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"Woolsey Hall against everything else." He gestured at the mound of crumpled paper before him. "The lands in Northumbria, the matched team of bays, the yacht, the..."

"Stop," groaned the earl. "All of that? Hell's teeth, have I really lost all of that tonight?" He pressed his shaking fingers to his temples. "May Lucifer be buggered! He'll have my guts for garters."

"Really?" murmured Hertford with a show of sympathy. "Wouldn't have thought a fine fellow like yourself would allow himself to be harried by his family." He paused to toy with his starched cuff. "After all, it's your choice. You are the earl."

Chittenden's jaw jutted out. "S'right." He stared longingly at the lithe fingers tapping the cards into a neat stack. "I..."

The rest of the words seemed to stick in his throat as a cry of dismay from close by pierced the smoky air. A gentleman at one of the other tables buried his head in his arms as the small crowd gathered around gasped at the pile of papers changing hands.

Glasses clinked, punctuating the rattle of dice over scarred pine. Someone staggered into the shadows and retched.

The earl covered his face with his hands as if the gesture itself could afford some measure of defense against rampant temptation." I cannot!" he said again, this time with a bit more conviction. "Not on the turn of a card."

Hertford's lips tightened at the unexpected resistance to his plan.

He took a moment to think, then his eyes took on an even icier coldness.

"Yes, perhaps you are right not to trust to chance," he said slowly, knocking the deck askew with a nonchalant flick of his fingers.

"A shame. It seems I am to go home with a goodly amount of your worldly possessions in my pocket. "

The earl stifled a groan.

"That is, unless you might care to engage in a game of skill rather than luck, in order to win it all back?"

Chittenden raised the brandy once again to his trembling lips. "W-w-what do you mean? I am no match for a younger man such as you..."

"No, but your son is."

The earl looked away and gulped down the entire contents of his glass. A murmur ran through the cluster of onlookers gathered behind Hertford's chair. Word of an interesting wager quickly spread, like blood from a fresh wound, and a number of scavengers hurried over, scenting a kill.

"S'true," slurred a voice. "Yer always boasting 'bout how yer only spawn's a bloody Corinthian."

"A fair bet!" encouraged someone else.

"Woolsey Hall against everything else," repeated Hertford. "I'm merely trying to be gentlemanly and offer you a fair chance to recoup your considerable losses. But if you would rather not..."

He shrugged and reached for the pile of vowels.

"Wait!"

Hertford's hand hovered in mid air.

"W-what do you have in mind?"

"A match of sporting skills."

The earl bit his lip.

"Why are you hesitating, Chittenden?" cajoled a drunken gentleman at his elbow. "The viscount is the best damn shot at Manton's, he drives like a banshee and he ain't been knocked down yet at Gentleman Jackson's. You've windmills in yer head if ye don't have the bollocks to accept."

The sweat on the earl's forehead was now trickling down to his twisted collar. More seconds passed, and with mutterings of disgust, several of the onlookers drifted away in search of better entertainment.

Hertford let out a sigh and made to rake in his winnings.

"Done!" croaked Chittenden.

The other man's mouth quirked up ever so slightly.

"Ah, it appears we have a wager, gentlemen," he announced to the remaining crowd.

"The Earl of Chittenden pledges Woolsey Hall against my winnings here—" He gestured at the stack of promissory notes.

"—in a match of sporting skills between myself and his son, Viscount Marquand. Agreed?"

The earl's head jerked in assent. After a moment he managed a hoarse question. "Shooting? Handling the ribbons? Riding? Boxing? What sort of match do you have in mind?"

Hertford's smile became more pronounced.

"Oh, nothing so banal as those common pursuits," he answered.

Reaching out for the bottle, he poured another stiff drink for the other man and clinked glasses.

" No, my dear Chittenden, in order to decide the fate of Woolsey Hall, the viscount and I are not going to culp wafers, race curricles, or trade left jabs.” A pause. “We are going to play a round of golf."

Another two glasses came together, these with the clear ring of crystal rather than the dull chink of gaming hell glass.

"So, she has accepted your suit." Rafael de Villafranca Greeley regarded his friend from over the rim of his champagne flute.

There was a hint of hesitation before he forced a smile.

"I wish you happy." His tone, however, lacked the effervescence of the wine he brought to his lips. "You must be in alt."

"What man wouldn't be, on becoming engaged to the Season's Incomparable?

" Adrian drank as well, then set his glass down and stretched his long legs out toward the roaring fire.

His chiseled features, smooth and pale as marble, gave little hint of any emotion, joy or otherwise, as he contemplated the dancing flames.

His eyes, a grey-green hue akin to the sea in winter, were equally unfathomable, though the look of keen intelligence lurking in their depth could not be completely drowned by the show of studied aloofness.

Rafael squirmed in the face of such sang froid . "Of course, of course," he muttered. "Once again, my best wishes."

A faint smile finally cracked through. "Go ahead and spit it out, Rafe. Much as it’s amusing to see you wiggling around like a trout with a hook in its mouth, I'd rather cut line and have you say what you really mean. We’ve known each other too long for you to keep your true thoughts submerged."

The two men had met at Oxford, and though Greeley, the son of an aristocratic expatriate English wine purveyor and a Spanish contessa, had spent only a term there, the two men had bonded over an interest in botany and had remained close friends despite Rafael's infrequent trips to England.

Rafael's mouth opened and closed several times. "I, er, that is..."

"Out with it, my friend."

"It's no joking matter—this is deucedly hard," he grumbled. "I do wish you happy, Adrian..."

"Yes?"

"It's just that... I fear you won't be."

Adrian raised a dark brow in question.

"Lady Honoria is beautiful, charming, and accomplished in all things a proper young lady should be. In a word, she’s perfect."

His brow rose a fraction higher.

"That's the damn trouble, Adrian!” blurted out Rafael. “There's not a hair out of place, if you take my meaning. Everything about her is buttoned up and stitched down tight—I fear there’s not a loose thread among all the finery."

Adrian shifted in his chair, throwing his face into shadow.

"I've had quite enough of loose threads—and loose screws—in my life.

Believe me, I shall welcome the sort of order and predictability that you just described.

Furthermore, it shall be a pleasure to become part of a family that is a patterncard of propriety. "

"Hylton is a pompous ass!” retorted his friend. “If he’s a stickler for propriety, it is not out of principle. It’s because he lacks the imagination to act in any other way."

"Trust me, Rafe, the last thing I desire in my future family is imagination or uniqueness."

His friend muttered something unintelligible under his breath. He, too, gazed moodily into the flames for a bit before tossing back the contents of his glass. "I know how difficult it’s been for you. Your father and mother possess a certain, er, exuberant charm, but?—"

"Charm is not exactly the adjective that comes to mind," said Adrian, a note of bitterness shading his voice.

"Oh, of course they could be charming. And witty. But as a child, I did not find it charming in the least when my parents would fly into one of their raging fits of temper, hurling the Staffordshire figurines at each other—or at me. Nor was it charming when the fires could not be lit and every bloody room was as cold as the devil’s heart because Father had gambled away all his money. "

He paused for a moment to get a grip on his emotions. "I was no doubt one of the few boys who found life at Eton a respite from home. Whatever the hardships and rigors, at least one knew what to expect there."

"I know," said Rafael softly. His cousin had been fast friends with Adrian since childhood. "Jack told me about the time you returned for Michaelmas term with your arm in a sling and twelve stitches in your brow. It is a wonder you ever bothered to go back to the Hall after that."

"I didn't hate my father. I knew he didn't mean it.

The drinking actually stopped for quite some time after that unfortunate accident.

" The viscount shrugged, as if the memory didn’t cause his insides to twist into a tight knot.

"Besides, my parents might have destroyed each other, but they didn't destroy my love for Woolsey Hall.

I love every stone and bit of mortar, every creak in its floors, every layer of beeswax and lemon oil on the patinaed woodwork, every quirky mark left by generations of Linsleys.

A sigh. “And most of all, I love the lands, the undulations of the meadows, the stately trees lining the drive, the woods thick with oak and elm. Long ago, I made a promise to myself that I would restore it to the glory it deserves. And I mean to keep that promise."

Rafael blinked at the sudden show of passion in the viscount's voice. He shifted in his chair and took another sip of his champagne. "Do you love Lady Honoria as well?" he asked abruptly.

The viscount's expression turned stony. "What has that to do with it?"