Page 8 of My Demanding Duke (Forbidden Love #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

HIS NEW WIFE would be his undoing; Hugh was certain of it.

From the moment she had nipped his thumb in quiet rebellion, Hugh’s resolve to take things slowly with Anna had crumbled to dust.

His conscience was the only reason his wife’s maidenhead currently remained intact. As he had pulled her against his body, a quiet voice had urged him to stop. That same voice told him that it would be caddish to pluck her virginity in one fell swoop, when she had already given so much of herself to him. Much to Hugh’s surprise, he had listened.

Anna had given him her hand; despite her doubts, a part of her trusted him. Hugh was rather surprised to learn that her trust meant a great deal to him.

It had taken all of Hugh’s willpower to release his wife from his grip and return to his chambers, but he had. Which is why he found himself now, pacing the floor so furiously that he was certain to wear a hole in the carpet.

“To hell with this,” he muttered aloud as he realised that sleep would not soon come.

He needed something to distract himself from his aching need for the woman next door, and what better distraction than the card table?

In just a few minutes, Hugh was dressed and inside his carriage, travelling to Pickering Place. As the vehicle made the short journey from St James’ Square, Hugh’s mind replayed the image of his wife taking his thumb in her mouth. He closed his eyes as he imagined her sensual lips wrapped around another part of his body and to his shame, he realised that his cock was once again straining painfully against his breeches.

He’d need an entire bottle of brandy to render him temporarily impotent if Anna was to remain a virgin until dawn, he thought dourly.

His carriage left him at the alleyway beside Berry Bros. he hadn’t commented nearly a decade earlier, either, when Hugh had decided to mourn his brother by haunting the very hells that had destroyed him.

“There is still no sign of Mosley,” Shatter continued, once they had both drank to Hugh’s marriage. “If I hear anything, I’ll send word.”

“My thanks,” Hugh nodded gravely, as though this were the true purpose of his visit—though in truth, he hadn’t given a second thought to Lord Mosley all day. The man did not deserve a moment of anyone’s concern, in Hugh’s opinion.

“A few young bloods are in the Egyptian Room, if His Grace feels like indulging,” Shatter added, all business now that the social niceties were complete.

“Perhaps I’ll relieve them of their allowances,” Hugh answered. It was only polite for him to play a few hands, given Shatter’s assistance over the past few days.

Hugh made his way to the Egyptian Room, so called because of its papyrus wall-hangings and the enormous sphinx statues which stood sentinel-like on either side of the fireplace. Golden sconces cast a warm glow across the emerald baize -covered table, illuminating the faces of the men playing.

Hugh recognised Lord Beaufort’s face at once, though Bartie—who held no cards—had quite obviously folded early.

“Your Grace,” he said with a grin, as Hugh took the seat beside him, “I was just about to give up on the night.”

“Not winning?”

“I never do,” Bartie answered with a grin, “But usually there’s a bit of entertainment to be had. Frightfully dull this lot, they’re taking it all very seriously.”

This last remark was delivered in a whispered aside. At the centre of the table was a rather large pot of coins and promissory notes. The young men all wore looks of intense concentration and Hugh guessed that several had staked their quarterly allowances.

“Is that the younger Lord Lewisham?” Hugh queried of Bartie, with a discreet nod to a lad with limp hair and a florid complexion.

“It is,” Bartie confirmed, “He doesn’t look too upset about Graystone’s condition.”

The Duke of Graystone had recently suffered terrible injuries after losing control of his phaeton. The accident was both tragic and peculiar, given Graystone’s young age and his reputation as a remarkable whip. At only four-and-thirty years, Graystone was unmarried and had no male issue, so Hugh’s old friend from Eton, Lord Nathaniel Lewisham, had been called back from serving with Wellington’s army, to assume the title once his brother passed.

“I’m glad it’s Nate who will inherit,” Hugh commented as he watched the younger Lord Lewisham throw his cards down petulantly on the table as he lost the hand. “I couldn’t imagine that Tulip carrying the line.”

“Poor Graystone, an awful tragedy,” Beaufort sighed. “But Lord Lewisham is lucky to have a friend to advise him on the trials of unexpectedly inheriting a title,.”

Hugh stiffened at the mention of Jack; his brother’s death was a wound he did not often examine. Yet, since he had met Anna, Jack’s ghost seemed ever present.

“Lewisham will be fine,” Hugh answered, brushing the topic aside. Though, inwardly, he felt a stab of pain on his friend’s behalf; to lose a brother was to lose a piece of oneself. At least for Lewisham the sense of guilt might be less, he thought, somewhat bitterly. Fewer sleepless nights, fewer what ifs. An accidental death was so much easier to mourn than…

“Gravesend is onto a winner,” Beaufort commented as the game came to its conclusion.

A young lord, fresh down from Oxford at Hugh’s guess, gave a whoop of delight as he revealed the winning hand. His face was familiar and Hugh realised, with a start, that he had been present on the night that he won Anna’s hand. He observed as, with a greedy smile Gravesend reached out and pulled the sizable pot toward him, leering at his fellow players.

“Nobody likes a popinjay,” Bartie said, in response to the young lad’s gloating. He waved down the footman to fetch another drink and gave Hugh a roguish smile. “The chap has been winning all evening, it would be highly entertaining if someone was to take the wind out of his sails.”

“I’m not a court jester, Beaufort,” Hugh countered, though when the dealer called for the next game, Hugh signalled his intention to join. There was nothing like a game of cards to distract from one’s memories.

As usual, Hugh allowed himself to lose the first few rounds. Loo was a game of both chance and skill—observation of one’s opponents being the oft-overlooked key to success. Hugh was patient, biding his time and carefully noting not just the patterns in his opponents’ play but their temperaments too. As half of the young bloods were deep in their cups, it was quite easy to tell when they had been dealt a good hand.

Gravesend, however, was a little more difficult to discern. Hugh quickly realised that the young buck was not as drunk as his companions, though he made a great show of brandishing his brandy glass.

They were on their third round, when Hugh noted it—a discreet glance between Gravesend and the dealer, whose hands trembled ever so slightly as he manipulated the deck with practiced precision. Hugh observed carefully as the cards were dealt and hid a smile as he noted Gravesend—with a quick slight of hand—slip one of the cards beneath the table.

The impertinent upstart was cheating!

Hugh allowed the game to carry on. Bartie, who bet small and folded early, was out first, followed by several other players, until only Hugh, Lord Lewisham, and Lord Gravesend were left. Hugh's attention sharpened as the final trick drew near, watching Lord Gravesend with quiet intensity. The young blood’s eyes were alight with avarice, a sight Hugh had seen countless times at the tables.

“What say I stake my estate in Dorset, your Grace, will you match me?” Gravesend called, as Lewisham finally folded.

“I could match your bet ten times over, boy,” Hugh answered coolly as he pushed back his chair, “But I cannot match your luck—though I don’t know if I’d call concealing cards luck. Cheating is rather more correct, don’t you think?”

In three quick strides, Hugh circled the table to Gravesend and pushed back the young man’s chair to reveal the card on his lap.

"I believe this belongs in the game," Hugh said as he picked up the card, his voice low but unmistakable in its anger. The room fell silent as the coveted Pam landed on the baize , its presence undeniable. Gravesend’s face drained of color, and his hand twitched as though he wished to snatch the Pam back.

"It seems your luck has run out, my lord," Hugh finished, with an arch of his brow.

The room was stunned to silence for a moment, until Gravesend let out a howl of anger and rounded on the dealer.

“You fool,” he shouted, leaping from his seat to confront the young lad, “Idiot! I should never have trusted a lout like you to be discreet.”

Hugh raised a brow in disbelief; there was nothing more cowardly than a man who blamed others for his own misdeeds.

The dealer paled and cast a terrified look from Gravesend to Hugh, his expression one of a man deliberating on his next move. After a moment, he made up his mind; turning on the heel of his foot and running for the door—knocking over one particularly inebriated chap in his haste.

Gravesend, blindsided by the sudden desertion of his accomplice, blinked in confusion.

“I expect the lad did not wish to stick around to face Shatter’s ire,” Hugh called, taking great satisfaction in the way the young lord’s face paled at the mention of the infamous proprietor. “If you were a wise man—though I have my doubts about that—you’d beat a hasty retreat too. Mr Shatter does not take kindly to those who try to cheat the house.”

Gravesend shot one final venomous glare at Hugh, his pale eyes incandescent with rage.

"You’ve made an enemy, Falconbridge," he hissed through clenched teeth as he yanked the door open with such force that it slammed against the wall. As Gravesend's footsteps echoed down the corridor, Hugh returned to his seat beside Bartie.

“You did say you wanted some light entertainment,” Hugh quipped, to the shocked Lord Beaufort.

“Yes but I’d rather you hadn’t made an enemy in the name of amusing me,” Bartie answered, his eyes worried as he glanced at the door Gravesend had just stormed through.

“A small addendum to the long list of enemies I have made in my two and thirty years,” Hugh shrugged. His prowess at the card tables had earned him many adversaries; Gravesend was but a child in comparison.

“Gravesend has lost more than money this night,” Bartie warned, uncharacteristically serious in tone, “He’s lost his reputation.”

“His own doing, not mine,” Hugh shrugged again. Exhaustion had washed over him and he was in no mood to humour Bartie’s anxieties.

Lord Beaufort was many things, but he was no fool. Sensing Hugh’s impatience, he gamely changed the subject.

“How goes your engagement to the lovely Miss Mosley?” he queried, “I must say, I am quite invested in your romance, given that it was I who was witness to your being struck by Cupid’s arrow.”

Hugh hid a smile at his friend’s innocent tone; Bartie had no doubt heard that Hugh had been stood-up for the Colridge’s ball and was fishing for information.

“It goes well enough,” Hugh conceded, “We were married this morning.”

Bartie rewarded Hugh’s bald statement by spluttering on the brandy he had just lifted to his lips, so surprised was he by the news.

“You do move quickly,” Bartie grinned, once he had cleaned himself off. “Though—if I may be so impertinent as to say—in your haste, you seem to have forsaken romance, your Grace.”

“In what way?” Hugh frowned.

“You’re spending your wedding night with me,” Bartie answered, with no little exasperation. “And while I am excellent company, I am not your blushing bride. I don’t think she will be overly impressed tomorrow if she learns you spent your first night married in a gaming hell with a brace of drunks and reprobates—present company excluded, of course.”

Though Hugh didn’t want to admit it, Lord Beaufort was entirely correct. He should not have ventured out to Pickering Place, even if his wife’s bed was closed to him. He should have suffered the agony of his longing at home, with stoicism and a bottle of brandy. He had spent too many years as a bachelor, thinking only of his own needs. He had much to learn if he was to win Anna over.

It was just slightly galling to find that Bartie—the perennially single dandy—was a better husband than he.

“No need to thank me,” Bartie waved an airy hand to Hugh’s dark expression, “I just ask that you think of me when you name your first born child.”

“Maybe the second,” Hugh begrudged, as he gathered his things. “Goodnight Beaufort.”

Hugh strode from The Egyptian Room back into the main gaming hall, where he flagged down Shatter to tell him of Gravesend’s tricks.

“Your employee disappeared the moment the ruse was discovered,” Hugh finished, with an apologetic shrug.

“He’ll stay disappeared, if he knows what’s good for him,” Shatter muttered, his brow creased into a deep frown.

Hugh shivered on behalf of the errant employee; Daniel Shatter was not someone any man would want as an enemy. He was known across London for his ruthlessness; many a young buck had learned the hard way not to cross him.

“And Gravesend?” Hugh questioned, not wanting the young dealer to bear the brunt of the blame.

“The young Lord Gravesend will soon find that he’s barred from every establishment from here to the West India Docks,” Shatter shrugged, “And if I meet him down a dark alleyway, he might find all his fingers broken too. My thanks for your help, your Grace.”

With a brusque nod, Hugh took his leave, exiting Pickering Place down the same dark, damp alley, back to St James’ Street and his carriage.

The journey to St. James’ Square was mercifully brief. Once inside Falconbridge House, Hugh climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, boots muffled against the thick carpeted runners. He crossed the room quietly and eased the door open to Anna’s bedchamber. He found her asleep, one hand curled beneath her cheek, moonlight catching the soft curve of her shoulder. She looked impossibly young, impossibly innocent. Hugh stood motionless, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breath, overwhelmed by a sense of protectiveness.

This woman had joined her life to his. If Hugh wanted to win her heart, he would have to make his life one she would want to share.