Page 13 of Dukes All Night Long
H awkland stared at his cards. Gambling was pointless. His mind, heart, and body yearned to find Miss Pryce. And do what…? Dance another waltz? His instructress had already informed him a second waltz with the same woman was a declaration. A bold move, to be sure.
Skittish, proper misses with tantalizing curls and rigid rules might see the matter differently. No doubt, she’d run for the hills if he asked for second waltz. Miss Pryce had done her duty, teaching him Society’s hierarchy.
The gulf between him and daughters of government officials was quite large. Not that he cared. But, she did.
He tossed down his cards, frustrated. He burned for her in ways that defied reason.
“Her and her commandments,” he said under his breath.
“Out already, Hawkland?” The sing-song question came from Lord Wentworth sitting beside him.
“Misses the ballroom, he does.” Jeremy rearranged his cards.
Lord Wentworth shuddered like a man who ate sour fruit.
“Avoid all dancing from here onward, gentlemen. Or you might get leg shackled.” Lord Wentworth made a show of studying his cards.
“Though, if you’re lucky, you might cross paths with a foxed widow.
That would work in your favor,” he said lightly.
The game room was Aldsley House’s formal dining room, now converted into a gambling den.
Dark panels, high ceilings, plush carpets.
It was also filled with well-dressed jades and slippery rogues.
Rumor had it, Lord Aldsley informed his lady wife that without the game room, the ball’s attendance would plummet.
Like Moses from on high, he’d commanded her to change the room.
A nearby table of ruddy-faced gentlemen debated the wisdom of trying this in their homes.
Marriage, apparently, was messy business.
“There’ll be no foxed widows for me.” Jeremy threw down his cards. “I’m out.”
Lord Wentworth raked in a pile of coins with both hands. “What about you, Hawkland? Have you a lady fair in your sights?”
“No widows,” he said.
Jeremy rearranged his dwindling coins. “’Course not. Hawkland has his eye on a proper miss.”
Faro was the game, and the banker, Harris, was a seasoned footman in Aldsley House. Harris shuffled the deck and dealt the cards. Gregory held up his hand when the servant came to him.
“Not this round.”
“What’s this? I was about to lighten your purse again.” Wentworth took a swig of brandy and collected his cards. “This isn’t about your skirt, is it?”
“She is a gentlewoman,” Jeremy corrected. “Miss Susan Pryce.”
“Susan Pryce…” Wentworth scratched his ear. “Can’t say that I know her.”
“ Miss Susan Pryce,” Gregory said.
Wentworth tossed a coin into the pot. “Don’t let a woman hamper your fun.”
“Fun?” Gregory rubbed his nape. His hairline curled, damp and warm. “We are a roomful of sweaty belching men, Wentworth.”
Wentworth smiled broadly. “Hell to some. Heaven to me…Your Grace.”
Lord Wentworth tacked on Your Grace as an afterthought. It might’ve come with a hint of resentment.
Gregory tucked his coin purse in his pocket. Opening his coat, he saw a corner of ivory silk. Miss Pryce. He patted that pocket, his head dipping a little. She’d never told him what animal he’d be. He smiled. I ought to ask her.
Really, the woman needed more fun in her life.
No, she needed him . Fingers drumming the table, he felt his smile grow. His brashness knew no bounds.
Coins clinked. Another card was drawn. Smoke from cheroots hung heavily. Half the men had their coats off. Every window had been thrown open to lessen summer’s oppressive heat.
He touched his cravat. Miss Pryce’s knot was perfection.
“You know, Hawkland, I believe I know your Susan Pryce,” Lord Wentworth announced, leaning back in his chair.
Spindly satinwood furniture creaked. A French chair, it was designed for a woman, not Wentworth’s robust frame.
Jeremy dropped two shillings into the pot. “It’s Miss Pryce, remember?”
“Yes, yes.” Wentworth waved a careless hand and leaned an elbow on Gregory’s side of the table. “Redheaded filly, if I’m not mistaken. Tall, comely, a slender bottom…” He winked to the table at large. “Our new duke would do well to bed her.”
“‘Bed her’?” Gregory said menacingly. His fist curled into a tight ball.
“She’s sure to be a lively one. Redheads and all that. They enjoy a certain reputation for being…fiery.”
Jeremy winced. “I’d stop there, milord.”
Wentworth kept flapping his lips. The man didn’t have a clue what muck he’d just stepped in.
“Husband-less commoners of a certain age have few prospects. Governess. Lady’s companion. Or…”—he chortled, cheroot in hand—“…mistress.”
Furious, Gregory lunged for the man, gripped him by his coat, yanking him out of his chair.
The table flipped over. The cheroot arced.
Jeremy and a round-eyed Harris sprang upright.
Hapless Lord Wentworth wobbled like a soft-bellied rag doll.
Several witnesses vowed the man’s limp feet were inches off the floor.
No small feat since Wentworth had a belly and was fairly tall.
Some claimed brandy spilled down his breeches. Others whispered Lord Wentworth pissed himself like a frightened schoolboy when the Pirate Duke shook him hard.
Everyone froze. Jaws dropped. Men gaped. To a man, they heard the former privateer speak, loud and clear.
“Should our paths cross again, don’t walk. Run,” Gregory snarled. “Because I’m not certain what I’d do to you.
Teeth grinding, the new Duke of Hawkland tossed aside Lord Wentworth.
The man tumbled backward into another table, his face white as a bedsheet.
Gregory stalked out of the room. Silence followed him until he was a dozen paces gone.
Voices exploded. Conversations were chaotic.
He jerked his cravat loose. His lack of control shocked him. His rage.
He craved cool air. To clear his mind and reassess. He’d done the unthinkable, giving into his impulse. Tonight was his debut. He was supposed to shine. But dukes never paid the price for a ruined evening. Nor did they pay for crushing families—even their own.
A harsher truth grated his soul. He’d wrecked the evening for the one person who mattered. Miss Susan Pryce. She’d bear the brunt of his mistake. He pushed forcefully through a door, his cravat fluttering like a pair of white flags.
How could he set matters right?