Page 40

Andrew turned, and her kiss landed on his cheek. “Perhaps later,” he promised.

Although it was an empty one.

He was distracted this night.

As he had been for several days now.

Andrew helped the young woman off his lap, and she sauntered over to another table, another client. In an instant, she’d happily seated herself upon the lap of a more obliging fellow.

When Andrew turned his attention back to the table, Templeton was ordering another bottle, but Andrew’s friends stared baldly at him.

He resisted the urge to squirm. “What?”

“You are not yourself, my friend,” Landon said flatly.

No, he wasn’t.

As his friend had pointed out, Andrew was the last one to reject a lush beauty. Particularly a blonde beauty with enormous breasts and just as generous hips.

And yet, since an unexpected exchange in an alcove two days earlier, when he’d had a golden ringlet between his fingers, he’d been unable to think about anything but that ringlet. More specifically, that lady.

She’d been so stricken, and he’d seen the disappointment in her eyes.

And hell, he was more than accustomed to earning disappointment from everyone. His mother. Her second husband. His sisters. Their spouses.

There really was no end.

But this had been Marcia.

Young Marcia, now grown up, who treated him not like a shameful rogue, but as a social equal, and who was even now probably sad-eyed and quiet. He’d never seen her that way before that bastard Thornton had broken her bloody heart.

Andrew revealed his latest winning hand to a round of groans and laughter from his friends and a black curse from the young rake Lord Templeton.

In that, Andrew could well commiserate. How many times had he—did he—find himself on the end of losing hand after losing hand?

He tossed back his whiskey. “It isn’t every day the cards favor me, and given the state of my wagering lately, I wasn’t interested in squandering my win. Or should I sayyourmoney?”

The marquess laughed, and Rothesby threw a middle finger up, while Lord Templeton slammed an unsteady fist upon the table hard enough to rattle the bottle and the pile of winnings stacked in the middle of the table.

“Damn you, Waters,” the young gentleman roared, his cheeks flushed and his voice raised loud enough to penetrate the din of the gaming hell. He earned brief, curious looks from the other patrons before they returned to their own pleasures.

“Hey now,” the duke said. Even as there was a hint of lightness in the words, Andrew’s friend had layered a hard warning under them for the other man’s benefit.

Too inebriated, too desperate, the marquess failed to hear the latter. Lord Templeton jabbed a finger at Andrew’s chest. “You’re a ch—”

“Whoa!” Rothesby and the marquess raised their voices to be heard over the insult that would paint Andrew into a corner, and the other man proved sober enough to not complete what he’d intended to say.

Andrew quirked a half grin. “What was that?” he drawled, lifting a single eyebrow.

“Having a good bout of luck you are, this time. But you’re still your father’s son,” the other man spat.

Andrew stiffened, curling his hand hard around his glass. Not because he felt any affection for the miserable bounder who’d sired him. Never that.

“Why, you probably have a wife or two of your own.” Templeton busted out laughing, cracking himself up with the reminder of what Andrew’s father had been—not only a lousy, unlucky gambler and a womanizer, but also a bigamist. “Don’t you have anything to say?” the man demanded, his cheeks florid.

Andrew shrugged. “If I did have a wife, I’d have the sense to at least marry a rich one. That way, I would add to the fortune I took from you this night.”

Across the table, Rothesby and the marquess roared with amusement.