Page 1 of A Bet with a Duchess (The Gambling Dukes #1)

ONE

Georgiana

I probably should never have entered into a bet with the most curious man in England. Trouble was, I hadn’t met him yet.

London was too hot. That was why we had retreated to the manor house for the week; the lake was beckoning, its translucent aquamarine color dancing elegantly across the chairs that had been placed there by one of the footmen.

I sipped at my wine in the shade. “I still think I made the right decision.”

Someone snorted to my left. Markham, I was sure. Technically the Duke of Markham—the name so rarely went by his first name, Peregrine, that at times I forgot it. My friend was always ready to critique anything I did; that was what made him my friend, I suppose.

“You’re a fool, Georgiana,” he said, a dark eyebrow raised as one of the footmen handed him a glass of white wine, crisp from the cellar underneath the Tudor manor my friends and I had bought just months ago.

“I am not a fool.”

“You may consider yourself an expert in the law?—”

“ The expert in the law,” I interrupted crisply.

Well, I wasn’t about to permit him to speak like that to me, was I? Six and twenty, widowed after my husband—chosen by my parents and fifty years older than me—had died last year, and appointed the official legal expert for the Gambling Dukes, the club I’d helped co-found.

And of course, I’d demanded duchesses be permitted to joined to. The very idea that ladies would not be able to join!

I wasn’t going to ever show my friends—any of them—just how desperate I was to prove myself.

Not just a part of The Gambling Dukes because I was the Dowager Duchess of Cartice.

Because I had earned it.

Markham rolled his eyes. “My point is, you should have ignored those letters. Damned journalists always disappear after a while.”

“He’s right, you know.”

I glanced over to my left, shifting slightly to examine Kineallen. The official head of the Gambling Dukes club; at least, that’s what he wanted us to believe.

Kineallen. More properly Alfred, Duke of Kineallen, and all-round killjoy.

“Don’t you start,” I said calmly.

That was the benefit of taking charge of the legal side of things in our club, I supposed. No matter what my idiot friends did, even if my friend Lilah sided with them, I was the one who had studied the law in the privacy of my late husband’s library far more than the rest of them combined.

I was the one they had to listen to. Mostly.

“—and if you simply had ignored?—”

“I have the matter under control,” I said succinctly, pushing my golden hair out of my eyes. It was too hot to have this conversation; had we not retreated from the city to avoid such drama? “The journalist is looking for dirt, and as there is none to be found, it’s all quite simple.”

“What’s simple?” said a cool, liquid voice with the self-assurance of a queen.

Markham and Kineallen rose in delight to welcome Lilah, looking absolutely stunning as always in a floor length emerald gown that would have looked more at home at Almack’s than at the country estate we all co-owned.

Really. I was fortunate, I knew as I rose with a smile, that I actually liked my friend. Devastating beautiful, elegant at all times, and frustratingly intelligent, it would have been far too easy to push her in the lake and watch her perfect dark hair unravel.

Delilah, Dowager Duchess of Rotherwick. My oldest friend.

“Lilah!”

“Georgiana, you darling,” said Lilah with a grin. “Thank you.”

Without even asking, she took the mostly undrunk wine from my hands and placed the glass between her perfect lips.

After a long sip, she beamed. “My favorite.”

I had to laugh. There was only one Lilah, thank God.

“That was actually Georgiana’s drink,” said Kineallen, nodding at one of the footmen, who immediately turned to retrieve another.

Lilah’s eyes opened wide. “Why didn’t you say?—”

“She’s took busy saving the club from disaster,” said Markham with a laugh, stepping out of the saloon with a glass of wine in each hand. “Hullo, Lilah, you witch.”

“Hullo you bastard,” said Lilah without missing a beat as I settled myself back onto my chair and watched the two youngest members bicker happily. “I hear you’re alone again, that young Miss Edgars stopped accepting your advances? Finally saw sense?”

“I think we need to focus on what is important here,” interrupted Kineallen, pulling a pocketbook out of his waistcoat. “The fact our club is about to be dropped into the?—”

“Kineallen!”

“Well, you know what I mean,” he said darkly.

I sighed heavily. My friends were always so dramatic; anyone who said women were the emotional ones had never met these two.

Kineallen, the eldest. Far too handsome for his own good, wound up so tight I had never seen him relax for more than a minute.

Markham, the baby of the gang. Always seeking to prove himself, and never managing it.

“We are not in anything,” I said with a dry laugh. “I have the entire situation in hand. The Investigator ?—”

“The rag?” Lilah finished my wine. “Didn’t they write, asking for?—”

“They are certain they have dirt on us, on the Gambling Dukes,” I said wearily. It was past six o’clock and I had spent the entire day pouring over letters from ‘the rag’, as my friend called it, and I was tired. A nice drink, a nice dinner from the cook we’d brought with us from London, then sleep. The resplendent bedchambers upstairs were already beckoning. “They’re fishing, they cannot possibly know anything—there isn’t anything to know!”

“But with the club so recently launched, the merest hint of scandal would be the end of the Gambling Dukes,” said Lilah, her beautiful face creased in a frown.

I smiled calmly. I may not have the perfect olive complexion and liquid amber eyes of my friend, but I still had golden silky sweeping hair and fierce stare. I would not permit my friend to intimidate me.

“I know that,” I said quietly. “And that is why I have invited this journalist, this F. Monroe…here.”

I should have known their reactions; they were all so predictable.

Lilah’s mouth fell open. Kineallen swore under his breath. Markham merely looked as though he had misheard me.

“You cannot be serious,” spat Kineallen.

“Never more so,” I said sweetly, privately luxuriating in their astonishment.

What, did they think making me in charge of any legal mishaps that the club fell into meant I would never make a decision of my own? True, none of us had ever thought, when we’d founded the thing less than a year ago that it would actually happen, but there it was.

I raised a hand and gestured at the manor. “We’ve plenty of room, and she?—”

“You have lost all grasp on reason,” said Kineallen with a frown. “Damnnit, Georgiana, the damned journalist has been hounding us for?—”

“And that’s precisely why I have invited them,” I interrupted. Couldn’t they see what a brilliant idea it was? “Here, under my thumb—I’ll give them free rein of the library?—”

“Full rein?”

“—she’ll swiftly see there is nothing to find, no scandal to uncover, no dirt to smear,” I continued smoothly, ignoring Markham’s look of horror. “And to make sure they are thorough, and can leave here and go back to their editor with their tail between their legs, I’ve made a bet.”

Lilah snorted, her second wine going up her nose, as Markham rolled his eyes.

“Georgiana, you haven’t?—”

“It’s what we do,” I said fiercely.

What we’d always done. We’d gambled, bet on ourselves, fought against the snobbery of Society, and where were we now?

Rich, that’s what. Markham had saved his estate from financial ruin, Kineallen now had a very pleasant chateaux in France that I longed to visit as soon as Napoleon had ceased his nonsense, and Lilah—why, the only reason she had been granted admittance was because she had met against her late husband and secured his hand.

“I’ve made a bet that they won’t find anything, and they won’t,” I said steadily, though my heart had most irritatingly increased a little.

Well, it was not surprising. This was the biggest decision I had ever made for the club; perhaps would ever make.

But I was willing to gamble on this. I knew my friends, knew the ethics we shared. Yes, we gambled, yes, we made wild bets and enjoyed doing so. But there was no scandal here. There was nothing to find.

This idiot journalist would come here, sip the champagne, rootle about trying to find something that wasn’t there, then leave.

It was as simple as that.

“You’re only doing this because you’re bored,” quipped Markham with a sly look as he settled on a deck chair of his own. “You miss Paul.”

Strange; the pain of hearing his name had lessened since I heard it last. How long had it been now? Six months?

I could have had a much worse husband, and in my own way, I missed him. Not that I missed the betrayal that he had attempted.

“Paul is in the past,” I said sharply. I had to make them see, had to make them respect me. My fingers twisted around the pearl bracelet around my wrist. “I'm as happy to gamble as any of you, and I hold all the cards.”

“True,” said Markham with a grin, “but we’ll have to hope there’s no jester in the pack.”

I probably would have responded with a clever quip—or at least, something I would have hoped would have been clever.

But a figure appeared by the French windows in the saloon, one of our footmen stepping over to open the door.

“Ah,” I said pleasantly. “There she is.”

The door opened—and the most painfully handsome man I had ever seen stepped onto the deck.

Fynn

I breathed out slowly as I stepped down from the carriage onto the gravel drive before the manor.

The damned place wasn’t even on maps. That was how rich this club was—and I would prove it had been gained illegally, I was sure. I could smell the scandal in the air, though that could have been the lazy heat pouring onto the luxurious grounds.

My jaw tightened. I had to concentrate, had to take everything in. All my usual tricks were out—at least, that’s what Mr. Jordan had said.

“Get the scoop, get the story, uncover whatever lies they’re telling Society, and I don’t care how,” my editor had said with a fierce look just that morning before I had left the stifling office in London.

“Any means necessary?” I had quipped, raising a golden eyebrow and slinging my satchel over my shoulder.

My feet crunched on the gravel as I strode toward the impressive double doors of the manor. Dalhurst Manor.

God, to think one club had all this money—it was disgusting.

The Gambling Dukes.

No one had expected them. No one had predicted it.

A gambling club…founded by two dukes, and two duchesses.

All widowed. All in need of funds. All confident beyond belief, and winning money left right and center—it all felt too good to be true, if you asked me.

And so here I was: trying to investigate four members of nobility who all outranked me by miles.

The doorbell jangled. No one appeared.

I had foolishly dressed in my best suit, something to impress this Chief Legal Counsel of the Gambling Club who had issued the rather intriguing invitation. A bet; a bet that I couldn’t find anything even after staying a week with them.

Well, that was a bet I could not refuse; and I had the upper hand, for I knew I would find something. A week? A day, that was all I needed.

All I needed to prove this club who suddenly appeared in Society just a few months ago certainly had more nefarious dealings than anyone suspected.

When the door finally opened, I was hot, irritated, and ready to head to my guest bedchamber and take a long, hot bath. All I wanted was warm water on my tired muscles, but the butler, or whoever he was, merely smiled thinly.

“They are waiting for you,” he said quietly, then turned without saying another word.

I shifted my satchel and pulled my trunk through the…

It couldn’t be called a hallway. That would make it sound small, domestic, while this space…

If I hadn’t known I had left the heat and riot of London behind, I would have said I was standing in one of the majestic alcoves of St. James’s Palace, or one of the consulates. Sunlight drifted lazily from the glass dome in the center of the ceiling, while a crystal chandelier simply coated in diamonds floated above me. I couldn’t precisely see how it was hanging there.

The room was at least as large as the meager lodgings I had taken when appointed as a journalist for The Investigator— all I could afford after that rather unfortunate scandal.

I swallowed, pushing all thoughts of last year aside. I had come here to restore my reputation, not dwell on its loss.

“Come on,” said the butler ahead of me without turning around.

Lengthening my strides, I easily caught up with the man, but it was another few minutes of walking through room after room. How big was this place? How much space did one club of only four members need—though even I had to admit, the opulence and yet elegant décor of each room we strode through was impressive.

Drawing room, dining room, glimpses of rooms flashing past so quickly I couldn’t exactly see them; library, some sort of study, a billiards room?—

“They are by the lake,” said the butler, suddenly halting at a pair of French doors. “Good luck.”

“Good—what?” I turned but he had already disappeared.

For some reason my throat was dry. Which was ridiculous, I told myself. I wasn’t about to be cowed by some old lawyer, even if he was the Chief Legal Counsel of a club for dukes and duchesses.

I had the brains, the intellect, and the ability to sniff out lies. I’d learnt my lessons. It wouldn’t be long before I was back on the road to London, I thought to myself with a dry smile, whatever scandal it was this Gambling Dukes club was hiding in his notebook, and within days I would have broken the biggest financial story in London.

All I had to do was step forward and win this ridiculous bet.

I grasped the handle before me and pushed open the French doors. Leaving my trunk and satchel behind—no point taking those near a lake, sod’s law said I would drop them in—I strode forward, trying hard not to blink in the blinding light.

A gaggle of people sat and stood on one side of the magnificent aquamarine pool. Two men, clearly close friends, were laughing together, glasses of wine in hand. I swallowed. I was not going to think about how thirsty I was.

There was a dark haired woman in the most outrageous gown lounging with a half-finished drink in her hand. Her smile disappeared as soon as she saw me.

My jaw tightened. No need to get distracted. I was here for the scoop, nothing more.

Now, all I had to do was figure out which of these tall men was the one who had been so foolish as to offer such a ridiculous bet. None of them looked old enough.

“Fynn Monroe,” I said firmly, halting before them and meeting each of their eyes in turn. None of the men looked away. “I believe you invited me?”

“So I did,” said a voice behind me that sounded almost amused. “My goodness. Now that is a surprise.”

I turned slowly on my heels and my heart most disobligingly skipped a painful beat as a woman stepped out from behind a tree. A woman I had not noticed.

Which felt impossible now. What, not notice this blonde beauty, a woman who absolutely radiated beauty and sensuality? Curves hardly hidden in the tightly fitted silk gown the same dark blue as her eyes, eyes that fixed on me most pleasantly?

My stomach lurched.

Well. Not my stomach. Something a little lower than my stomach.

Dear God, she was beautiful. I hadn’t known much about the ladies who had formed this club, and no wonder. They probably had to keep them here, far from London, to prevent any future members getting the wrong idea.

Like just how easy it would be to tear off that silk dress with my teeth, for example.

“Fynn Monroe,” said the woman with a teasing smile that made a dimple appear in her left cheek. She handed another glass to the other woman, then sipped one of her own.

I tried not to look at the way her lips pursed around the glass. What else could those warm lips be persuaded to?—

No.

Damnit, man, wasn’t this precisely the trouble you’d got into last time? Wasn’t it time to think with your head, not your manhood?

“Yes, I’m Fynn Monroe,” I said, rather foolishly it felt but in that moment I could hardly think of anything to say. “I’ve come on the invitation of your friend—though I’ll admit, I know not which friend…”

I turned and looked back at the two men. Peregrine, the Duke of Markham. Alfred, the Duke of Kineallen.

But neither of them had names beginning with E.

E. Cartice.

“Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t give your name, Georgiana,” said the Duke of Markham with a laugh. “And neither did he! How delicious.”

I glanced at him, then back at the woman who pushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

“Georgiana?” I repeated slowly.

My brain was slow and I knew precisely why. This woman, this elegantly refined woman, peering up at me through dark luscious lashes, a teasing smile now growing on those lips I had only just been fantasizing about…

Georgiana, the Dowager Duchess of Cartice. E. Cartice. The hard-hearted, forceful, arrogant, infuriating Chief Legal Counsel I’ve been corresponding with for over a month?

“I…ah.” I forced a smile. “Would you consider me a cad if I said I thought you were a man?”

There was a snort from the other woman but I ignored it, all my focus on the woman before me.

Well, hell. There I’d been, certain I could cajole, outdrink, then outsmart the gentleman I had come all this way to see, duke or no…only to discover she was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

Damn.

“You really did it,” said the other man. There was a look of unrestrained anger in his eyes, and it was not only directed at me, but at Georgiana. “You really invited the journalist.”

“Kineallen,” said the Duke of Markham warningly.

“Aren’t we due a little peace after the hounding he’s already subjected us to?” the Duke of Kineallen continued with a snort, shaking his head. “Parasites.”

My jaw tightened. I knew full well what the rich and noble born thought of journalists like me; hacks was perhaps the most polite term I was given.

Parasites was a new one.

But I was not here to be complimented. I was not even here, I told himself firmly, to seduce and bed the most delectable woman I had ever seen. Even if the hackles on the back of my neck were rising at the mere suggestion of her gaze on me.

No. I was here to uncover what lies and mischief this gaggle of friends had done to gamble and almost always win, then return to London with the details before I ran the story.

And that was all.

I forced a smile. “What a wonderful week we are going to have.”