by Erica Ridley
By the fifth round, Leviston’s grip on his cards was white-knuckled and he trembled with obvious anxiety.
Miss Devon turned as if to soothe him. “Breathe in through your nose,” she murmured, “and out through your mouth. It is but one hand of cards amongst many. A moment in time. Feel your fingers relaxing. If you wish to stop, you may do so. It is only a game.”
To Anthony’s amazement, Leviston visibly relaxed as he listened to Miss Devon’s soft, coaxing words. His knuckles returned to their normal color and his hands ceased trembling.
“You’re right,” Leviston said with a rueful smile. “How easily we forget that the turn of a card is meaningless overall.”
Meaningless? Anthony would have laughed if so much wasn’t riding on his continued lucky streak. For him, the turn of the cards meant the difference between eating or not. Between having a roof to sleep under or not. Between being able to look his loved ones in the eyes or consigning them to poverty. Or worse.
Thank God, up ’til now, Lady Fortune had only worked her calming magic on Anthony, or he would not have won a penny. He needed the other players to be on edge. The sight of white knuckles and trembling fingers was his cue to wager big.
Then again, Fate alone dealt the hands. All the subtle cues in the world were useless without the capacity to win.
He glanced down at his cards. Indescribable joy spread through him. He should never have doubted Lady Fortune’s effect. A rush of excitement surged through him. Miss Devon could calm Leviston with as many reassuring words as she wished, because Anthony’s hand was unstoppable. Triple aces. These were truly the best cards he’d ever been dealt in his life. The best cards anyone had ever been dealt.
Leviston was about to go home in tears.
“All in.” Anthony dropped the entire contents of his purse next to the pot. “Seventy pounds per player if you stay in.”
“Curse you, Fairfax.” Color drained from Leviston’s face, but he kept a stiff upper lip and ponied up his blunt. “This is my last hand.”
With her porcelain face as smooth as a doll’s, Miss Devon placed her purse alongside her bet.
A twinge twisted Anthony’s stomach. He felt bad about taking money from a lady. It wasn’t gentlemanly. Once he won, he would return her portion to her and take the rest straight back to London. The other toffs could afford to lose a few pence, Anthony reasoned, but he needed every penny he could get in order to stay out of prison. Two thousand pounds’ worth of pennies, in fact.
It had taken a year of ill luck—and increasingly riskier bets in growing desperation—to amass such mindboggling debt. Because Anthony had always gambled everywhere and with everyone, months had passed before his peers began to realize he had no means to repay them. Not even a few pence. To say they were displeased would be an understatement.
His goal was much higher than repaying his debts, of course. He wanted a pot so full of gold he couldn’t budge it without a wheelbarrow. Not only to win enough never to fear being poor again, but also to win big enough so that those he cared about would never lack for anything. He wanted to be rich. Not just for a few months or a few years. Forever.
With a sigh, Leviston displayed his cards. A low flush. Poor pup. The man had no chance of winning, and likely knew it.
Anthony felt oddly proud when Lady Fortune turned over her cards to reveal an astonishing hand. Three tens. If Anthony hadn’t held triple aces, the mysterious Miss Devon would have swept the table—and the two-hundred-pound pot.
Alas for her, luck was firmly on Anthony’s side. This was his night. His streak was invincible. Finally, he could go back home.
He flipped his cards face up with a flourish.
Leviston covered his face with his hat. “I suspected as much.”
A streak of visceral, hopeless dismay flashed across Miss Devon’s face so quickly that Anthony almost missed it.
“We can play again,” he said. “You might earn your money back.”
“I’m out,” Leviston reminded him with a sigh of regret.
“Not you.” Anthony shot him a pointed look. “Miss Devon.”
Her eyelashes lowered. “I have no more money.”
“You can wager something else.” When her blue eyes widened with outrage, he regretted his unfortunate phrasing. Anthony had meant to be gentlemanly, not offensive. He added hastily, “A lock of hair, perhaps. I’ve just the locket to put it in.”
“Don’t do it,” Leviston advised her under his breath. “This man is why half the members of the House of Lords have grown bald.”
Miss Devon’s lips twitched. “And yet, I am tempted. What, precisely, is the bet? Just seventy pounds? Or are we playing for the entire pot?”
Anthony stared at her. His blood raced at the idea of such a fearless wager. He should reply “Just seventy pounds” and be done. He knew he should. There was nothing to be gained from risking it all. Except for bragging rights when he won the entire pot all over again.
“The whole pot,” Anthony assured her magnanimously. She wouldn’t win—no one could beat him tonight—but he would still be certain to return her seventy-pound portion to her after he won. This way, she would feel as though she’d had a fair shot.
“Very well.” She gave him a brave smile and his insides melted with pride. “I’m in.”
As the most impartial party at the table, Leviston agreed to deal again.
Fifteen years of daily gaming was the only reason Anthony’s body didn’t betray him with even a flicker of satisfaction upon seeing his first card. It wasn’t going to be the same hand he’d held last time—that was a rare enough instance he’d dream about for weeks—but it was close enough to steal the breath from his lungs. His luck was damn near unbeatable.
His first card was breathtaking. And the second.
“I’m afraid you won’t like my hand,” he said when it was time to display triple kings. Twice in a row! What were the chances? His luck was unbreakable.
Leviston nearly choked into his cravat. “How do you do it?”
“And I’m afraid you won’t like mine,” Miss Devon said as she turned over hers.
Anthony froze.
No. She couldn’t have triple aces. The only hand capable of beating his.
It was impossible.
A cold sweat broke out on his skin as his stomach dropped… and dropped… and dropped. The room was spinning, spiraling him down into a void of nothingness and despair.
It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.
“I won the entire pot,” Miss Devon crowed with delight. She had destroyed him. “Just over two hundred pounds, is it not?”
Anthony stared at her. He wasn’t breathing, wasn’t blinking. His body wasn’t responding to anything his mind offered. How could it? All Anthony could think was no, no, no. And, this is the end. He needed every florin and crown in his possession order to keep winning.
How could he possibly have lost it all?
“Y-you can get your pound back from the serving wench,” Leviston stammered, clearly suffering just as much shock as Anthony. “A barmaid can’t have expected to keep such a sum.”
“No,” Anthony snapped. “Once I handed over that sovereign, it became hers. The barmaid’s luck was in. Mine will have to come back around.”
Somehow.
He hoped.
Miss Devon motioned toward the pile of purses on the table. “May I, then?”
Every muscle in Anthony’s body shook with fear and desperation. The night was young. There was plenty more money to be won. Just as soon as he got his winnings back. Or at least a few shillings. Something. Anything.
There had to be a way.
Charm, he reminded himself. When his empty wallet got him tossed out through doors, his charm was the one thing that could open new ones.
“Of course,” he replied easily, and pushed all three purses to her side of the table as if they contained nothing more valuable than handfuls of dirt. “Although I’m certain you’ll return the favor an
d allow me one last wager, will you not?”
Her expression was more than enough answer. And that answer was no.
“Just enough to stay in the game,” he said quickly. “I’m not asking you to wager the full pot. Just give me a chance to win my seventy pounds back. One chance. That’s all.”
She hesitated, her fingertips mere inches from the stack of full purses. Anthony tried not to fall to his knees and beg.
No, she did not wish to return the favor. Who would? But luck was a powerful seductress, promising lies of invincibility too sweet to resist. Perhaps she would succumb to its sway.
“What would you wager? I’m afraid I don’t collect hair,” she hedged. “I wouldn’t want any of yours.”
Relief coursed through Anthony’s veins. He had her. Maybe. He wiggled his eyebrows, affecting a teasing mien. “A boon, that, as I’m quite attached to my mane. Let us wager something far more valuable. If I lose, I’ll offer you my… purity.”
Her eyes lost their twinkle. “I doubt you have any.”
Blast. His ill-advised joke had alienated him even further. Yet there must be something a penniless rogue could offer… Anthony leaned back in his chair, careful not to show his desperation. “Then I shall be your slave for the evening. A servant of any sort you desire. I’ll darn socks if I have to.”
He wouldn’t have to, of course. He would win his seventy pounds. And then he would win back the entire pot.
Lady Fortune sent him an arch look as she picked the heavy purses up from the table. “I might enjoy seeing you muck out a chimney.”
But she didn’t say no.
“Is that a yes?” he asked lightly.
He held his breath as he awaited her decision. Anxiety flooded him. Miss Devon was the most unpredictable card he had ever been dealt. She held all the power. The wisest choice for her would be to leave the cards, pick up the money, and walk away. Then again, gamblers weren’t known for making wise decisions.
The question was… What would Miss Devon choose?
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Once Upon a Duke
Beware romantic spirits from Christmas past...
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Due to the terms of an estranged relative's will, the Duke of Silkridge must revisit the cold, unforgiving mountains where he lost everything he once loved. As soon as he restores his family legacy, he'll return to London where he belongs. He definitely won't rekindle the forbidden spark crackling between him and the irresistible spitfire he'd left behind...
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Noelle Pratchett is immune to charming scoundrels like the arrogant duke. He stole her heart, stole a kiss, and then stole away one night never to return. Now he's back—and they both know he won't stay. But how can she maintain her icy shields when every heated glance melts her to her core?
* * *
The 12 Dukes of Christmas is a laugh-out-loud historical romance series of 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!
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(Keep turning for a sneak peek!)
Sneak Peek
Once Upon a Duke
Benjamin Ward, the fifth Duke of Silkridge, didn’t want to mingle with the other guests in this godforsaken castle. He wanted a room for the night, he wanted his mother’s locket, and he wanted to be gone.
Before he could have any of these things however, he caught sight of golden blond hair and laughing brown eyes. Just like that, his world tilted on its axis.
Noelle was here. Right here.
His heart beat uncomfortably fast.
She looked both the same and yet somehow even better than before. Soft curves and gold-rimmed spectacles. Happy and smiling and beautiful. Surrounded by a group of equally cheerful friends.
He’d thought she would be gone. He’d hoped she would be gone.
So many years had passed since he’d last seen her. For the longest time, he had expected her to have a Season in the capitol, to take London by storm. Perhaps she had done so, and he had missed it. After all, he spent his days in the House of Lords and his nights in his study.
Perhaps she was now “Lady” or “Mrs.” and no longer the Miss Noelle Pratchett he remembered.
He didn’t want details, he reminded himself. Learning she’d found someone else would serve no purpose, and discovering she was still unwed would not signify. And yet he couldn’t help but gaze at her hungrily as she broke from her friends and made her way to the refreshment table, right in his direction.
The moment she caught sight of him, she pulled up short. All traces of laughter disappeared from her eyes. “Silkridge.”
“Miss Pratchett,” he replied, bracing himself for the inevitable correction.
It did not come.
“Five years,” she said instead.
“You look lovely,” he blurted out, and could have kicked himself. She did look lovely. He had not meant to notice, much less give any compliments.
She ignored it. Her lips pursed. “I thought I would never see you again.”
“So did I,” he admitted. He had missed her so much, those first few months.
After that, he had done his best to push her from his mind. One should not dwell upon things one could not have. Such as a rekindled romance.
Or forgiveness.
She crossed her arms beneath her bosom. “No doubt you’re here for the will.”
Ten o’clock on the morrow. He wouldn’t be a single moment late.
“I shall be gone before you know it,” he promised.
“No doubt.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You were last time, too.”
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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.
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Let’s be friends! Find Erica on:
www.EricaRidley.com
