Page 33 of A Sporting Chance (The Chances #8)

“You were quite right, even though I admit myself disappointed to find you gone,” Leopold replied, keeping his voice nonchalant in tone but low in volume. “It was… It was…”

How could he explain precisely what last evening had meant to him?

It had been perfect. It had been astounding. It had entirely rewritten his expectations of the cosmos and yet they had delivered perfection upon perfection. It had changed him in a way that he was still discovering, the sunlight somehow brighter, colors now more vibrant.

And here she was, standing before him, utterly perfect.

Leopold swallowed, his mouth dry. Kathleen was humming.

“It was?” she repeated with a quizzical brow.

Forcing aside the temptation to kiss her furiously, Leopold smiled softly. “It was precisely what I wanted. Whom I wanted.”

The delight in her eyes was unmistakable. Oh, they were going to be so happy. Leopold had never presumed he would find someone who could bring him this depth of contentment, yet here he was. Standing before her with a bow in his hands.

A bow, and no arrows.

Leopold swore.

Kathleen hastily turned around as though something had occurred behind her.

The instant panic that they had been seen together tugged at Leopold’s conscience.

Soon, they would not have to concern themselves with such things.

The moment he had spoken to his father and then traveled to the country and formally requested her hand from Mr. Andilet, all could be announced.

All would be well—well on their way to their wedding.

Heat flickered within Leopold. Our wedding. Our marriage.

“What is the matter?” Kathleen asked, whipping around again to stare.

“Oh, it is nothing—I merely did not bring any arrows from the store,” Leopold said hastily, seeking to reassure her. “It was a mistake only.”

Her shoulders relaxed and her lips quirked slightly. “Something else must be on your mind.”

“I wonder what,” Leopold shot back with a laugh. “Or rather, who.”

Their laughter was unabashed and unashamed.

After all, he could not help but think, why not laugh with the woman he was going to marry?

They were not even touching—worse luck—and they were not hiding their assignation.

Meeting. Practice time together. There was no chaperone, for the appearance of propriety if not the truth of it, but that didn’t bother him.

Soon they would be Lord and Lady Leopold Chance.

The thought caused a ripple of something startling to shoot up his spine. Leopold could hardly understand it. How was it possible to be this happy?

“You know,” Kathleen said as Leopold stepped toward the London Archery Club to retrieve some arrows, “I believe I have won our bet. I assured you I was more skilled than I appeared to be these last few practice sessions, but I still can’t quite hit the mark from fifty yards.”

Leopold halted in his tracks and turned to smile at the woman he loved.

It was impossible not to laugh. “You know, I suppose so. Congratulations, Miss Andilet.”

She curtseyed with a chuckling smile. “You are quite welcome, Lord Leopold. I suppose you are going to pay up?”

It was foolish of him to flinch at the phrasing. It was ridiculous to the extreme to think for a moment that she was teasing him about the card-playing nonsense. It was daft of him to connect her gentle teasing with the censure of Society.

It did not help. For a flashing moment, Leopold was hurt.

And then it was gone. She had not intended it, he knew.

Laughing wryly, he said, “Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”

He left her beaming, which was precisely how he wanted to leave her, then walked over to the Club. It would not take him long to step inside and retrieve the arrows.

His hand was on the door. He had turned it; the door was ajar. Yet he did not step through.

“—another three shillings then on Lord Leopold bedding the woman,” drawled a voice that was painfully familiar. “And two shillings against from Mr. Lister. Are you sure you do not want to up your bet, Mr. Lister? The pot is growing fat.”

Murmurs and laughter and chortles. Leopold could barely think.

“Go on, then, another shilling that he isn’t tupping her,” came a voice he vaguely recognized.

“You’re mad, Lister.” That was a voice Leopold did not recognize. “He’s definitely rolled her in the hay. Have you not seen the way he looks at her?”

“The way they look at each other,” retorted Lord Graycott, the first voice Leopold had heard. “God, I had no idea he was such a rake! Just like his brother.”

There was murmured laughter again, and voices that spoke over each other so that Leopold could not hear what they were saying. Words like ‘cad’ and ‘brute’ and ‘deflower’ rose to the top and his pulse was thundering so loudly in his ribcage, he could hardly breathe.

He could not breathe. He could not breathe.

“I just hope she wasn’t too disappointed,” came Lord Graycott’s cruel laughter. “I cannot imagine Chance is a great lover.”

“Oh, if I were to suggest disappointment, I would say it was all on his side.” The sneering voice of Mr. Lister, clearly delighted to be speaking with a lord, came through the gap in the door clearly.

“She’s never accompanied by a chaperone, like a proper lady ought to be.

Runs in the family, I presume. You have heard the story of her sister, have you not? ”

And that was when Leopold barged into the room, throwing the door back with such violence that it slammed against the wall.

The room was a tableau. There were perhaps six or seven gentlemen in a group, all laughing—at least, all previously laughing. They were now frozen, looks of shock or horror or embarrassment shading each of their faces.

Almost all their faces.

“Well, well, the man himself.” Lord Graycott sneered as he leaned back in his seat and pocketed what appeared to be a great deal of silver. “Are you here to tell us to whom the pot should go?”

It was becoming difficult to keep the anger within. It strained against Leopold’s ribcage, demanding vengeance, demanding a slap of a glove across the cheek and pistols at dawn.

The queen did not approve of such things, but surely, as a lady she would understand that it was necessary. He could not, would not, permit such things to be said—and about Kathleen .

About his future wife.

“You look a little ruffled, Chance,” commented Lord Graycott with a smirk that made Leopold’s anger darken. “I suppose you’re here to put us out of our misery.”

“That would be too good for you,” snarled Leopold before he could stop himself.

That certainly changed the atmosphere of the room. Where there had been laughter, there was now silence, dropped jaws, pinched eyebrows.

“I told you before to close the pot,” Leopold said quietly, a thrum of anger managing to make its way into his voice, despite himself. “I told you all betting about her was off.”

“Yes, yes, but once I saw just how many people were willing to bet on that woman of yours, I could not help but keep it open,” Lord Graycott shot back.

“I told you to close the pot, and you kept it open.”

“Oh, you’ll get your share,” said Lord Graycott, waving a hand nonchalantly.

Leopold spluttered, unable to form the outrage he felt into words. Did the brute think that was his gripe; that he would not gain a percentage of the proceedings? Did the man have no character, no honor, no—

A sound. A scuffle, no more, but it was enough to gain Leopold’s attention.

He turned, as did most of the men within the London Archery Club, but it was surely only his heart that went cold at the sight of what was before them.

Kathleen. She was standing in the doorway, her mouth open, horror in her eyes.

She stumbled backward.

“Kathleen?” Leopold did not understand it—he had not been gone overly long. Precisely why she could not have waited for him, he did not know.

Her eyes met his and he saw such betrayal there, such pain, that it were as though someone had slit his stomach.

Oh, God, had she heard—

“Kathleen,” he said hurriedly, stepping forward.

He was not swift enough. She had hurtled backward, retreating from him as though he were a cruel man with no intentions but to harm her.

The laughter of Lord Graycott, of Mr. Lister, of all the cruel and unthinking men behind him faded as Leopold hurried out into the fresh air. The gentlemen who had been practicing their archery had gone and it was only himself and Kathleen, and she was looking at him like he was a monster.

Leopold recoiled. He could not help it. She could not have injured him any greatly unless she had picked up a bow and arrow and shot him.

“You were betting on me?” she said in clipped tones.

“No,” Leopold said firmly. She had to understand. “Lord Graycott—”

“I don’t want to hear about the friends you’ve been betting on me with!” Kathleen shot back.

No, no, this is all wrong . “I have had nothing to do with it!”

“I heard you!”

She’d heard him? Leopold did not understand—if she had truly heard him, would she not have heard just how greatly he’d attempted to prevent the damned gambling?

“You said that you had closed the betting,” Kathleen said, her eyes filling with tears. “Did you believe you had secured me? That you had wooed me so sufficiently that I would give into your demands, that I would simper and comply?”

“‘ Give into’ ? It was your suggestion. Last night was your idea!” Leopold said before he could help himself.

It was most definitely the wrong thing to say.

Tears were pouring down Kathleen’s cheeks now. “I trusted you—I thought you cared about—”

“I do care about you—I love you! Please, you have to understand—”

“I do understand,” she said fiercely. “You think I learned nothing from my sister? You think I did not worry that you would not hold to your word?”

The disaster was upon him and Leopold was still not sure how it had happened. “Graycott wanted to bet on—and I told him to stop, that it was not right—”

“Because you had too much control over the outcome and were concerned you would be called a cheat again, is that it?” Kathleen’s words were spoken flatly, as though she could no longer summon any true anger.

It was quite the opposite in Leopold. How could she—how could she accuse him of cheating, when she knew not only what an upstanding man he was, but how he had been accused unfairly before?

Why would she do that? Hurt him, on purpose?

“I suppose I should not be surprised you accepted my bet almost immediately,” Kathleen said, sniffing as tears continued to fall down her face. “And now I am ruined.”

“You are not ruined!” he all but shouted. How could she think he would not honor his proposal? “This stupid betting pool—”

“I trusted you.”

“You had every right to trust me, and to continue to trust me!” Leopold tried to smile, yet it was heartbreaking to see the woman he loved so upset, so convinced of his malice. “Look, I know my reputation as a gambler makes it difficult to believe me, but—”

“What makes it difficult to believe you is that I just heard how you had planned the bet!” she said hotly.

Leopold swore. “That is not what happened!”

She had completely misunderstood, but worse, it appeared he would not be given the opportunity to explain. Kathleen was now marching away, toward the side gate that was unlocked during the day, as it always was—marching out of his life.

Finally able to force his feet forward, Leopold called after her. “Kathleen, wait!”

“I will not,” she called over her shoulder, and her tearstained face twisted his gut. “I never want to hear from you again!”

The slam of the gate right in his face made Leopold halt, but it was the grief in her words that had halted his feet.

She did not want to hear it. The explanation, the truth—she did not want to know. She believed him to be a rake, a liar, and a cheat. If it was that easy for her to believe such lies…what was the point in arguing?

Leopold slumped his forehead against the gate and blew out a long exhale. She was gone, then. The woman he loved. And he would never see her again.