The Daughter of an Earl (32 page)

She was suddenly grateful for the hateful cravat, as it hid the burning flush stealing up her neck. She met the bet and turned to await Richmond's play, avoiding Kendall. Why did his return to town have to coincide with hers? Like an ominous shadow, he darkened her mood and her hopes.

“Have you received news from the front?” Richmond addressed Kendall.

Alex turned, surprised by the question but glad for the sobering distraction. News of the Crimea should help her regain her focus, cool her burning cheeks.

Kendall's hand paused in placing his bet, but then he shrugged. “Nothing the papers haven't covered.”

Linden leaned forward, his expression thunderous. “That bloody Russell should be fired for his libelous dribble. He's—”

“Accurate,” Kendall cut the viscount off, his eyes hard. “Pity Lord Raglan's command wasn't as competent as Russell's pen. It might have saved a lot of bloodshed.”

A taut silence stretched over the table.

Alex was stunned. Kendall hadn't served up the usual loyal drivel glorifying hard-fought campaigns or extolling a long life for the empire. Kendall voiced the dark and bitter truth.

She had heard murmurs of William Russell's reports in the
Times
publicizing the troops' suffering from shortages of food, clothing, and medicines, but she didn't need to read his accounts. She had heard from the soldiers themselves, and her heart had bled for them, for the carnage the Light Brigade had left after its disastrous charge at Balaclava last October.

She swallowed and glanced up to see Kendall's enigmatic eyes resting on her. She dropped her gaze and blinked furiously, cursing her momentary lapse and his words for touching her. But they had. Contrary to the opinions of some, she was not made of stone.

“Yes, well, to those who fought with courage.” Richmond broke the silence, raising his glass in a toast, the others following suit. “Their glory will not fade.” He echoed the poignant line of Lord Tennyson's tribute to the fallen men.

Kendall's hand tightened on his glass before he lifted it in response, but he set it down without drinking and turned to Chandler. “I believe it's your bet.”

Frowning at Kendall's untouched brandy glass, Alex's head shot up. For a span of time, she had forgotten the game. That had never happened to her before.
A bad omen.

She shook off the thought. She had a good hand, a solid hand. Her last card had completed her full house. The Langdon luck had come through.

Chandler sighed and tossed his cards onto the table. “My glory has faded. I fold.”

“No more prized bloodstock to throw into the pot?” Filmore quipped.

“Not tonight. This evening my sights are set on the fillies downstairs, but I won't be riding them if I waste my time and money here with you gentlemen.”

Inwardly, she cringed at the vulgarity.

“I'm out as well.” Richmond folded his hand and leaned back in his chair. He withdrew a cigar from his jacket and waved a passing servant over for a light.

“Gentlemen, shall we call this hand?” Kendall asked.

Alex edged forward in her seat, heart pumping. She would win.

Fillmore tossed down his cards. “Pair of kings.” At Linden's snort of laughter, he shrugged. “Worth a bluff. But I believe I'll join Chandler downstairs.”

“Gentlemen, let's hope you have more luck with the ladies than at cards,” Kendall said, spreading his hand on the table. A straight flush.

Linden whistled, shaking his head. “Christ, Kendall, tell me you're joining the others downstairs. Leave a man something to hope for in the next round.”

“There's still hope. Daniels hasn't laid down his hand,” Richmond said. “Alex, any chance you have a royal flush?”

Alex jumped as all eyes locked on her. She concentrated on drawing a steady breath as the room spiraled around her, a whirlpool sucking her down.

She had lost.
Lost everything.

One hundred pounds; her meager fortune gone. She couldn't move. Couldn't think. She blinked at the cards. Heat flooded her body, and the smell from Richmond's cigar gagged her. In a flash, she knew what ran through the condemned's head before the noose tightened and their feet flailed beneath them in those final seconds of life. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

It took all her strength to spread her cards over the table rather than grip the edge of it and hold on for dear life as the room spun. After she ceded victory to Kendall, Filmore slapped him on the back, but their words and laughter barely penetrated her dazed fog. She had never seen a straight flush. Hoped to never see another.

Chandler and Filmore shoved their seats back and rose.

It took her a moment to realize Filmore had addressed her. He had to repeat her name and his invitation to join him and Chandler downstairs.

She moistened her lips, not trusting herself to speak. Willing her legs to support her, she slid back her chair and stood.

Yes. Escape. Flee the scene of her ruin. Find a private place to think or curl into a ball and will the world away.

She cleared her throat and managed to voice an
appropriate parting to the table. Her feet followed Chandler and Filmore while she marveled at her body's ability to function when her mind could no longer.

Voices and masculine laughter floated through the room, a river of life flowing by without her. She jumped at the explosive clatter of billiard balls, the noise shattering her daze. In a flash of clarity, she sent her companions ahead under the auspices of getting a stiff drink to drown out the bitter taste of her loss.

She had faced ruin before. It had not beaten her, and it would not beat her now.
The Langdon well of luck might be bone-dry, but the Langdon spirit will revive.
She heard her father's words and closed her eyes.

She wished he would shut the hell up.

He had gotten her into this mess in the first place. She slid a finger underneath her cravat and tugged at the tie.

A waiter carrying a tray of drinks passed. Alex summoned him over when suddenly a steel grip curled around her upper arm and she was dragged to the side of the room. Speechless at the audacity, she stumbled, gasping when the hold tightened to steady her. Before she could recover, her captor reached across her and shoved open the adjacent window. A blast of cool air whipped in, fanning her flushed cheeks and shattering her shocked immobility.

“Still going to pass out?”

Her head jerked back at the words. Enraged, she yanked her arm free and whirled around to confront her assailant. Her words died in her throat and she staggered back a step. Steel gray eyes bored into hers.

Kendall.

Why had he followed her? What more did he want?

His eyes narrowed on her. “When's the last time you ate?”

“I beg your pardon?” Indignant, she met his gaze before her eyes strayed to the pulsing beat in the column of his throat, mesmerized by the strip of golden skin. He had discarded his cravat and opened the top buttons of his shirt. It was scandalous. She smelled Richmond's cigar on him. His linen shirt stretched over broad shoulders and clung to a
rock-solid body standing intimately, dangerously close. Too close.

Towering over her, he was formidable. She stepped away until the wall braced her back and cut off further retreat.

“Christ.” Kendall spun her around again to face the window, prodding her toward it. “Breathe.”

She cursed the man but sucked in deep, calming breaths of the cool air. She damned him for being right and herself for being a fool. She couldn't afford to pass out or lose her wits. Thanks to him, she had lost enough this evening.

The urge to faint passed along with the fleeting hope that Kendall would disappear. Collecting the shattered remnants of her dignity, she planted a hand on the windowsill and braced herself to face the man, ignoring the staccato rhythm of her heart.

His brow furrowed, the now-familiar frown curving his lips. Minus the scowl, the man was striking. She noticed he was thin, not gaunt, but pure sinew, hard angles and whipcord strength held in tight rein.

Confused at her train of thought, she pressed her hand to her temple. Suddenly aware the gesture made her appear as if she still planned to faint, she jerked it down.

She drew in a steadying breath before meeting those eyes. “Thank you.” The words nearly choked her, but years of ingrained etiquette forced them out.

“Christ. You fools get younger every year. How old
are
you?”

She stiffened and thrust her chin up. “Old enough.”

His lips pressed into a firm line, but he did not question her further. After an interminable silence, he spoke. “I've ruined enough men's lives, but I draw the line at boys. Here.”

She stared at him blankly until she realized he was shoving something at her. She nearly gasped at what he held. Her notes. Blood rushed to her face. He was returning his winnings to her.

“Take it,” Kendall demanded.

Her hand lifted, then snapped back to her side where she
curled it into a fist. No, she couldn't. If she accepted it, she could never show her face in a card room again. She bit her lip. She felt like the fox fleeing those hunters, wondering if the escape route before her led to safety or another trap.

She needed to think, but he never gave her the chance.

Swearing, he caught her hand and dumped the notes into it, curling her fingers around them. He wore no gloves, and she shuddered at the touch of his bare skin against hers. His hand was hard, his fingers calloused.

“Next time, don't bet what you can't afford to lose.” He turned away.

“I'll pay you back.” Finding her voice, her words bounced off his broad back.

“Don't bother.” He didn't break stride as he answered. “I don't want it.” He was clearly done with the matter. Done with her.

Stricken by his response, she stared at his retreating figure in silence. His gracious gesture burned to ash under his scorching dismissal. The transaction meant nothing to the man. To her it meant everything.

Everything
.

To Kendall she was simply a prick at his conscience, a blister he felt compelled to lance. While surprised he possessed a conscience, she hated him for it. She recalled his comment about the men he had ruined. His words disturbed her, but envisioning his cold, slate gray gaze, she believed them. After all, he had nearly ruined her.

Realizing she stood blankly staring at Kendall's back, she searched her surroundings. She feared facing censure for not honoring her bet. But no one glanced her way. Only Kendall was privy to her loss of face.

All the more reason to detest the man.

She blinked away the moisture blurring her vision as she shoved her notes into her trouser pocket, hiding the incriminating evidence. She withdrew her gloves and shoved her hands into them. Damn him. He wouldn't make her cry. She never cried.

She needed to get out of here.

Ducking her head, she fled the room, suppressing the urge to run. Why bother? There was no escaping the man. Storm gray eyes were branded in her memory. No matter how fast she fled, they would
follow.

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