Page 112 of The Lord Meets His Lady

He fingered his whiskey glass. His head was aching. The thirst. Hot and needy. Someone’s foot tapped the floor under the table. Halliburton rearranged his cards.

“What say you, Bowles?” Barnard prodded. “Are you in?”

A married pair. As good a sign as any. “I’m in.” He laid his offering on the table.

Silk skirts whispered in the periphery. Genevieve. She wandered the room, studying the murals. Facing the table, Marcus’s stare collided with the Prussian’s. The foreigner’s gaze flicked to Genevieve and back again. The Hessian sat tall and calm. Too calm.

Marcus rubbed his nape, itching to win and leave. Lord Barnard blustered, and the round continued. Marcus discarded a useless four of spades and got an equally useless four of clubs. Light glinted like gold on the Scotch whiskey. He upended his glass.

The king and queen would carry his hand.

Buy the second herd of horses.Save them.The words thumped in his head, keeping time with his pulse.

“I’m out,” Barnard groused and waved over a footman. “Not the hand I needed.”

The Prussian showed his cards. A pair of aces.

“Herr Wolf, you play well, but I’ve something better.” Halliburton grinned, fanning his cards. The jack of clubs, thePam, the trump card.

Another losing hand. Marcus dropped his cards. An officious white glove set another full glass at his elbow.

“Not my night,” he muttered and sat up in the chair.

Barnard chuckled. “Luck eludes you, Bowles.”

The Prussian split the deck in two. “Marriage must not agree with him. He hasn’t won a single round.”

“Dulled him a bit.” Halliburton stuffed folded pound notes inside his coat pocket.

Marcus ignored the taunts. He knew them for what they were—petty attempts of men to elevate themselves at the cost of another. When he gambled, he kept comments to himself. Gaming brought out a rare facet of his nature. He was less talkative and more watchful. Quick to pick up on little habits, such as how Halliburton’s shoe dangling and tapping sped up when he had a good hand. Barnard’s thumbnail picked the gap in his teeth when his cards were mediocre. But Herr Wolf was icy composure with every hand.

“Women. They always try to soften a man,” Lord Stoneleigh jested from his table.

“That’s my last round, gentlemen.” Halliburton rubbed his eyes. “Today was a long journey. I’m off to bed.”

Marcus slipped on his velvet coat.

Herr Wolf riffled the cards. “Surely you’re not leaving, Bowles. Our game has just begun.”

Marcus’s hand fisted on his thigh. Herr Wolf had thrown down a gauntlet. A hum played in Marcus’s head. The whiskey. The Prussian was up to something, but his mind drew a blank. The foreigner wouldn’t dare try to snatch Genevieve in one of England’s oldest castles.

“Count me out.” Barnard leaned back in his chair. “I’ll watch another round or two. Could be well matched if Bowles recovers his mettle.”

“Sure he didn’t leave it at the Cocoa Tree?” Lord Stoneleigh shot a verbal jab from his seat beside Atal, and chortles erupted.

“With no chance to get it back, not since they banned him,” another man chimed in.

“He may have to run farther north at the rate he’s going,” Lord Stoneleigh jibed.

“Or give you a sound drubbing, Stoneleigh,” Marcus shot back, the mural behind the Prussian blurring. “Don’t forget who won your prized roan last winter.”

Lord Barnard waved over a footman, and a white glove deposited a new glass at his elbow. “And one for Bowles,” the older man said. “Looks like he needs a drink.”

Marcus took the drink and set the glass to his mouth. Small tremors shook his hand, nothing visible. He could control this—the whiskey and his anger and the will to win and silence the room of fools. He took one swallow.

Skirts swished, and Genevieve charged to his side. This night was a dressing-down. It was bad enough the men jabbed him, but the Prussian sat front row, the semblance of a smile on his stoic face. He wasn’t good at smiles. The expression wasn’t natural on his face.

Genevieve touched Marcus’s shoulder. “I’m tired, milord. Can we go home now?”