by Erica Ridley
She nodded shyly. “Whenever you see someone in trouble, you rush in to help. It’s why I fell in love with you.”
“I’ll take it,” he said quickly, and kissed her on her forehead.
Grace continued, “I hate Oliver because he is… organized.”
“You should see my sister,” Ravenwood murmured.
“What’s wrong with putting things in order?” Oliver protested.
“When you tidy my things, I can’t find them anymore,” she shot back. “This year, I took Oliver to the Opera House—”
“I took you,” he said between laughter. “It’s my box.”
“‘Our’ box,” she allowed. “And then I treated him to… er… orgeat?”
Edmund frowned. “I thought Oliver didn’t like orgeat.”
“Oliver does not,” Oliver agreed. “It’s rubbish.”
“It starts with O,” Grace said.
“So does ‘orange marzipan,’” he pointed out. “And ‘oats.’ And ‘olives.’”
“And ‘outrageously arrogant about the letter O during his wife’s first game-play,’” Grace added, and stuck out her tongue.
“I promise to make it up to you later.” He whispered something into her ear that made her cheeks flush bright red.
“Deal,” she said faintly.
“I wish we’d had a Whispering Gallery for that one,” Kate murmured to Ravenwood.
He rather agreed.
Oliver straightened and began his turn. “I love my love with a G, because she is gifted. Grace makes her loved ones feel very loved.”
She smiled up at him. “Thank you.”
“Thank you.” He squeezed her hand. “I hate her because… Grace is grouchy whenever she’s hungry.”
Bartholomew leaned forward. “How grouchy is grouchy?”
“You should hear the rude things she says when her stomach starts growling.” Oliver widened his eyes in shock. “I fear for my safety. This is my cry for help.”
Grace swatted him with a sofa pillow. “You cad, I’m growing a baby in there!”
“You are?” All the friends jumped up to embrace them at once. “Congratulations!”
“I took her to Gunter’s Tea shop,” Oliver managed, from somewhere deep within the pile, “and treated Grace to great quantities of everything.”
“I said I’m expecting!” came Grace’s muffled protest.
“Expecting twins?” Sarah asked slyly as they all resumed their seats.
Grace covered her ears. “Can’t hear you.”
“Triplets?”
Ravenwood tapped a spoon against his wine glass to stop the commotion.
When he had everyone’s attention, he grinned. “Shall we do this again next year?”
“Absolutely,” Sarah said. “I can’t wait to meet Grace’s quintuplets.”
Grace tossed a pillow at her. “There’s just one.”
“Which makes six so far for the new generation.” Jane’s eyes turned dreamy. “Do you think they’ll be proper, or will they turn out just like us?”
“Proper,” Ravenwood said, at the same time Kate said, “Just like us.”
He grinned at his wife. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
And with that, the First Annual Ravenwood Tree Party was born.ere.
* * *
THE END
In the new Rogues to Riches series, Cinderella stories aren’t just for princesses… Lovable rogues sweep five strong-willed ladies into a whirlwind romance.
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Get yours: Lord of Chance
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Acknowledgments
As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partners. Huge thanks go out to Erica Monroe and Darcy Burke. You are the best!
Lastly, I want to thank the Dukes of War facebook group, my Historical Romance Book Club, and my fabulous street team. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.
Thank you so much!
About the Author
Erica Ridley is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of historical romance novels.
In the new 12 Dukes of Christmas series, enjoy witty, heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!
Her two most popular series, the Dukes of War and Rogues to Riches, feature roguish peers and dashing war heroes who find love amongst the splendor and madness of Regency England.
When not reading or writing romances, Erica can be found riding camels in Africa, zip-lining through rainforests in Central America, or getting hopelessly lost in the middle of Budapest.
Thank You For Reading
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In order, the 12 Dukes of Christmas:
Once Upon a Duke
Kiss of a Duke
Wish Upon a Duke
Never Say Duke
Dukes, Actually
The Duke’s Bride
The Duke’s Embrace
The Duke’s Desire
Dawn With a Duke
One Night With a Duke
Ten Days With a Duke
Forever Your Duke
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In order, the Rogues to Riches books are:
Lord of Chance
Lord of Pleasure
Lord of Night
Lord of Temptation
Lord of Secrets
Lord of Vice
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In order, the Dukes of War books are:
The Viscount’s Tempting Minx (FREE!)
The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower
The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress
The Major’s Faux Fiancée
The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride
The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway
The Duke's Accidental Wife
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Lord of Chance
Disguised as a country miss, Charlotte Devon flees London, desperate to leave her tattered reputation behind. In Scotland, her estranged father’s noble blood will finally make her a respectable debutante. Except she finds herself accidentally wed to a devil-may-care rogue with a sinful smile. He’s the last thing she needs…and everything her traitorous heart desires.
Charming rake Anthony Fairfax is on holiday to seek his fortune…and escape his creditors. W
hen an irresistible Lady Luck wins him in a game of chance—and a slight mishap has them leg-shackled by dawn—the tables have finally turned in his favor. But when past demons catch up to them, holding on to new love will mean destroying their dreams forever.
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Sneak Peek
Lord of Chance
Scotland, 1817
Mr. Anthony Fairfax might not be the lord of a manor, but he was king of the gaming hells. Or had been. Anthony glanced at his pocket watch. He should be resuming his throne at any moment. His luck was already turning back around, right here in a humble inn on the Scottish border. And Anthony knew why. He slid another look toward a certain young woman seated alone in the shadows.
Making her acquaintance was almost as tempting as winning the next hand of three-card Brag.
To feign disinterest in the twitches and tells of the other three men at the card table, Anthony lifted his untouched glass of brandy to his lips and leaned back in his chair. Careful to keep a subtle eye on the other gamblers, he glanced about the inn’s surprisingly well-appointed salon while he waited his turn.
This particular posting house was a bit dear, given the unpredictable condition of Anthony’s purse, but he’d chosen it for that very reason. Rich guests meant higher profits at the gaming tables.
Bored gentlemen—after all, who stopped at a small village on the border between Scotland and England save those on a long, dusty journey?—meant virtually every soul present had wandered into the guest salon after supper to be entertained for a moment or two. Drivers. Gentlemen. Ladies.
For Anthony, the most interesting of all was the intriguing woman in the corner. She drank nothing. Spoke to no one. Seemed uninterested in the bustle of life about her. Yet he knew she was not.
Light from a nearby candle reflected in her eyes every time she looked his way.
Anthony was certain she was the catalyst for his phenomenal luck this evening. A rush of hope filled him. As a lifelong gambler, he was accustomed to both long stretches of near-invincibility as well as dry spells of dashed fortune. From the moment he’d laid eyes on this mysterious woman, every hand he was dealt contained at least a flush or a run.
She was his talisman. His saving grace.
Her moss-colored gown was simple muslin, but the blood-red rubies about her neck and dangling from her ears indicated wealth. A nondescript bonnet bathed her face in shadow. Were it not for a rogue ringlet slipping out the back, he would not have known her hair was spun gold.
“Fairfax?” prompted Leviston. “You in?”
“Absolutely.” Anthony placed a dizzying sum of money on the corner of the table. Thirty pounds was more than he’d seen in months—and far more than he could afford to lose. But with Lady Fortune gazing in his direction, he knew he could not fail.
Mr. Bost, failing to hide his smug expression, tossed his final cards onto the table, face up. Mr. Leviston and Mr. Whitfield groaned as they displayed their cards.
As Anthony had expected, their cards were no match for his. Not tonight. He turned over his straight flush without fanfare.
Bost gasped in dismay. “You are positively beggaring me tonight, Fairfax!”
Anthony gazed back impassively as he tucked his winnings into his purse. He knew a thing or two about being beggared. It was what had chased him from London to Scotland—but only temporarily. He would recover his losses. Every penny.
Beau Brummell might be able to hide in France for the rest of his life, but Anthony had friends and family in England. People he loved dearly and would miss dreadfully. He straightened his shoulders. London would welcome him back with open arms once his vowels were paid. A few more big wins, and his IOUs would be a distant memory.
Tonight was the night. He could feel it. Fate had been on his side from the moment Leviston had suggested a game of three-card Brag. Anthony could not possibly have resisted.
He had always preferred games of chance over strategy. His strength was not in counting cards or doing figures, but in being incredibly lucky. Any gambler experienced periods of soaring highs and devastating lows but, in Anthony’s case, fortune favored him so often that his winnings at the gaming tables had been his family’s sole income for years.
True, he had also suffered agonizing losses but, as any gambler knew, a windfall was always a mere turn of the cards away. Tonight, in fact.
All he needed was one big win.
Whitfield shook his head. “Demme, I should never have believed the rumors of your luck running out. You’re unsinkable! Think you’ll ever retire from the gaming tables and leave a few pence for us mortals?”
“Never!” Anthony twisted his face into a comical expression of horror.
Chuckling, Whitfield gathered the remaining cards and began to shuffle.
Anthony sent a quick smile toward his shadowy Lady Fortune. She was his charm, his muse. Her power was immeasurable. He had won that last round simply because she’d gazed upon him.
“I see our would-be adversary has caught your eye,” said Whitfield.
“She wagers?” Anthony asked in surprise.
“She’d like to,” Leviston answered dryly, “but Bost wouldn’t let her join us.”
Bost drained his brandy and waved his empty glass at a barmaid. “What do women know about cards? She’ll lose her money. Her husband should pay more attention to the purse strings.”
Whitfield’s eyes glittered. “And if she hasn’t got one, she should just say the word. I’d be happy to step in for the night.”
Anthony’s lips flattened in distaste. “Leave her alone.”
“Why?” Bost’s laugh was cocky. “You have claims on the lady?”
“You certainly do not,” Anthony countered icily. His tone served to silence the blackguards.
Good. He needed to keep winning. A brawl over Lady Fortune’s honor would have ruined everything.
“Your wine, my lords.” The harried barmaid refilled the other gentlemen’s glasses, then turned toward Anthony. “Anything for you, sir?”
“Not for me.” Anthony placed a gold sovereign he’d set aside onto her tray. “For you. Everyone deserves some good luck once in a while.”
Her eyes glistened. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
Anthony inclined his head. Inn staff would not know him this far north, but he always shared a small token from his winnings. Everyone did deserve good fortune. He couldn’t imagine a worse fate than having to be employed to scrape out a living—not only because gentlemen of his class did not work. Anthony had never cleaved to anyone else’s schedule or demands. Gaming hells were much more suited to his style of living.
In fact, he won the next several rounds. A thrill shot through him each time. Lady Fortune’s presence had made him unconquerable indeed. Tonight’s total winnings were well over a hundred pounds.
“I’m out.” Bost pushed his chair back and stood with a disgusted expression. “If I risk any more, I shan’t be able to afford to break my fast in the morning.”
“Make that two of us.” Whitfield glanced at Anthony as he rose to his feet. “I suppose the gossips also lied when they said all the gaming hells in London had closed their doors to you.”
“London?” Anthony leaned back in his throne with a careless grin. “Try England. Why do you think I came all the way to Scotland to deprive you of your last ha’penny?”
“Scoundrel.” Whitfield shook his head with a chuckle. “Good night, all.”
Bost adjusted his hat with a sigh. “Next time I see you, Fairfax, I’m winning back my blunt.”
“You can try,” Anthony agreed with good cheer before handing the cards to Leviston. “One last round?”
“I’ll no doubt regret this,” Leviston grumbled as he shuffled the cards.
A movement caught Anthony’s eye. He straightened his spine as Lady Fortune rose from her shadowy corner and made her way toward their table. Her very presence dazzled.
“Now is there room for a lady?” she asked in a rich, sultry v
oice.
“Without question.” Anthony leaped up in deference while she took her seat. She had no chance of winning, not with Anthony’s luck tonight, but he saw no reason not to welcome her to the table.
“Your funeral,” Leviston said to her under his breath. “Fairfax here is unbeatable.”
Anthony was in full agreement. Leviston could bid his last farthing adieu. Now that Lady Fortune was seated at their table, Anthony’s luck would be boundless. He was on the longest winning streak of his life.
“Fairfax, meet Miss Devon.” Leviston began to deal the cards. “Starting wager is ten pounds, pet.”
She placed her bet on the table without changing expression. Either the sum meant nothing, or she expected to win.
Anthony couldn’t stop staring at her from the corner of his eye. He was normally quite gifted at sizing someone up in the briefest of moments—it was the key to reading tables, and knowing when to pass or when to triple his wager—but he couldn’t quite get a fix on Miss Devon.
It wasn’t just the high-necked modesty of her thick fichu being paired with extravagant rubies, or her concealed golden tendrils and pristine white gloves. Now that she was close enough for him to read her features, he still couldn’t do so. Her clear blue eyes were as calm as a winter lake and her pretty, unlined face betrayed nothing.
He was fascinated, tempted to give up on cards altogether in favor of unraveling the far more intriguing mystery beneath the simple, oversized bonnet.
But winning big was his only chance of repaying his debts.
Anthony took the next round, and the round after that. Leviston took the third, only for Anthony to win it back double the following hand with three jacks.
