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CHAPTER TWO

The moment Lydia spotted him, she knew he did not belong.

Like a rose bush tucked amid bluebells, he stuck out far too easily.

But perhaps the comparison should have been the opposite.

For where roses were sharp, dangerous, bold in color and in context, the newcomer was soft-spoken, gentle, and even his handsomeness was subdued, the sort of pleasant face one might easily forget about.

Most men in the gambling hell were the thorny type, all dangerous edges and cloying smoke from their cigars. Dressed in the sharpest fashions, they cut bold figures and paraded around the tables with easy confidence, drinking liquor as fast as it could be poured.

This stranger was golden-haired, dressed in an outdated set of clothes that looked like something Lydia’s father might have worn to a funeral, and clung to his sole glass of brandy like a spinster afraid of consuming more than a tiny tipple.

Which was impressive. If he’d been tipsy, at least that could be blamed for what would come next. Because, judging by the way his fingers fumbled with his stack of chips, he was about to be thoroughly fleeced.

Lydia had been watching the game for several minutes, waiting for the right moment. She stepped forward, slipping between two men just as the dealer prepared to turn the next card. "I’ll take that hand," she said smoothly.

The table went silent.

Across from her, Lord Sutton—the most ruthless gambler in the club—arched a brow. "Is that so?"

Lydia nodded, lowering herself into the seat beside the fair-haired stranger. She did not look at him yet. She reached for the cards he had been about to play and, with a flick of her wrist, revealed them to herself. A losing hand, just as she suspected.

"Ah," she murmured, shaking her head. A single curl escaped completely on purpose. It had taken her months to learn the most alluring way to loosely pin her hair."This would have been a disaster."

The gentleman beside her stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"

Lydia finally turned to look at him. He was, regrettably, even more handsome up close. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes the exact shade of summer sky before the storm rolled in. And a storm, with any man as fine as him, would always come.

"You were about to wager your entire bet on this?" she asked, her tone just shy of scolding.

His lips parted, but nothing came out.

Oh dear. He was even worse than she thought.

Sutton let out a low chuckle. "Well, well. Looks like our new friend has a protector tonight."

Damn Sutton for being so fine in bed, and so utterly obnoxious with his clothes on. “It wouldn’t do for a new friend to lose all of his money,” she said with a low purr, “especially not before I’ve gotten to know him.”

The men at the table knew what she meant, even if the stranger didn’t. She was no harlot, though she held no disrespect for her working sisters, but she was well known for making a new man’s acquaintance if he tickled her fancy.

A muscle ticked in the stranger’s jaw. "I don’t need?—"

She silenced him with a single look. "Yes, you do."

Then she turned back to the table, shuffled the cards with practiced ease, and placed her bet.

No one would question her, the she-devil of Bessman’s Gambling Hell, for starting a new hand.

Not when she’d won enough times to have bankrolled half the staff here, all of whom were undyingly loyal to her.

Let the game begin.

After that, Lydia made a great show of peeking over to his hand and tapping on cards he should play, or more often, discard. She didn’t help enough to keep him winning constantly, but she ensured he’d at least walk away with a hundred more than what he had come into the hell with.

At midnight, he stood clumsily and bowed to her. She was reminded, not for the first time, of a colt with too-long of legs.

“Good evening, sir,” she murmured.

“Wait! Miss, you?—“

She turned, surprised at his tone. There was no disrespect, no judgement in it. “Yes?”

“You saved me.” He raked a hand through the tumble of blond hair. “Indeed, you saved more than you know. “

“Mm,” she pressed her lips together, waiting for him to do something foolish like sweep her into a kiss. Not that she’d entirely dissuade him from doing so, though she found herself mildly laid low at the disappointing predictability of it all.

“May I thank you by offering a meal in return?”

She blinked at him. “What?” The blunt question slipped out of her, as she abandoned any pretenses of the manners she’d affected while dealing with the gentleman.

It felt good, more natural to speak this way.

Lydia was rather fond of the directness she was able to use these days, free from all the nonsense of proper conversation she’d been raised to follow.

“A meal. Luncheon, if you will. It’s the one our chef is most skilled at, and I’m told that women enjoy a social meal, at least, by my sisters, who quite despair that we never have company at such events.”

His words tumbled out like pebbles rolling down a hillside, amassing more and more speed until there was a veritable verbal rockslide by the end. Lydia’s eyebrows raised in amusement. “You are asking me to dine with you?”

“Indeed.” He inclined his head, a small noble action that revealed years of tutelage under some oppressive educator or another. The Ton’s manners did not come without relentless study. “As thanks for your wisdom and counsel.”

Such a proper man.

It would be a shame to ruin him.

Lydia smiled and tapped his chest with her fan. “You will bring your meal of gratitude here, I think, and we shall dine in my suite.”

At his blush, her grin only grew brighter.