His Perfect Game
Authors: Jenn Langston
Table of Contents
HIS PERFECT GAME
JENN LANGSTON
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
HIS PERFECT GAME
Copyright©2013
JENN LANGSTON
Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-339-8
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To Samuel,
for your encouragement
and that we may live out our dreams for you.
Acknowledgements
I would like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to everyone who had a hand in making my dream a reality.
Chapter 1
Greyson Thorpe, Viscount Merrick, gritted his teeth as perspiration dripped down his face. This was it: The game he had been waiting for. After months of preparation and endless plans, everything rested on this one moment, on this one hand. Piercing his opponent with a steely gaze, Greyson reveled in the man’s discomfort.
Hammond Everett, Duke of Donetic, had something Greyson wanted, and he would do anything in his power to obtain it. The stakes in this particular game were higher than he could afford to lose, and he didn’t refer to the paltry funds scattered about the gaming table. The meager sum wagered didn’t amount to anything compared to his vast fortune amassed from his practiced skill at cards.
The duke shuffled his cards again. Although his face remained masked, his fingers shook and his Adam’s apple bobbed, betraying his true state. He presented the sight of a man who lacked faith in himself. Greyson could not have asked for a better display.
Slicing his gaze to his own hand, he saw that the cards neither assured his victory nor elicited distress. Normally, overconfidence served as his gambling companion, but tonight it eluded him.
“Place your final bets,” Andrews commanded, signaling that the end drew near.
“Hauney is a sizable estate and has always managed to run on its own income.” The duke’s wager, no doubt, was meant to prove his assurance in his abilities.
Greyson froze. Could the duke be bluffing, or had he lost? He could not bring himself to believe it was over.
“Very good, Your Grace.” Andrews accepted the paper. “Lord Merrick, your counter?”
“Ambliet will do. It’s equal in size and fortune.” Greyson’s attention slid back to his opponent. “I also wager Merrick.”
The duke’s eyes widened before he regained control. Greyson didn’t change his expression nor did he lower his gaze. He knew the only other estate owned by the duke was Donetic. Judging by his narrowed eyes and thin lips, the duke would not back down.
“I accept and add Donetic. I suppose the outcome of the game will see one of us ruined.”
Greyson inclined his head, biting back the response that these two estates were not his only holdings. Instead, he silently accepted his final cards from Andrews. Desperate to learn his fate, he glanced down at his hand. His heart accelerated and his stomach clenched, but he showed no outward sign of his reaction.
With an arrogant smile, the duke waved his free hand forward, indicating he expected Greyson to tip his hand first. Without removing his eyes from the duke’s face, Greyson placed his cards face up on the table. One second passed before the duke’s face fell, and he slammed his cards down.
After years of masking his responses, Greyson had no trouble containing his relief. The moment felt surreal. He finally held the means to obtain something more valuable to him than all the estates in England.
“You are a-a cheat,” the duke sputtered, his face red. “The odds of you drawing a better hand than mine are too great.”
Greyson gripped the arms of the chair with more force than it deserved. Although familiar with this reaction from his opponents, countering in his usual manner would not serve him. He needed to remain calm.
Glancing at Andrews, he noticed the man had moved back several paces and eyed him warily. As most of the employees were aware, being called a cheat was the one insult Greyson could not abide.
Refusing to be baited, he turned his attention to the table and pocketed his winnings. As he lazily turned his gaze back to the duke’s now purple face, he fingered his brandy glass.
“In a room with this many patrons, I can’t believe you would make such a claim,” Greyson replied, lifting the glass to his lips.
“It’s possible.”
“Are you challenging me?” Greyson’s voice shook, unable to disguise the depth of his rage.
“I have nothing to lose. You have drained my coffers and taken my estates.”
The matter-of-fact response helped Greyson regain control of his anger. “Don’t be too hasty in declaring your ruin. Allow me to buy you a drink. Then we can discuss this civilly.”
“I don’t have anything more to add.” The duke crossed his arms as if daring Greyson to refute him.
“I do.” Greyson stood, stretching to his full height, and stared down at the man. “Will you not humor me?”
“Five minutes,” the duke conceded, shifting his eyes around to the gathered crowd.
Greyson nodded and then stepped away from the gaming tables. What he wanted to say would be better suited at a more private location. Their repartee already drew more attention than he’d intended. He could see the tongues wagging with tales of the bastard viscount.
His hands involuntarily clenched into fists. Over the years he had perfected his mask of indifference, but, unfortunately, he had never managed to prevent his emotions from presenting themselves in some other manner. Relaxing each finger individually, he reclaimed his calm demeanor.
After they were away from the majority of the curious ears, he turned to the duke.
“The brandy at Thorpe House far exceeds the quality of the swill they serve here. Perhaps we can take our discussion there.”
“What is your game, Merrick? I demand you tell me now.”
Greyson leaned forward, pitching his voice low. “Don’t forget I hold your vowels, and therefore the power. I could easily make my new holdings widely known. Your cooperation, however, will keep my mouth closed . . . for now.”
“So, you wish to hold this over me first? With or without my fortune, I’m not a man you should cross.”
“Neither am I.” Greyson kept his challenging gaze focused on the duke until the man began to squirm. “Now, I think we can come to an agreement. If you wish to hear me out, join me at my townhouse. However, if you prefer not to, I’ll be lenient and give you one month to vacate
my
property.”
Without waiting for a response, Greyson turned and strode from the club. At this point, he didn’t care if the duke followed him. If the man refused to accept the offer, it would not set him back far.
With the holdings gained tonight, he could find someone else to buy. Everyone had a price; determining it just took time. The idea didn’t bother him as he had become accustomed to waiting.
Regardless, he still had faith in the duke. Although prideful, the duke wasn’t a fool. Greyson fully expected the man to join him that evening. With the duke, he would be a step closer to gaining the one thing he craved, the one thing he had been denied all these years.
“Wake up, my lady.”
Willimena Abigail Everett, or Abigail as she preferred, rolled over and drew the sheets over her head. She could not think of one good reason why Mary would wake her at this hour, so she didn’t feel inclined to listen. The sun had not even snaked its way through the curtains to drag her from the world of dreams.
“It’s your father,” Mary pressed.
The mention of him ripped Abigail from her drowsy state the way nothing else could. Dread sliced through her body, leaving her gasping for breath. Good never came out of a summons from her father, particularly in the middle of the night.
“How long has he been calling?” Abigail asked, jumping out of bed and settling herself at the dressing table.
Sweeping the black powder forward, she began generously applying the coloring to her hair. If he were in one of his dark moods, it would not serve her to flaunt the reminder of his late father’s penchant for redheaded women.
Seeing her hair in the looking glass also reminded her to disguise her slight Scottish lilt. Although she had spent many years practicing an English accent, her heritage always threatened when she was unaware.
“Not long, but Lewis told me he has been drinking.”
“Then I want to wear my brown dress.” Abigail now had no question about his plan for the evening.
“But it’s—”
“I know it’s becoming threadbare in places, but I will not have him destroying another one of my gowns. I don’t have that many left.” She kept her tone level, as if discussing the beatings she endured at her father’s hand was a most natural occurrence.
The sorrow and pity in Mary’s eyes nearly destroyed her calm. “I’m sorry, my lady.”
“Come, quickly help me cover my hair.”
There was no time to style her hair, so Abigail wore it loosely down her back. If nothing else, the fullness would add more protection between her flesh and her father’s belt. Brushing a lock of hair off her shoulder, she took a deep breath. Every second she wasted here would make her punishment more severe.
“Where is the dress?” Abigail inquired as she looked around.
“I haven’t finished collecting your armor.”
“We don’t have time. I don’t believe he would notice the change in my appearance if he has been drinking.”
When Mary appeared with the dress, Abigail quickly tugged the thin fabric over her head. The armor would have offered additional protection, but it was too late. She would have to manage without it.
Years ago, before her debut into society, her mother had suggested Abigail make herself less presentable in order to deter potential suitors. In agreement with their scheme, Mary had fashioned several pieces that affixed under Abigail’s clothing in order to obscure her curves and make her appear larger in places while downplaying others. Any gentlemen still showing interest changed their mind after speaking with her mother. Abigail had no idea what occurred during those discussions, but she felt grateful for them regardless.
They had also conspired with the dressmaker to select colors that were unfavorable with her light skin tone. The final piece of her armor was a pair of black oversized glasses to obscure her face. Her mother had had them specially crafted for her with glass lenses.