Page 18 of The Duke In My Bed (The Heirs’ Club of Scoundrels #1)

…’Tis much he dares And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor To act in safety.

Bray had given up the habit of drinking all day and all night, too, the morning Nathan Prim died.

Bray promised himself he’d never get that drunk again, and he hadn’t, though he still always kept a glass of stout red wine in front of him when he was playing cards well into the wee hours of morning at one of his favorite gaming clubs.

He still raced his curricle a few times a year, but never with the same enthusiasm as before the tragic accident.

He hadn’t even tried to give up card games and dice, his trysts with actresses and willing widows, or wagers that either won or lost him a fortune.

What kind of man would he be if he gave up everything wicked?

But he had less time for such indulgent pleasures since he became the duke.

He hadn’t appreciated the responsibility his father had when he was alive.

Now that Bray was the duke, he was more understanding if not forgiving of all the time his father had spent working on the responsibilities that came with being a powerful titled man.

No one enjoyed the pursuit of pleasure more than his father, but he’d always told Bray that he must take care of business first.

After Miss Prim and her chattering, screaming siblings had left, he somehow managed to stay at home and work on the account ledgers he was reviewing when Mrs. Colthrust had marched the Prim girls into his home.

But it hadn’t been easy. Thoughts of Miss Prim’s accusations had him sitting on the edge of his chair all afternoon.

He still couldn’t believe she had the nerve to accuse him of deliberately keeping Saint from her sisters.

Especially when he’d never wanted to take the dog in the first place.

At times, Saint had been a downright nuisance; at other times, he was a welcoming friend when Bray came home.

The first night Saint was at his town house, Bray tried to keep him outside in the back garden.

As far as he was concerned, dogs were for hunting, alerting their owners that strangers were approaching, or for guarding sheep.

Not even when he was a young boy were dogs kept in the house.

But the first night, Saint howled, barked, and growled at the back door until Bray went belowstairs and let him in, thinking Saint would find an old rug to curl up on and go to sleep.

But no, the dog followed him up the stairs.

It was as if Saint had a sixth sense and knew which bedchamber was Bray’s.

From a running jump, he landed on the foot of Bray’s bed and made himself comfortable.

He’d slept there every night since, even on the nights Bray didn’t come home, according to Mr. Tidmore.

Now, here Bray was into his fifth hour of playing cards and rolling dice at one of the less popular gaming hells on the east side of Bond Street, having had one bad hell of a hand and die roll after another.

He’d changed from whist to hazard and back again because he couldn’t concentrate.

And the reason he couldn’t focus on the cards or dice was because he couldn’t keep his mind off the infuriating Miss Prim and her damning accusations.

She had more nerve than the Prince, and he was drowning in it.

He couldn’t believe he’d actually gotten all her sisters’ names correct.

What were the odds? And blast it, since when was saying “good Lord” swearing?

Only a vicar’s daughter would come up with a foolish notion like that.

He didn’t like being taken to task about his language not being proper for small ears. Now he knew why their name was Prim.

Miss Prim had asked him how he could not know they would want the dog.

He should have asked her why she didn’t know he’d never keep a pet from a child.

He was thanking the hand of fate that she’d refused to marry him.

He would go mad if he had to live with all those squealing girls!

No man should be expected to endure that sound.

Being raked over hot coals about swearing, or trying to understand why a little girl would cry over something that wasn’t broken wasn’t even the worst of it—though bad enough, to be sure.

When he’d seen tears gathering in Miss Prim’s eyes, it made him angry with himself that he’d caused her pain.

And all because of a dog he hadn’t wanted anyway.

Damnation, every mistress he’d ever had cried when he gave them a parting gift.

Young ladies of quality had sought him out at balls and parties, crying because he wouldn’t ask for their hand in marriage.

He’d seen many women cry and pretend he’d crushed and mishandled their sweet affections.

Not even Miss Sybil’s big tears rolling down her chubby cheeks had bothered him.

Miss Prim’s did.

Though she’d never let them spill over onto her cheek.

He was impressed with the fortitude she’d shown in accomplishing that, because she was truly heartbroken the girls had missed those two years with Saint.

It took every ounce of willpower he had not to pull her into his arms and comfort her with kisses.

Not that he thought for a moment she would have let him.

With kisses?

Hell yes, he would have liked to comfort her with soft, sweet kisses.

He wanted to start high on her cheekbone just below her eye and let his lips trail all the way down to the corner of her mouth before capturing her voluptuous lips beneath his.

He wanted to pull her close and press her womanly body tightly against him.

Miss Louisa Prim was a fiery and fiercely devoted young lady, and he had no doubt she would be just as passionate as a lover.

Lover?

What was he thinking? Yes, he’d sensed passion in her, but he doubted she’d recognize it—and if she ever did, he doubted she’d let it come out. No, she was the last lady he wanted for a lover or for anything else.

Bray scoffed out loud, and the other gentlemen at the table looked at him with surprise.

He went still. That was a hell of a thing for him to have done as the other players were sorting the cards they’d just been dealt.

He never made a sound, twitched an eye, or changed his expression when he was playing.

No doubt, the other gentlemen thought that his hastily issued sigh meant he had yet another losing hand.

And he probably did, but he didn’t want the other players to know. And once again, it was the unforgettable Miss Prim’s fault. It would probably thrill her to know she had gotten under his skin and irritated him like a burr under a horse’s blanket.

Bray picked up his cards and looked at them. His spirits lifted. For the first time that night, he had a winning hand. Now all he had to do was take advantage of it, which might very well be difficult, considering his gaming faux pas.

He tripled his bet. The other players bought in to his high-stakes maneuver, and each man raised his bet even higher in turn.

Bray didn’t back down as they thought he would, and he upped them again.

One by one, the other three men bowed out of the game.

Bray smiled as he collected his considerable winnings and rose from the table.

He knew he owed that quite hefty bag of winnings to the inspiring Miss Prim.

The night was still young at only a couple of hours past midnight.

He once again considered the possibility of heading over to the Heirs’ Club or to White’s to see if he’d have better luck there, but decided against it.

The reason he’d come to this side of Town was because he knew he wasn’t in the mood to be hounded about Miss Prim by the likes of Lord Sanburne, Mr. Hopscotch, or any other bloke who didn’t have the good sense to leave him alone.

Thinking about the lovely and bold miss was enough. He didn’t need to talk about her, too.

The gambling hell had been hot and crowded.

The chilling night wind felt good when Bray stepped out of the club, so he left off his cloak and hat.

He glanced up and down the street, looking for his landau.

There were two other carriages waiting down the street for their owners to emerge, but his wasn’t in sight.

Carriage horses were well schooled to stand still for long periods of time, but most drivers would take a ride around the block at least once or twice an hour and give the horses a little exercise to keep them from getting restless.

Bray expected his own driver to do that if he was ever gone for more than an hour.

In the opposite direction of the carriages, Bray saw what seemed to be a commotion of some kind going on underneath one of the streetlights.

His first thought was that some poor fellow must have been caught cheating at cards and was getting the beating he rightly deserved.

Looking closer, though, he wasn’t so sure.

There were a total of four men in the fight.

One was dressed as a gentleman, and the other three appeared to be common footpads out to rob whatever they could from him.

The gentleman must either have been a greenhorn, in a drunken fog, or perhaps he’d been looking for a fight, because Bray didn’t know anyone who would be out alone on the east side of Bond Street at night unless he was looking for trouble.

The gentleman was doing a fairly good job of holding his own against the three, throwing some jabs any pugilist would envy, but the gentleman soon grew tired.

Two of the thugs grabbed him and held his arms behind his back while the other man started laying into his midsection with his fist. Bray wasn’t usually one to get mixed up in anyone else’s fight, but the gentleman had obviously tired and was no longer a match for the three ruffians.