl into an inside pocket of his brocade waistcoat and offering his arm. Unsmiling, Serena laid a hand on his sleeve, and they led the party down to the supper room.

The viscount had little appetite these days and none at all for the richness of crab pâtés, lobster soufflés, scalloped oysters, and the other dishes that made up the lavish hospitality of the general’s residence on Pickering Place. Bradley’s diet was, through necessity, uniformly bland and tasteless, and he despised it heartily. Looking at the succulent dishes of which he could not partake
made him irritable. He rejected champagne, drank two glasses of claret, and stared morosely at Serena, sitting beside him but engaged in a lively conversation with a pair of young men sharing their table.

Abruptly, he pushed back the little gilt chair with a scrape on the wooden floor. “Enough. Summon my coach.” He grabbed his cane and levered himself to his feet as Serena, startled, jumped to her feet.

“Is something the matter, my lord?” Heyward came hurrying over. “Should I call for assistance?”

“No, just summon my coach. There’s nothing that interests me here.” He waved his cane precariously at the assembled company, before glaring at Serena as if she was the architect of all his woes, and shuffled to the door.

“What did you do?” Heyward hissed at his stepdaughter before hurrying after the viscount.

“He’s always an irascible old bear,” Lord Carlton said with a chuckle. “Very rarely goes in company. I heard he was at death’s door a few weeks ago. I was surprised to see him here.”

“Oh, he came only to play piquet with the fair Serena,” declared another young man with a grin. “And who can blame him for that?”

“You don’t play piquet with Lady Serena and expect to win,” Carlton said. “I was watching your game, Serena. A masterly repique.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” She rose from the table. “I had better go and see if I can pour oil on troubled waters. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

She found the general in high dudgeon, having seen his guest into his coach. “What did you say to him?” he demanded.

“Almost nothing at all,” Serena said with admirable truth. “I find I have no conversation with the viscount. And he certainly isn’t one for small talk. I expect he’s annoyed because he lost the game.”

“You should have let him win. The man’s pride was wounded. One game at least you could have given him.”

“It would have merely prolonged the agony for both of us,” she returned. “Besides, I gave him a lock of hair.”

The general’s eyes narrowed. “He wanted a kiss. What harm is there in that?”

“A great deal to my reputation, sir.”

He gave a short laugh. “Reputation, indeed. You’re one of faro’s daughters, and the law could have you whipped at the cart’s arse for it if it wished. Face facts, girl. You’re no more respectable than any Covent Garden whore or madam.” He stalked back to the supper room.

Serena stood still for a long time, hearing the buzz of conversation as a distant hum. The general had spoken only the truth, but he had made her into this. And until she had amassed sufficient funds to be independent, she had no choice but to stay as she was. One of faro’s daughters.

Viscount Bradley sat slumped in the carriage as it bore him back to the Strand. He was more than put out
now. He was angry. Who the hell did the girl think she was? She was little better than a whore; the most she could hope for in life was a rich and respectable protector, and that only while she was young and for as long as her looks lasted. She had turned him down once, three years ago, and he had given up the pursuit, not for her sake but because against all the inclinations of character, he had a certain fondness for his nephews.

Bradley closed his eyes as the carriage swayed around a corner. He had assumed Sebastian wanted Serena for his mistress, and he’d yielded the field with relatively good grace. His own sexual prowess had been waning then, although he could still manage a few bouts with the right woman. But then, the next thing he knew, the general and his stepdaughter had closed their house on Charles Street and gone abroad. So neither he nor Sebastian had managed to snare the woman.

The carriage halted, and he clambered out, cursing at the ache in his joints, the clumsiness of the servant, the chill in the air. Once upstairs, ensconced in his own bedchamber, where a fire blazed and curtains were drawn tight at the windows and around the great four-poster bed to keep out any flicker of a draft, he sank into a deep armchair by the fire and found he was not in the least ready for bed. His ill humor had to be assuaged before he could sleep. Vigorously, he rang the little handbell on the table beside him.

“Yes, my lord.” Louis, his manservant, who waited
in the antechamber until his master was finally abed, appeared immediately.

“Send that black crow, Cosgrove, to me. I’m in the mood to write,” Bradley mumbled from the depths of his armchair. “And bring me the cognac.”

“At once, my lord.” Louis placed the decanter and a goblet on the table beside the viscount and went to summon the luckless Father Cosgrove, whose unhappy task it was to perform as the viscount’s personal priest, confessor, and amanuensis. The latter task involved transcribing his lordship’s memoirs, which ranged freely over his romantic and sexual encounters. The young priest could rarely hide his horror at the lascivious exploits he was obliged to set down, and the more shocked and horrified he was, the greater pleasure the viscount took in the compilation of his memoirs.

Father Cosgrove, woken abruptly from a deep sleep in his monastic little room under the eaves, wearily donned his black cassock and went to his employer, who greeted him with the instruction, “Pen and paper, crow. I’ve another installment burning to be told.”

The young priest sat at the secretaire, sharpened a quill, dipped it into the inkwell, and waited, stifling a yawn. Bradley decided to recount his fantasies about the lovely Lady Serena, the fantasies he had had when he had first seen her, and because he was in the mood to make mischief, he indulged those fantasies, embellishing them as the mood took him, peopling them with beautiful women entwined together for his delectation, describing
the sinuous smoothness of Serena’s skin, the firm breasts and backside, the supple limbs, just as he had imagined them. And Father Cosgrove squirmed and suffered as he faithfully wrote down every dictated word.

It took two hours for the viscount’s ill temper to dissipate, and by that time, he had imagined himself into his own fantasy world so successfully he was as lustful as a satyr. He knew, alas, that his erection was a feeble thing and wouldn’t last, but for a few minutes, he could indulge in the memory of himself as the virile, lusty man of his youth and middle age.

“Go to your bed, crow.” He dismissed the priest with a weary wave. “And send Louis to me. I’m ready for my own bed now.”

The young priest disappeared as swiftly and silently as he’d arrived, and Louis came in to help his master to bed.

Sleep didn’t come to the viscount immediately. He lay wakeful, his mind, for the moment purged of venom, slipping back into memories of the young man he had been, full of ambition, certainly, but also open to love. And how he had loved Aurora. Such a fanciful name for a lady’s maid, but she had been in every way the epitome of the rosy dawn, or so he had thought, lost in the sickly realms of calf love. At least, that was what they had said.
Calf love.
They had told him he’d get over it quickly enough, told him to look for a wife among his own people, told him he would be bringing disgrace on the name of Blackwater. And for some idiotic
reason, he had believed them. He had been willing to sacrifice his love for the family, until he discovered what they had done to Aurora. Thrown onto the street in the dark hour before dawn, penniless, without references, to fend for herself. She could have been with child; he didn’t know, but he did know it was very possible. And although he had hunted high and low for her, the family had managed to dismiss her from the face of the earth. There were no signs that she had ever walked upon it, except for the imprint she had left in his heart.