Page 4 of A Bet with a Duchess (The Gambling Dukes #1)

FOUR

Fynn

I shook my head wryly as I stepped down the sweeping velvet carpeted staircase. It was hard to believe it had been just over a day since I had managed—just about—to prevent myself from kissing Georgiana, the Dowager Duchess of Cartice.

A long, painful day yesterday, and a long day today.

I should not have done it. I should not have leaned so close to her, breathed in that heady scent she was always coated with, seen how she shivered as I stood so close to her.

No, I had been lucky Georgiana—the Lady Cartice had come to her senses even as I lost my own.

“I am sure you wish to return to the library and look through more of our records.”

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked around. I was only now starting to get a handle on the layout of this monstrous place—though that was a little harsh. In truth, I had expected gaudy opulence but instead only seen elegant refinement in every room.

Except the study, of course, where I had spent the rest of yesterday and all today.

“All of it?” I had said with some surprise as Georgiana had let me into the study.

“All of it,” she had said with a fixed smile. “I have instructed our servants to permit you access to every document on our records—save for those detailing the names of some of those we have played again, of course.”

I had blinked at the time. I could never have predicted it; I would have greater access to the Gambling Dukes’ records than anyone had ever done.

In truth, I had never been given so much leeway with anyone I had investigated, more’s the pity.

“Wait—you’re leaving?” I had said rather in alarm as Lady Cartice moved to leave.

Which hadn’t been my primary concern. The very thought of her leaving, of being stripped of Lady Cartice’s presence so soon that morning, had been painful. I had rather expected her to stay by my side.

Yet she had arched an eyebrow. “You don’t need babysitting, Mr. Monroe, and I am sure if I stayed you would think I was worried that you would find something.”

It had been difficult not to smile. “And you’re not.”

Lady Cartice smiled, her face radiant as ever. “Not in the slightest.”

And so it was with a double portion of disappointment that I had returned to my room for a bath after several hours of pouring through dull documents.

Nothing. Nothing!

Not even an old servant who had been let go under mysterious circumstances.

I sighed heavily. It was most irritating; but I was not about to give up that easily. Not after finding a carefully calligraphed note on my pillow when I had stepped out of the huge bathroom that was attached to my guest bedchamber.

Tonight. Six o’clock. Drinks before dinner.

My manhood had twitched at the very thought of Lady Cartice as I had picked up the short note. Short and sweet.

Well, it turned out the desire I had suspected she felt for me was more than just a suspicion. The question was, I wondered as I pulled at the cuffs of my shirt to ensure they were properly aligned to my suit, just how far was she interested?

There had to be a reason, after all, that Georgiana, the Dowager Duchess of Cartice wished to see him alone this evening, rather than taking their evening meals separately.

Hope, or something darker, twisted in my chest as I strode over to the room Lady Cartice had pointed out as the family drawing room just that afternoon.

Well, whatever it was she wanted, it would be churlish indeed not to give it to her.

At least twice this night. Perhaps again in the morning.

“I admit I was not surprised,” I said with as best a charming smile as I could manage as I entered the room, “when I received your…your…hello.”

Several heads turned. Laughter which had filled the room halted abruptly.

Lady Cartice looked up from the sofa where she sat with one of her friends—the Duke of Markham, I was almost sure. She was dressed in the most sumptuous black gown I had ever seen, velvet, despite the heat, though it was cool enough in here. The neckline skimmed over somewhere I most definitely touch, and fell over curves that I most definitely hadn’t dreamed about.

“Ah, there you are.”

I smiled weakly. Oh, I had been a damned fool. Of course she had not invited me for a seductive and scandalous drink alone.

“You’re still here, then?” The friend I was almost certain was Markham shook his head. “A glass of brandy?”

“Wine, if you don’t mind,” I said automatically, still trying to realign my expectations of the evening.

This was not me and Lady Cartice, and a rather lovely time we could have had of it too. No, this was the entire Gambling Duke club.

They were back.

“Oh, did I not mention that the house party was over?” asked Lady Cartice, raising an eyebrow. Her friend the Dowager Duchess of Rotherwick stifled a grin. “How remiss of me.”

My smile became strained. “Not at all.”

“Here you go.”

I took the glass of wine offered to me—from a bottle worth more than my entire month’s salary, if I was any judge—and stepped over to the others.

“Find anything yet?” quipped one of them.

“Markham,” said Georgiana with a laugh. “There is nothing to find, don’t give our guest the wrong ideas.”

I grinned as I leaned against the arm of a sofa. Perhaps in different circumstances, in a different life, if I had been born into wealth and nobility, we could have been friends. As it was…

“Not yet,” I said smoothly, sipping my red wine. It was delicious, overpoweringly spicy in a way that captured my tongue and ransomed my tastebuds. “Good wine, this.”

“It’s absolutely not smuggled over from France,” said Lady Rotherwick with a smile. “Come on, Kineallen, I need to talk to you.”

The serious looking man’s jaw tightened as he stood unwillingly to follow her. “Can’t I have one evening off, just?—”

But I could not be disappointed that half the people here were moving to the other side of the room. Not now I was left with the Duke of Markham…and Lady Cartice.

“Tell me about yourself,” said the Duke of Markham as he sipped what appeared to be whiskey from a finely cut glass.

“Markham,” Lady Cartice hissed. “He is our guest, the whole point was?—”

“I have nothing to hide,” I interrupted, and caught Lady Cartice’s eye for just a moment. Fire flashed between us, and then it was gone. Gone, but the heat of the look remained.

And something overtook me that certainly had no business operating my senses, because it was senseless what I admitted to.

“You know, I was once not that different to you.”

The Duke of Markham frowned as Lady Cartice stared. “Not that different?”

I sipped my wine. It really was damned good—and what harm would it do, really, to reveal a little about myself? Perhaps it would give them a sense of trust, would perhaps make them reveal something. Let something slip that I could use to his advantage.

“Rich.”

“Rich?” repeated Lady Cartice. Was she looking at me in a different light? “You?”

I raised my hands in mock surrender. “I know, it doesn’t look like it, does it?”

“It certainly does not,” muttered the Duke of Markham, before being shot another look of irritation by his friend. “What?”

“I was born into this life,” I said, looking around at the elegant drawing room, feeling the softness of the carpet beneath my shoes, the way that a footman appeared periodically, subtly, to remove any glasses and top up drinks. “Money, wealth, fortune, whatever you want to call it. A roll of the dice, and we could have been very different.”

“We are very different.”

I turned back to my conversational companions. Lady Cartice was frowning.

“We did not simply step into inheritance, you know,” she said quietly. “We had nothing, none of us. All our parents had squandered their wealth—we had nothing but we made something of ourselves.”

I stared. Now that wasn’t what he had read in the gossip sheets. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, it’s no scandalous secret, you won’t be able to make anything of it in that rag of yours,” said Lady Cartice with a dry smile. “We earned our way here, Mr. Monroe. We had nothing, and we created something. And you were born into wealth, you say?”

Swallowing hard, regret pouring through my veins that I had been so foolish as to admit it to these people—people who viewed him as the enemy, I knew—I took another sip of wine.

Perhaps that in itself was a bad idea. I didn’t want to lose my head, forget myself—forget what I was here for.

“Born into wealth, yes,” I admitted, wishing to goodness I had the sense to keep my mouth shut…but it was too late now. “It was stolen out from under me. My inheritance.”

There was something sharper in her eyes now, and I had to remind myself we were not alone. Me and Lady Cartice.

Much as I might wish it.

“You were?”

“A forged document here, a falsified record here…” I gave a jagged laugh. “I was too young at the time, too green to know what was happening. By the time it was done, it was over. I could do nothing about it, despite unearthing the lies. I lost my home, my credibility…everything.”

My chest tightened, lungs fighting against the air I needed. I had promised himself, after my mother had died, that I would never speak of it.

Never speak of how I’d seen everything I knew crumble around me. How the position in our small village which I thought I’d loved had disappeared, my reputation gained slowly, starting from the bottom again.

So why did this feel so right?

“You could have done something,” said Lady Cartice quietly. “Declaimed them.”

I shrugged. “My word against theirs, I am good at rooting out lies but proving it? Against my stepfather, who I won’t mention by name because I imagine he’s probably one of the people you’ve gambled with…”

Damn. I should have thought of that.

“You know, I never had you for someone who had to build themselves back up again,” Lady Cartice said softly.

Why did a spark of pleasure rush through my heart? Why did I find it impossible to look away from those languid blue eyes, eyes darkening as though she was outraged on my behalf?

And she wasn’t. I knew that. I would not allow myself to be fooled again.

“I need another drink,” said Markham unexpectedly. “Georgiana?”

“No thank you,” she said quietly without taking her eyes from me.

I smiled, nervously, at the only remaining person standing beside me. “Surprised?”

“Very,” Lady Cartice said lightly. “Though I see now why you were so surprised that I would gamble the safety of our club on your visit here.”

“It is indeed a gamble.”

“I have nothing to hide,” she said simply, sipping her drink, her lips pursed once more around the glass in a manner that I was most definitely going to ignore. Probably. “You could argue the deck is stacked against you, Mr. Monroe, when it comes to a bet with a duchess.”

A twist, a twitch in my loins as I heard her say my name.

Something I had to ignore, I told myself.

The trouble was, ignoring Georgiana, the Dowager Duchess of Cartice was almost impossible—not just who she was, what she was, but what she was saying.

Because she was right. I had been here three days now, spent two of them diving into the depths of their paperwork, and found nothing. Perhaps she was right; perhaps she had stacked the deck against me.

If there was nothing to find, I was going to lose the bet with a duchess. Badly.

“Why, Lady Cartice, then you can do whatever you want with me.”

A slow smile crept across my lips as my manhood stiffened. Well, it looked like I was going to a winner after all.

“You have a marvelous…bluff, you know.”

I blinked, my gaze suddenly hazy.

Lady Cartice tilted her head slightly and sipped again at her drink.

My voice croaked. “Oh, I'm always happy to call.”

Georgiana

“Oh, I'm always happy to call.”

I strode away hastily, almost spilling the remnants of my drink as I did so. “I have to?—”

I did not even bother to complete my sentence. I couldn’t; I had to get as far away from Mr. Fynn Monroe as possible.

How did he do it? Say those things, those words, so innocent in the mouth of any other but from his lips…

I managed to reach the drinks cabinet and paused before it, looking as though for a particular drink I had not yet found.

This was intolerable; just as I was starting to relax around him, discover a little more about this Mr. Fynn Monroe, I remembered he was the enemy.

Here to ruin us.

The last thing I should be doing is thinking just what I wanted to call out as he kissed my?—

“Georgiana?”

I smiled weakly as I looked up at Markham. “Markham.”

“You look all flushed,” my friend said, reaching past my for the whiskey. “Trouble with our journalist friend?”

I sighed. “Yes—no.”

Markham raised an eyebrow. “Which is it?”

I glanced, despite myself, across the room. Kineallen had returned to our guest and the two of them were speaking quite animatedly…almost as though they could have been friends.

“A forged document here, a falsified record here…I was too young at the time, too green to know what was happening. By the time it was done, it was over. I could do nothing about it, despite unearthing the lies.”

“You know, I feel sorry for him,” I said abruptly.

Markham raised an eyebrow. “Kineallen? I'm sure she’ll call return his notes, they always do.”

“What?”

Too late, I realized I had not only spoken aloud about my feelings about Mr. Monroe, but discovered I…had feelings for Mr. Monroe.

Feelings that were totally natural, I told herself sternly. Why, anyone whose inheritance had essentially been stolen out from them was bound to spark pity in anyone. Anyone with a heart, anyway.

And that was all I had meant. Wasn’t it?

“Well, you know,” I said awkwardly, pressing my fingers against my glass so my hands had something to do. “Losing his family’s fortune.”

“We didn’t have one to lose,” Markham pointed out, pulling down a glass, pouring a large portion of rum into it, and handing it to me. “Drink.”

I did as I always did when given a kind-heartened, though probably misplaced suggestion from one of my friends.

I frowned. Then I drank.

“I just mean,” I said, the fire of the drink sparking through my throat, “that if we’d had something to lose?—”

“You’re not feeling sorry for this cad, are you?” interrupted Markham with a frown. “Georgiana, he’s here to bring the Gambling Dukes down. This is our lives—we have little else.”

I bit her lip and then drained my glass. The rum soared through me, flickering heat amongst the panic. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Markham said, lowering his voice as he glanced over at Mr. Monroe, who was now laughing with Lilah. “Because whatever we have to hide, if he finds it?—”

“We don’t—Markham, we don’t have anything to hide,” I said firmly, placing my glass on the bar.

And there was something in the silence that met this pronouncement, something in the way my friend would not meet my eye, that made me hesitate.

“You…” I swallowed. “Markham, you don’t have anything to?—”

“Are you the one serving drinks now?”

Mr. Monroe had approached the bar, wine glass empty and eyes shining with merriment.

And not at me, I reminded herself. That brightness wasn’t because of me, even if I wished it was, which I didn’t. After all, I didn’t know the man’s tastes. For all I knew, it was Lilah he was interested in, not me.

Not, I told herself firmly, that any of us would fall for his tricks. His investigative journalist tricks.

Perhaps the rum had been a bad idea.

“Just remember what I said,” Markham said quietly before stepping away.

I glanced over at my friends, then back at the man who was still standing before me.

Mr. Monroe. There was a slight tint of red on one corner of his lips where the wine had stained, and all I wanted to do was kiss those lips, taste him, taste the wine he had just finished and see whether he could make me?—

“Am I permitted another drink?”

I blinked. Mr. Monroe was smiling, twisting the crystal wine glass in his hands.

“Wine,” I said. “Yes. We have that.”

Why did my words have to fail me now? Why, now of all times, did I have to lose my quick wittedness that I had depended on for my entire life, when I was standing before such a handsome man?

Such a conniving man, I tried to remind myself. A man who managed to draw out of you an invitation to spend a week, a whole week, at Dalhurst Manor to rifle through their files looking for mistakes that did not exist.

And here you were, drinking with him.

My hand didn’t shake as I poured from the bottle. I knew it didn’t, because I was concentrating every inch of my hands on keeping it steady.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Monroe, taking a sip.

I didn’t watch him drink. I knew I didn’t, because I was resolutely staring at my fingers on the bar as he did so.

“Your friend’s a laugh.”

I looked up. “Markham?”

Mr. Monroe nodded. “I rather like him, but don’t tell that.”

It was all I could do to prevent my heart from sinking. Of course, I had it completely wrong. Mr. Monroe was one of those gentlemen who most appreciated the company of other gentleman—not unheard of—and what would follow would be the typical routine I had heard before.

Yes, Markham was open to all things, and yes, he had no preferences either way, yes, you should talk to him, no, I'm not going to?—

“But you’re the member of the club that I am the most interested in.”

I blinked. Mr. Monroe’s voice was soft, ensuring his words were not heard by anyone else.

Anyone like my friends, for example.

A shiver of pleasure rushed through me at the mere thought he may…which was ridiculous. I was not going to permit myself to do anything that would risk the Gambling Dukes.

Still. A little flirting wouldn’t hurt.

“Your interest in me is neither here nor there,” I said lightly, picking up my glass and discovering much to my disquiet that there was no rum in it.

“Here. Let me.”

If I had my wits about me, I would have immediately refused the offer but as it was, Mr. Monroe had already poured a healthy measure of rum into my glass.

“Steady as she goes,” I said with a dry laugh.

Mr. Monroe raised an eyebrow. “What, don’t tell me that you’re unable to hold your drink.”

The cheek. “No, it’s more that you’ve just poured about a hundred pounds worth of rum into my glass.”

“Oh blast,” said Mr. Monroe, hastily placing the bottle on the bar as though he had been scalded.

He joined with my laughter, and I felt a connection with the man that was absolutely not right. I shouldn’t feel this relaxed around a man who was seeking my doom, should I?

Perhaps it was the rum. I took a sip and the burning liquid only lowered my defenses further.

“You’re a handsome man, Mr. Monroe.”

If he was surprised by my comment, he didn’t show it. “And I have already, rather foolishly, revealed how beautiful I think you are,” he said ruefully.

I laughed, and only then noticed how close his hand was to mine. When had Mr. Monroe moved? I hadn’t notice him move.

This was a mistake. I needed to step away; at the very least, I should eat something.

But it was impossible to step away from Mr. Fynn Monroe. The worst of it all was that I had no wish to. Something held me here, a magnetic force the like I had never known before, even with Paul.

“You’re nothing like Paul.”

I almost cringed so hard I dropped my glass. Oh dear Lord, I hadn’t said that out loud, had I?”

“Ah,” said Fynn with a wry smile. “A previous flame?”

There was nothing to do now, I was stuck in the conversation. “The only one, really. He, ah…attempted to upgrade.”

Against my better judgement, my gaze flickered over to Lilah. It wasn’t her fault. I knew that. But did she have to be so…so perfect? So pretty, so clever, always knowing what to say, words just tripping off her tongue that always made people laugh, or nod, or think?

“I don’t understand.”

I looked back at Fynn, and chuckled gently under my breath, the rum loosening my tongue. “Lilah. The Lady Rotherwick.”

“Lilah—your friend, Lady Rotherwick?” He looked absolutely astonished. “She didn’t strike me as someone who would?—”

“Oh, not her,” I added quickly. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but it was important to me that he didn’t have a bad idea of my friend. Or any of my friends, really. “No, I think she was just as horrified as I was when Paul approached her.”

A twinge of pain curled around my heart; at least, I thought it did. Strangely, I felt very little as I spoke of Paul. It was as though the numbness I had desired had finally arrived, and I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know why.

Mr. Monroe pulled a hand through his hair. “Well, damn. Not the best recipe for friendly affection.”

“It didn’t tear us apart, though perhaps it should have done,” I admitted, shifting slightly on my feet and feeling the effects of the alcohol pouring through me. “It was the lies that truly hurt. He lied about approaching her, she lied by omission by not telling me for a week…”

I was speaking out of turn, as Kineallen would put it, but I couldn’t stop myself. There was something about Mr. Monroe, something that made it easy to talk about him.

“The strange thing is, I don’t miss him.”

Mr. Monroe raised an eyebrow. “No?”

I shook my head. “I thought what we had was special, but as it turns out, it wasn’t even interesting. When he died, I…well. I suppose it is not seemly for a duchess to speak so ill of her husband, but there it was. He is dead.”

“You deserve so much more than interesting,” Mr. Monroe said quietly, his voice a low burr under the music that Lilah was now playing on the pianoforte.

I smiled wryly. “Perhaps.”

“You doubt it?”

“I'm too focused on The Gambling Dukes to worry about that,” I said, twisting my glass in my hand.

For a moment, silence descended between us, a silence full of meaning though I did not know what it was. And then?—

“You know,” Mr. Monroe said quietly, his eyes meeting mine, “if we had met any other way…”

His voice trailed off, giving me the perfect opportunity to stare at his lips, his jawline, the way his stubble crept down his neck to those perfectly chiseled collarbones.

What would it be like to carefully drift soft kisses along them?

“If we had met at a dinner, or in Almack’s in London, or in a gambling den,” I said, my stomach twisting painfully, desire pooling between my legs.

Fynn smiled. “Well then. Something might have happened.”

“Something that won’t now.”

He inclined his head. “I prefer to take my women to bed sober.”

A rush of panic, shame, and anger seared through my lungs, far sharper than the rum I had been indulging in. And that was after what, three drinks? Four?

Liquid courage, I had told myself at the time. Liquid idiocy now.

“Dinner, I think,” I said coldly, straightening up and stepping toward my friends. “You can take yours in your room, Mr. Monroe. You’re tired.”

I did not look back as I stepped into the dining room—a room mercifully empty of the tantalizingly delicious Mr. Fynn Monroe.