Once Upon a Wager (25 page)

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.

“I'm currently supporting the new soldiers' bill to make the return of lads like you more seamless. With the influence of its sponsor, Alec Carstairs, Earl of Dorset, we're certain to see it pass.”

Damien pretended to rear back in surprise. “Carstairs, you say? Alec Carstairs, of Nuneaton?”

“I am glad you've heard of him, son. There's no better man in London.”

“If he has your confidence, I shall say no more. No doubt he is much changed from the gentleman I knew years ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“I hesitate to say it … but he was involved in a very unsavory incident the last time we met.”

Fitzsimmons bristled visibly. “Are you doubting the honor of my future son-in-law?”

“Your future son-in-law? I didn't know of his relationship to your family, my lord!”

“It's all but settled. Dorset has been quite pronounced in his attentions to my Jane.”

Damien couldn't have asked for a better gambit. “Your daughter must be that stunning blonde. When I saw Dorset earlier, he couldn't take his eyes off her.”

Annabelle Layton. God, she stirred his blood, just as she had when she was eighteen, ripe for the plucking. How had she recovered from those gruesome wounds? He'd figured her for a cripple long ago. All this time, Damien had thought Dorset swooped in to spoil the Layton wager because of some outraged sense of duty, some notion of protecting the innocent. What a bounder. They'd had the same game all along. They'd both wanted the girl.

Fitzsimmons shook his head, befuddled. “My daughter, lovely thing that she is, is a brunette. You must be mistaken.”

“You have my sincere apologies, then. May I have the honor of being introduced to her? I should like to offer my felicitations.”

“Come with me. You'll see firsthand how things are between Dorset and my Jane. Everyone knows him as the hero of Badajoz.”

They walked into the ballroom, and while it took the bleary-eyed Fitzsimmons a moment to track his daughter, Damien found her immediately. She was standing in a far corner, looking like her heart was breaking as she watched a couple on the dance floor.

Annabelle Layton and Alec Carstairs. They were spinning to a waltz, their bodies touching, their eyes locked on each other. And there was something in the way they moved that hinted at forbidden intimacies and barely suppressed passions.

Fitzsimmons gasped with outrage. It was all Damien could do not to smile. “I am sorry, my lord,” he said, the picture of contrition. “That is obviously not your daughter.”

“But he told me they were childhood friends.”

“Could it be?” Damien was all sympathy and surprise. “How did I not recognize her? She is Annabelle Layton, the sister of my close friend, Gareth, God rest his soul.”

“He shouldn't be looking at her like that!”

“Dorset has wanted her for a very long time. There's no doubt he has been leading your daughter on. There was never any chance he would marry her, not with Miss Layton in his sights.”

If it was possible for a man to turn purple, Fitzsimmons nearly accomplished it. “He has been using Jane to get to me, to secure my support for that bill. How did I not guess, especially when Badajoz was such a nasty business? I'll call the blackguard out!” He made a drunken move toward the couple, but Damien quickly reached out his hand to restrain the man.

“My lord, think of the scandal that would cause, the damage to your own reputation.”

“But he must be made to pay, and pay dearly,” Fitzsimmons spat. “I'm speaking for the man before the House of Lords in just a few days' time.”

“Let me help you, then. Together, we can do more than simply discredit the earl. We can avenge your daughter.”

Even though his rage and the whiskey had dulled him, Fitzsimmons's eyes were suspicious. “What do you have against Dorset? What is it that you're about?”

“Come back into the gaming room and join me for a drink,” Damien said. “I'll tell you everything I know about Alec Carstairs.”

They'd done everything they could. Alec had made some difficult concessions, but the result, he felt certain, was a bill to attract both Tories and Whigs. Today, it would be introduced in the House of Lords. Debate would begin, and if they were lucky, a vote would take place tomorrow, moving the bill on to the House of Commons, where its passage was virtually assured.

He adjusted the formal robes he wore in Parliament and waited anxiously to make his way into the chamber. He could not help but think of his father, who had wanted Alec to make his mark here. The earl had wanted many things, but this would have to be enough. After tomorrow, he would leave his father's expectations behind and forge his own way. If she would have him, Annabelle would be by his side.