The Marriage Wager Read online

  It was past midnight when the game broke up. The young man looked sick and terrified as he murmured some final words to his partner and then hurried from the room. Emma rose as the older man strolled out, his careless ease infuriating her further. Something had to be done, she decided. She could not allow this. This time, she would be able to stop it.

  Rising, Emma followed the man from the room, keeping just out of sight as he descended the stairs, received his cloak from a servant, and went out into the night. When Ferik rose from his place in the hall to accompany her home, Emma gave him a silent signal. Obediently, he fell in two paces behind as she trailed the man to a cluster of hackney coaches awaiting passengers. Only when Emma told one of the drivers, “I wish to go where that gentleman goes,” pointing to the hack pulling away ahead of them, did Ferik say, “Mistress?”

  “Get in,” replied Emma, her anger evident in her tone.

  Silently, he did so, and they clattered through the dark streets of London toward a more fashionable part of town. Emma took out the loo mask she always carried in her reticule, in case she wished to go somewhere unrecognized, and put it on. It covered all her face except the lips and chin.

  “What has happened, mistress?” asked Ferik. He frowned. “Did that man insult you? Shall I kill him?”

  Emma waved him to silence as both hackneys pulled up in front of a large stone mansion. She leapt out, thrust a coin at the driver, and hurried toward the door, which the man was just unlocking. Ferik ran to keep up.

  She made it, as she had meant to, just as he walked inside. And thus she and Ferik entered his house on his heels as the wide door swung shut.

  “What in blazes?” The man lifted his ebony walking stick like someone who knew what to do with it. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’ve come for Robin Bellingham’s notes of hand,” said Emma. She had seen the young man scribbling one after another promise to pay as he lost more and more to this villain. Rage at the man burned in her. How many young men had he ruined already? she wondered.

  He lowered his cane slightly and stared. There was something familiar about these two, he thought.

  “I’ll offer you what you can’t refuse,” the woman added, her tone heavy with scorn. “I’ll play you for them.”

  Colin Wareham let his stick fall. He eyed the bronze giant and the cloaked and masked woman beside him. “I saw you on the ship from France,” he said. The entire incident came back to him, particularly the feeling this woman had roused.

  She ignored this as irrelevant. “Did you hear me? I challenge you to a game, the stakes to be those notes.”

  Colin examined her. The mask didn’t matter; he clearly remembered that beautiful face, and the unfathomable complex of emotions he had thought he saw in it. No woman had ever spoken to him in this way, or offered such a proposition. “Why?” he asked. “What’s young Bellingham to you?” He absorbed the pale gilt hair, the sensuous mouth, the gentle curve of breast and hip, more exciting somehow than voluptuousness. “Your lover?” The idea was ridiculous. He didn’t believe the boy had it in him.

  “That is no concern of yours!” she responded with icy ferocity. “I shall not let you ruin him.”

  Colin was oddly disappointed that she did not deny the connection. There must be more to young Bellingham than was readily apparent. Then he noticed that the woman’s giant servant was gaping at her with obvious astonishment. This was a puzzle indeed.

  Colin felt as if something lost was stirring and wakening inside him. It had been months since he had felt curiosity, or the least hint of amusement. He could not resist prolonging the situation. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll play you. You leave the choice of game to me?”

  She gave a curt nod.

  “You are very confident of your skills.”

  She made no reply, but Colin could see contempt in the set of her head, the quick involuntary gesture of one hand. His competitive instincts began to stir. “Why not?” he said, half to himself.

  A thin smile curved her lips. She looked, Colin thought, as if he had done precisely what she expected, and as if she was anticipating a thorough rout. Growing even more intrigued, he took up the candlestick that had been waiting for him and opened a door off the hall. Walking into the library, he rang the bell, then lit more candles with the one he held, illuminating the beautiful room. “Does your fearsome friend stand over me as we play?” he inquired.

  “Ferik will wait in the hall,” she replied. “Where he can easily hear me if I call out.” At her words, the giant folded his legs under him and sank to the hall floor, leaning his back comfortably against the wall.

  “He can have a chair,” said Colin.

  Silent, enigmatic, Ferik slowly shook his head. He looked like a dark statue guarding some ancient monument, Colin thought. The image surprised and delighted him. Giving in to the impulse, he laughed, and the sound in the quiet of the house startled him. How long had it been since he had felt moved to laughter?

  A surprised, and very sleepy, footman appeared at the back of the hall. He gaped at Ferik, then at the masked woman standing next to him. “My lord?” he said.

  “John. Good. We require brandy and several piquet decks.” Taking in his guest’s set expression, he added, “Unopened packs, mind you, John.” A smile continued to tug at his lips.

  “Yes, my lord,” said the young footman, closing his mouth with a snap and turning to do his master’s bidding.

  Emma walked into the library and took a seat at the card table to wait. She was somewhat surprised to find that it was just the sort of room she liked. The shelves of leather-bound books beckoned against the dark green walls. The thick patterned carpet and heavy draperies shut out all external noise. In a corner was a comfortable armchair with a footrest, a book open on the small table beside it. Probably his wife had been reading there alone while he gambled away their funds until the early hours, Emma thought. She had never met a gamester who cared a snap of his fingers for books.

  The footman returned with a tray containing the cards, a decanter of brandy, and two glasses. He took his time as he set it down, arranged the table, and poured, casting curious sidelong glances at the masked woman sitting rigid in the gilt chair. The baron had had no guests at all since his return from France. His disappointed staff, expecting lively parties of gentlemen at least—along with the opportunity for lavish tips—had murmured among themselves. Cook had gone so far as to approach Mr. Reddings with a question, and had been roundly snubbed by the valet for her pains. But now it seemed as if their master was beginning an intrigue. This opened up new possibilities. John could scarcely wait to tell the others in the morning. “Will there be anything else, my lord?” he said, his face showing none of these thoughts.

  “No, thank you, John. Nothing more. You may go to bed.”

  His avid gaze taking in every detail, the footman went. Wait until Nancy heard about the foreign giant sitting on the hall floor, he thought. He would be the center of attention below stairs for days and days.

  Emma faced her host across the inlaid card table and prepared to deal. She had no doubt that she would win, and she could scarcely wait to see his face when she did. One of the few pleasures left in her life was defeating these despicable creatures who preyed on the young and unwary. They thought themselves invulnerable, and when they were bested, and by a woman too, it rocked them to their very foundations.

  They began to play. The room was warm. The footman had made up the fire, though the evening was mild. The ranks of candles threw a wavering golden light over the cards as Emma surveyed her hand and began to calculate choices. The scent of leather and beeswax furniture polish permeated the room.

  Her host offered her one of the glasses. “Brandy, miss…? What is your name? I never heard it on the ship.”

  She ignored him, deciding on a discard.

  “Mine’s Wareham, Colin Wareha
m.” He sipped from his glass, his eyes roving over her, then examined the card she had put down. His brows rose slightly. “Clever,” he said. “You play well. But it’s odd; you don’t have quite the manner of the ladies who haunt the gaming tables.”

  “I’m not like them,” replied Emma in a voice full of loathing. “Like you. I don’t lure unwitting youngsters into losing their fortunes to me.”

  “Neither do—”

  “I don’t care to talk while I play,” said Emma. She had no intention of chatting with a man like him.

  In the next half hour, she discovered that he was a formidable player. He calculated the odds to a nicety, and played his cards well. He seemed also to have an uncanny ability to predict what cards she held. It was clear that a fine mind lay behind those slender, finely boned hands. As time passed, Emma noticed with some surprise that they were not the soft, white hands she usually saw at gambling tables. His skin was browned by the sun, and there were nicks and calluses to show that he did other things besides fleece youngsters of their money. His manner, too, was not quite that of the hardened gamester. But she had the evidence of her own eyes, and she steadfastly ignored any distractions.

  Emma lost the first game of the rubber, but not by much. And the fall of the cards had obviously been in his favor. She was not at all worried as he dealt the second hand and she sorted through it, planning her strategy.

  “You don’t even like cards, do you?” said Wareham, curiosity clear in his tone.

  Startled, Emma looked up. She had not expected him to notice anything but the game. Men like him had no other interests. She met his eyes, and abruptly remembered all the details of their encounter on the ship as she lost herself in their violet depths. They really did have depths. And they hinted at intelligence and compassion and humor and numberless other traits that were utterly alien to the kind of man she knew him to be. As on the boat, she was transfixed by the power of his gaze.

  Thoroughly unsettled, she examined him. She’d gotten only a general impression before—of a tall, dark man, slender though broad-shouldered, dressed in well-cut, fashionable clothes. Now she noticed his face—narrow, with high cheekbones that slanted upward, leaving a slight hollow beneath them; an aquiline nose; a determined chin with an unobtrusive cleft. His black hair was cropped short, but it had a slight curl that was not wholly disguised by brushing it severely back from his forehead and temples. His lips were firm and chiseled, his eyes deep set and that unusual shade of blue. He was quite handsome, she admitted to herself, and there was something definitely attractive about him. Of course, there would have to be, she reminded herself severely, if he was to lure unsuspecting youngsters to their ruin. All these Captain Sharps had a certain superficial charm.

  “It’s almost as if you hate playing,” he added.

  “I do,” she replied crisply. For Emma, there was no thrill at the risk. Gambling, for her, was more like the tedious mathematical problems her governess Miss Crane used to set her in the schoolroom, or translation of a tricky bit of French. She won not through love or luck but through intelligence and cool calculation and sheer necessity.

  “You find no joy in it at all?” he said.

  “Joy?” repeated Emma in accents of loathing. “The moment I begin to enjoy gaming, I shall abandon it forever.” She had to suppress a shudder.

  “Why, then, do you play?” he inquired.

  “Because I must!” she snapped. “Will you discard, sir?”

  He looked as if he wished to say more, but in the end, he simply laid down a card. Focusing on her hand, Emma tried to concentrate all her attention upon it. But she was aware now of his gaze upon her, of his compelling presence on the other side of the table.

  She looked up again. He was gazing at her, steadily, curiously. But she could find no threat in his eyes. On the contrary, they were disarmingly friendly. He could not possibly look like that and wish her any harm, Emma thought dreamily.

  He smiled.

  Emma caught her breath. His smile was amazing—warm, confiding, utterly trustworthy. She must have misjudged him, Emma thought.

  “Are you sure you won’t have some of this excellent brandy?” he asked, sipping from his glass. “I really can recommend it.”

  Seven years of hard lessons came crashing back upon Emma as their locked gaze broke. He was doing this on purpose, of course. Trying to divert her attention, beguile her into making mistakes and losing. Gathering all her bitterness and resolution, Emma shifted her mind to the cards. She would not be caught so again.

  Emma won the second hand, putting them even. But as she exulted in the win, she noticed a small smile playing around Colin Wareham’s lips and wondered at it. He poured himself another glass of brandy and sipped it. He looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying himself, she thought. And he didn’t seem at all worried that she would beat him. His arrogance was infuriating.

  All now rested on the third hand. As she opened a new pack of cards and prepared to deal, Emma took a deep breath.

  “You are making a mistake, refusing this brandy,” Wareham said, sipping again.

  “I have no intention of fuzzing my wits with drink,” answered Emma crisply. She did not look at him as she snapped out the cards.

  “Who are you?” he said abruptly. “Where do you come from? You have the voice and manner of a nobleman’s daughter, but you are nothing like the women I meet in society.”

  Emma flushed a little. There was something in his tone—it might be admiration or derision—that made her self-conscious. Let some of those women spend the last seven years as she had, she thought bitterly, and then see what they were like. “I came here to play cards,” she said coldly. “I have said I do not wish to converse with you.”

  Raising one dark eyebrow, he picked up his hand. The fire hissed in the grate. One of the candles guttered, filling the room with the smell of wax and smoke. At this late hour, the streets outside were silent; the only sound was Ferik’s surprisingly delicate snores from the hall.

  In silence, they frowned over discards and calculated odds. Finally, after a long struggle, Wareham said, “I believe this point is good.” He put down a card.

  Emma stared at it.

  “And also my quint,” he added, laying down another.

  Emma’s eyes flickered to his face, then down again.

  “Yes?” he urged.

  Swallowing, she nodded.

  “Ah. Good. Then—a quint, a tierce, fourteen aces, three kings, and eleven cards played, ma’am.”

  Emma gazed at the galaxy of court cards spread before her, then fixed on the one card he still held. The game depended on it, and there was no hint to tell her what she should keep to win the day. She hesitated a moment longer, then made her decision. “A diamond,” she said, throwing down the rest of her hand.

  “Too bad,” he replied, exhibiting a small club.

  Emma stared at the square of pasteboard, stunned. She couldn’t believe that he had beaten her. “Piqued, repiqued, and capotted,” she murmured. It was a humiliating defeat for one of her skill.

  “Bad luck.”

  “I cannot believe you kept that club.”

  “Rather than throw it away on the slender chance of picking up an ace or a king?”

  Numbly, Emma nodded. “You had been taking such risks.”

  “I sometimes bet on the slim chances,” he conceded. “But you must vary your play if you expect to keep your opponent off balance.” He smiled.

  That charming smile, Emma thought. Not gloating or contemptuous, but warm all the way to those extraordinary eyes. It almost softened the blow of losing. Almost.

  “We said nothing of your stake for this game,” he pointed out.

  “You asked me for none,” Emma retorted. She could not nearly match the amount of Robin Bellingham’s notes.

  “True.” Colin watched as she bit her lower lip in
frustration, and savored the rapid rise and fall of her breasts under the thin bodice of her satin gown. “It appears we are even.”

  She pounded her fist softly on the table. She had been sure she could beat him, Colin thought. And she had not planned beyond that point. He waited, curious to see what she would do now.

  She pounded the table again, thwarted determination obvious in her face. “Will you try another match?” she said finally.

  A fighter, Colin thought approvingly. He breathed in the scent of her perfume, let his eyes linger on the creamy skin of her shoulders. He had never encountered such a woman before. He didn’t want her to go. On the contrary, he found himself wanting something quite different. “One hand,” he offered. “If you win, the notes are yours.”

  “And if I do not?” she asked.

  “You may still have them, but I get…” He hesitated. He was not the sort of man who seduced young ladies for sport. But she had come here to his house and challenged him, Colin thought. She was no schoolgirl. She had intrigued and irritated and roused him.

  “What?” she said, rather loudly.

  He had been staring at her far too intensely, Colin realized. But the brandy and the strangeness of the night had made him reckless. “You,” he replied.

  There was a moment of shocked silence, as if that one simple word had frozen them into a static tableau. Then his beautiful visitor stiffened in her chair. On the tabletop, her hands curled into fists. “How dare you?” she replied.

  “You might be surprised at what I would dare.”

  “You are despicable. If you think that I came here to—”

  “You are the one who suggested another game,” he interrupted. “I have merely set the stakes.”

  “Outrageous stakes,” she answered. “Out of the question.”

  “You’ll never be offered better odds,” he said, his senses filled with images of her in his arms. “However the cards fall, you get what you want.” Unable to resist the impulse any longer, he reached across the table to touch her.