Page 8 of Gabriela and His Grace (The Luna Sisters #3)

“Very well,” he said, nodding. “I’ll watch a few games until I grasp the rules and flow of play.”

Several of the men chattered to each other in Spanish, not bothering to hide that their words were about him as they stared at him openly.

Sebastian didn’t think it was the appropriate time to reveal he understood them, having employed a Spanish tutor the same day he sent Dawson his first investment check.

Brodie knew of his Spanish lessons, but he smartly held his tongue.

Play resumed, and after a half hour of watching rounds of play, Sebastian felt he understood the rules of the game and he fancied he could hold his own for a few throws of the dice.

His first throw was four ones. The men erupted, and Sebastian laughed as hands clasped his shoulders in praise. Triumph filled his chest, and Sebastian outright grinned as his opponents slid their pins to him. Although he’d eventually learn what the pins were worth, victory was its own reward.

Play continued, with Sebastian winning more rolls than he lost. He learned the names of several of the sailors, and soon found himself taunting and teasing them in ways he was certain they had not expected from an English duke.

So intent was he on the game, on the rowdy bubble that encompassed them, Sebastian didn’t notice how late it had become until he glanced up and spied the sun dipping low over the horizon.

Dusting his palms on his thighs, he offered the men a smile. “I must ready for dinner, but thank you for allowing me to join your fun.”

Sebastian exchanged friendly handshakes and goodbyes with the sailors, and then made his way toward the stairs, Brodie following close behind.

“I’m right surprised by how well you caught on to the game,” his valet commented as they stepped onto the promenade deck, and flashed a grin at the footman who stood nearby, before directing it at Sebastian.

“Why should you be surprised?” Sebastian scowled. “You know I enjoy games of chance.”

A feminine snort met his ears. “You enjoy games of chance but don’t believe in luck?”

Fighting back a jolt of surprise, Sebastian slowly pivoted until he met Gabriela’s cheerful expression. And why did her sparkling hazel eyes suddenly put him on edge, in more ways than one?

· · ·

Gabby had watched Whitfield play dice with the sailors from the railing for the better part of an hour.

It had taken that entire length of time for Lucia to convince Gabby not to march down there and ask to join the fun.

But Gabby could not remember ever seeing the duke so carefree, and her gaze had been glued to him as he laughed and exchanged barbs with the sailors, an odd heat creeping along her skin.

Surely she’d been out in the sun too long.

Still, her feet remained rooted in place long after Lucia had returned to their room, and even as she watched Whitfield walk up the stairs toward her. When she’d overheard a snippet of his conversation with the older man accompanying him, Gabby couldn’t help but interject.

The duke stared down at her, his mouth lifting into a hint of a smirk. “Games of chance are about probabilities. But even if they were about luck, someone told me, just this morning, that I would have a lucky day. It seems they were right.”

“Of course they were. I offer you my congratulations,” she said, swallowing around her suddenly dry throat.

Forcing her gaze away from his, she turned to survey the man standing just behind the duke.

The older gentleman’s attention swung between her and Whitfield, as if unsure whether they would bicker or not.

“Did you watch the game, miss?” the man said, stepping from behind the duke to offer her a bow.

His Scottish brogue drew a smile to her lips. “I did. I would have joined the action if I could.”

“You’ve played before?” Whitfield asked, his brows stitching together.

“This is not my first sea voyage, Your Grace.” Gabby shrugged. “I played dice many times during my trip to England.”

“I imagine your older sisters had an opinion or two about that,” the duke quipped.

Gabby clutched her hand to her chest. “A Luna with an opinion? Surely you jest.”

Whitfield snorted, but the Scots gentleman took a step closer to her. “What’s this you said, miss, about His Grace not believing in luck?”

“Just that the duke declared he doesn’t believe in luck. Things happen the way they’re supposed to ,” Gabby said, mimicking Whitfield’s imperious tone as best she could.

“Said as if good luck didn’t smack him on his bare bottom when he was born the son of a duke.” The Scotsman snickered, and Gabby found herself laughing along with him. She looked up to better gauge Whitfield’s expression.

To her surprise, the duke merely shook his head at the Scotsman, amusement etched into the lines of his face.

Gabby had never heard anyone tease Whitfield in such a personal manner, although Gideon had mentioned that he and Sirius Dawson worked hard to keep the duke’s ego in check.

Still, the older man did not appear to be some illustrious figure… so who was he?

“Your Grace, would you be so kind as to introduce us?” Gabby asked in her sweetest voice.

Whitfield sighed. Gesturing with his hand to the man at his side, he murmured, “This is Mr.Charlie Brodie, my valet. Brodie, this is Miss Gabriela Luna. She is Mrs.Fox’s youngest sister and the bane of my existence.”

“Your Grace,” Gabby cried, beaming up at him, “I had no notion you held me in such high regard. To be the bane of your existence is a compliment I had not dreamed possible.”

“One person’s dream is another person’s nightmare,” Whitfield volleyed, although there was no bite in his tone.

“Tell me truthfully, sir,” she said, dropping her voice as she leaned toward him. “Did you think you were in a nightmare when you saw me on the docks yesterday?”

The duke angled his large body closer, and Gabby tried not to inhale too deeply of his crisp, woodsy scent. “I almost threw myself into the harbor.” A pleased sort of smile flitted across his face as she chuckled. “I was aware you would be there. Fox knew better than to surprise me.”

Gabby huffed. “But Gideon was perfectly happy to surprise me.”

“Probably because he knew you would never board the ship if you were aware I would be on it, too.”

“That’s not true.” Gabby tapped her fan against his arm. “ I would have thrown you into the harbor.”

That damn smirk flashed again. “You are ruthless, Miss Luna.”

“Dios mío, Whitfield, you really must cease with the compliments lest my head grow too big for this hat.” Exaggerating modesty, Gabby patted her simple straw hat with a gloved hand.

“Oh, I like you, miss.”

Laughing, Gabby turned to Mr.Brodie. “You just like me because I’m not afraid to tease His Grace.”

Mr.Brodie stroked his chin, his assessing gaze on the duke. “No doubt that’s part of the reason.”

“You two are incorrigible,” Whitfield grumbled, rolling his eyes. Looking to the Scotsman, he cocked a brow. “Don’t you have to prepare for dinner?”

“Oh, very well.” Mr.Brodie executed a quick bow. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Luna. Have a lovely evening.”

“Igualmente,” she murmured. Inhaling a deep, satisfying breath, Gabby turned toward her chamber, when the duke’s voice drew her up short.

“Miss Luna, a moment of your time, please.”

Only Whitfield was capable of rendering his tone both commanding and entreating all at once. Gabby suspected it had something to do with his deep timbre, which filled the dips and bumps of her spine whenever she heard it.

Gabby gave herself a shake. How silly.

Spinning about, she linked her hands together as Whitfield snatched his hat from his head and ran his fingers through his dark hair. He had taken his gloves off for play, and Gabby observed how his long fingers sifted through the strands, the movement hinting at his agitation.

“Miss Luna, I fear I may have overstepped.”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Glancing about them for a moment, Whitfield seemed satisfied that no one was close. Clearing his throat, he continued, “I believe you’ve met Mr.and Mrs.Conner.”

She nodded. “Earlier today. They were quite cordial.”

The duke nodded in turn. “We spoke earlier, as well. And during our discussion, the conversation turned toward the political and social climate in Mexico.”

“Oh,” Gabby said dumbly. Her mind raced with possibilities of what could have been discussed. The tense way Whitfield held himself now set her teeth on edge. “Was something said that I should know about?”

“Unfortunately yes.” The duke moved a step closer, and Gabby’s heart lurched at the somber expression on his face. “I, quite inadvertently, mentioned that you possess close ties to Mr.Valdés.”

An alarm sounded in her head, and Gabby stumbled back a step.

Whitfield grasped her by the elbow, though, his blue eyes wide on her face.

His closeness grounded her, and Gabby sucked in a breath, expelling it slowly.

While there were those within the Home Office who knew she was the niece of the Mexican ambassador, her tío Arturo had done his best to hide the connection out of an abundance of caution.

After Ana María was abducted by a French sympathizer, they all agreed his reticence to make the connection known was wise.

And now Whitfield had disclosed it to a couple she had just met.

“What did you say?” she asked around her parched throat.

The duke’s jaw worked for a moment, his gaze fixed on his feet. “I mentioned that if anyone knew about the political climate in Mexico, it would be you, as your uncle was the Mexican ambassador to England. You’re quite clever and knowledgeable, so you instantly came to mind.”

“Oh,” she whispered, confusion muddling her thoughts.

“But I should have been more mindful of your safety, and I am sorry for not taking better care of it,” Whitfield said, his eyes flashing to hers.

Relief…and something she dared not identify, coiled warmly in her belly. That wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t as if he shared that her father was the infamous Elías Luna, close adviser to Benito Juárez. “Is that all?”

“I said that you had insight into the major political players Mr.Conner would encounter if the Great Western Railway decided to broker a deal with the government.” Whitfield’s grip on her arm tightened. “I didn’t realize until afterward how it could put you in danger.”

The Duke of Whitfield had recommended her to speak on the political matters concerning Mexico?

A foreign surge of satisfaction pulsed hot in her blood.

Had anyone ever thought her knowledgeable enough to comment on such things?

People often asked Ana María about the resistance against the French, and she had the benefit of receiving regular updates through Gideon’s connections within Parliament and the Home Office.

But Gabby knew things as well. Isabel wrote to her frequently of her exciting work with Senora Maza de Juárez, and Gabby routinely dined with her tío Arturo so she could meet his Mexican guests and learn what she could about her countrymen’s struggle against imperial rule.

But no one had ever thought to ask for her opinion on the matter.

No one except Whitfield. Gabby’s throat worked on a swallow as she considered what that meant.

Not that it had to mean anything.

He stood before her now, his hand still on her elbow and an apologetic look on his face.

Gabby was certain he had not meant to put her in danger, and truly, had he?

Tío Arturo was the ambassador far away in London.

Revealing that she was his niece was not so dangerous, for her connection to Elías Luna, who was resented and respected in equal measure by both Liberals and imperialists alike, was still unknown.

With that in mind, Gabby laid her hand over Whitfield’s and squeezed it for a moment. “Thank you for letting me know, Your Grace. I’ll make sure to proceed with care should Mr.or Mrs.Conner attempt to discuss Mexican politics with me.”

Whitfield glanced down at her hand, only then seeming to realize he still held her.

His fingers slowly peeled away, and he swallowed as he took a step backward.

“I’m positive they’ll bring it up. They were quite desirous to learn everything they could about the prospects available to Mr.Conner’s employer. ”

“Surely Mr.Conner is looking for Great Western to form an alliance with Mexican railway officials, especially seeing as how Juárez supporters would probably favor offers from American railways over British ones,” she said.

His brows rose. “Do you think so?”

“I do and I suspect you agree.” Sweeping her gaze about to confirm their privacy, she whispered, “Britain has not intervened with the French, while the United States continued to send weapons and other supplies to the resistance, even while they waged their own war with the Confederacy.” Gabby smirked up at him.

“Juárez will want to reward that sort of loyalty.”

Whitfield’s crisp gaze traced over her face. “That’s why I recommended the Conners speak with you.”

“Because I can anticipate how Mexican sentiment will run?” she asked, cocking her head.

“That and because you’re quite astute.”

The duke spoke so casually that it took Gabby a heartbeat to grasp his meaning. Blinking, she ventured, “Are you paying me another compliment, Your Grace?”

“It would appear so.” Whitfield plopped his hat on his head and withdrew his gloves from his pocket. He winced as he slid one over his hand. “It has to be the sun. I must be suffering from sunstroke.”

Perhaps she was, as well, for Gabby could not stop staring at how his long, graceful hands flexed as the buttery-soft kid leather stretched over his fingers. Jerking her gaze away with a start, she reached for her poise when she found the duke watching her with an amused light in his eyes.

“Thank you again for the warning, Your Grace,” Gabby hastened to say, grasping her skirts as she turned to depart.

“See you at dinner, Miss Luna,” Whitfield called after her, and Gabby’s shoulders tensed.

Glancing back at him, she nodded. “I suppose you will.”

And why did that promise not feel as vexing as it would have just days ago?