The Daughter of an Earl

by Victoria Morgan

  This man had no interest in her. Her tension eased and she exhaled. She needed to remain focused. Focused players win. She eyed his untouched glass of brandy. Sober players win. Her father’s words echoed. Drawing a steady breath, she started to remove her gloves, but paused. Her hands would give her away but it couldn’t be helped. The risk had to be taken. She slipped the pair off and lowered her hands to her sides.

  Richmond addressed the group. “Kendall, you know everyone?”

  Her eyes shot up.

  Kendall.

  The womanizer and gambler. But of course. It was inevitable that fate would seat this man at her table. Of late, fate had been less than kind to her.

  “Actually, I don’t.” Those compelling eyes leveled on Alex.

  “Right. Alex Daniels is new to you,” Richmond said by way of introduction. “Daniels returned from abroad last year, grand tour and all.” He addressed Filmore, a slow smile curving his lips. “Filmore, you remember Daniels, don’t you?”

  Daniels. She had chosen the name from a stallion who had triumphed at Ascot despite one-hundred-to-one odds against him. She hoped for similar luck.

  Filmore grinned. “I do. You left with my money the last time we shared a table. You’ve been scarce these last few months. Good of you to make an appearance. I like to be given the chance to recoup my losses.”

  She opened her mouth to respond but noticed Kendall frowning at her again. She didn’t like it, or the effect it had on her pulse. If she’d had a fan, she would have snapped it open and given him the cut direct. Without her fan, she turned away from him to respond to Filmore, lowering her voice to do so. “My apologies, Lord Filmore. I so enjoyed spending your money that I’ve returned for more.” She couldn’t bring herself to drop his title, cross over into the intimate address of men.

  Chandler grinned. “The gauntlet has been tossed. Let’s hope you brought your purse, Filmore.” He lifted his glass in a mocking salute.

  Filmore settled back in his chair and eyed his friend. “Did you bring yours, Chandler, or are you wagering another one of your father’s prized stallions?”

  Chandler laughed, unperturbed. “The earl managed to reclaim him. Admittedly, not at the bargain price at which he’d originally purchased him.” His grin was unrepentant.

  “He must not have been too upset over your bartering his prime bloodstock. After all, you still live,” Linden commented dryly.

  Chandler shifted in his seat. “There was a bit of a row, but there are benefits to being the earl’s only heir—no spare.”

  The men laughed, with the exception of Kendall. Alex didn’t know where Kendall had left his sense of humor, but she abhorred these fops’ cavalier attitude to betting their estates, their father’s stables, or treasured family heirlooms. If they didn’t need their pampered luxuries, there were those less fortunate who did.

  “Shall we deal the cards, gentlemen?” Richmond asked, lifting the deck and waiting for Filmore to cut before he dealt the first card to Kendall. “Opening bid is twenty-five pounds.”

  Beneath the table, Alex’s hands clenched her thighs, her fingers digging deep. She had pawned her last piece of jewelry to enter this game, hoping to double its value. Glittering baubles were of little use, for there would be no more Seasons for her.

  The round circled and returned to Kendall, who drew two cards and addressed the group. “Gentlemen, I’ll raise you fifty.”

  “Aren’t you missed in the ballroom?” Linden muttered as he tossed in his note, flicking off a piece of lint from his bright blue jacket. “Not by the men, but by the ladies?”

  Kendall merely raised a brow, refraining from comment.

  Alex ignored the banter. Good Lord, seventy-five pounds. Her necklace had garnered a mere hundred. She studied her cards. It was a good hand. Langdon luck. Her father’s voice bolstered her flagging courage, and she added her note to the growing pile, stamping down her nerves.

  “Recently returned to town, Kendall? I haven’t seen you at White’s or the last few balls,” Linden said.

  “Unlike you, Linden, I’m selective in the invitations I accept,” Kendall returned, his eyes on Chandler, who scowled at his hand.

  Filmore suppressed a laugh, but kept his attention focused on his cards.

  “You have something in common with Daniels here.” Richmond nodded to her.

  “He’s been scarce as well.”

  “Yes. Well, I’ve had other priorities.” She waved a hand. Her eyes met Kendall’s, and his narrowed as if he heard the lie in her words. She cursed him for appearing to read her so well, for looking so damn arrogant and handsome.

  He was a distraction she didn’t need.

  “You both missed quite a spread at Warden’s.” Chandler added his note to the pile. “This season’s debutantes are prime stock. I fully intend to sample a few of the fillies.”

  “Bloody hell, Robbie, haven’t you had enough problems with horses?” Filmore snorted. “Gentlemen, shall we raise the bet another twenty-five?”

  The cards circled to Linden and he folded his hand. “I’m out.”

  Alex did the math, calculating that after the round she would be left with . . . with nothing. Nothing didn’t go very far. Past experience had taught her that stark, bitter lesson. But she only needed one more card. Just one more. She wondered where her heady rush of Langdon luck was and feared it sat at another table.

  She gnawed on her lower lip, then froze—no tells. She surveyed the table, but they appeared unaware of her frayed nerves.

  The room was stifling. Why did men wear cravats? Like a noose around one’s neck, they choked. She glanced up and noted Kendall appeared to have once again read her mind, for he removed his black evening jacket.

  The man proceeded to brazenly roll up his sleeves and bare his forearms. She was riveted to every movement of his crisp white dress shirt sliding back to reveal his muscular, bronzed arms. She swallowed. Good Lord. It was indecent. He cocked a brow at her, and she stiffened. It was her move and all eyes rested on her.

  She was suddenly grateful for the hateful cravat, as it hid the burning flush stealing up her neck. She met the bet and turned to await Richmond’s play, avoiding Kendall. Why did his return to town have to coincide with hers? Like an ominous shadow, he darkened her mood and her hopes.

  “Have you received news from the front?” Richmond addressed Kendall.

  Alex turned, surprised by the question but glad for the sobering distraction. News of the Crimea should help her regain her focus, cool her burning cheeks.

  Kendall’s hand paused in placing his bet, but then he shrugged. “Nothing the papers haven’t covered.”

  Linden leaned forward, his expression thunderous. “That bloody Russell should be fired for his libelous dribble. He’s—”

  “Accurate,” Kendall cut the viscount off, his eyes hard. “Pity Lord Raglan’s command wasn’t as competent as Russell’s pen. It might have saved a lot of bloodshed.”

  A taut silence stretched over the table.

  Alex was stunned. Kendall hadn’t served up the usual loyal drivel glorifying hard-fought campaigns or extolling a long life for the empire. Kendall voiced the dark and bitter truth.

  She had heard murmurs of William Russell’s reports in the Times publicizing the troops’ suffering from shortages of food, clothing, and medicines, but she didn’t need to read his accounts. She had heard from the soldiers themselves, and her heart had bled for them, for the carnage the Light Brigade had left after its disastrous charge at Balaclava last October.

  She swallowed and glanced up to see Kendall’s enigmatic eyes resting on her. She dropped her gaze and blinked furiously, cursing her momentary lapse and his words for touching her. But they had. Contrary to the opinions of some, she was not made of stone.

  “Yes, well, to those who fought with courage.” Richmond broke the silence, rais
ing his glass in a toast, the others following suit. “Their glory will not fade.” He echoed the poignant line of Lord Tennyson’s tribute to the fallen men.

  Kendall’s hand tightened on his glass before he lifted it in response, but he set it down without drinking and turned to Chandler. “I believe it’s your bet.”

  Frowning at Kendall’s untouched brandy glass, Alex’s head shot up. For a span of time, she had forgotten the game. That had never happened to her before. A bad omen.

  She shook off the thought. She had a good hand, a solid hand. Her last card had completed her full house. The Langdon luck had come through.

  Chandler sighed and tossed his cards onto the table. “My glory has faded. I fold.”

  “No more prized bloodstock to throw into the pot?” Filmore quipped.

  “Not tonight. This evening my sights are set on the fillies downstairs, but I won’t be riding them if I waste my time and money here with you gentlemen.”

  Inwardly, she cringed at the vulgarity.

  “I’m out as well.” Richmond folded his hand and leaned back in his chair. He withdrew a cigar from his jacket and waved a passing servant over for a light.

  “Gentlemen, shall we call this hand?” Kendall asked.

  Alex edged forward in her seat, heart pumping. She would win.

  Fillmore tossed down his cards. “Pair of kings.” At Linden’s snort of laughter, he shrugged. “Worth a bluff. But I believe I’ll join Chandler downstairs.”

  “Gentlemen, let’s hope you have more luck with the ladies than at cards,” Kendall said, spreading his hand on the table. A straight flush.

  Linden whistled, shaking his head. “Christ, Kendall, tell me you’re joining the others downstairs. Leave a man something to hope for in the next round.”

  “There’s still hope. Daniels hasn’t laid down his hand,” Richmond said. “Alex, any chance you have a royal flush?”

  Alex jumped as all eyes locked on her. She concentrated on drawing a steady breath as the room spiraled around her, a whirlpool sucking her down.

  She had lost. Lost everything.

  One hundred pounds; her meager fortune gone. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. She blinked at the cards. Heat flooded her body, and the smell from Richmond’s cigar gagged her. In a flash, she knew what ran through the condemned’s head before the noose tightened and their feet flailed beneath them in those final seconds of life. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  It took all her strength to spread her cards over the table rather than grip the edge of it and hold on for dear life as the room spun. After she ceded victory to Kendall, Filmore slapped him on the back, but their words and laughter barely penetrated her dazed fog. She had never seen a straight flush. Hoped to never see another.

  Chandler and Filmore shoved their seats back and rose.

  It took her a moment to realize Filmore had addressed her. He had to repeat her name and his invitation to join him and Chandler downstairs.

  She moistened her lips, not trusting herself to speak. Willing her legs to support her, she slid back her chair and stood.

  Yes. Escape. Flee the scene of her ruin. Find a private place to think or curl into a ball and will the world away.

  She cleared her throat and managed to voice an appropriate parting to the table. Her feet followed Chandler and Filmore while she marveled at her body’s ability to function when her mind could no longer.

  Voices and masculine laughter floated through the room, a river of life flowing by without her. She jumped at the explosive clatter of billiard balls, the noise shattering her daze. In a flash of clarity, she sent her companions ahead under the auspices of getting a stiff drink to drown out the bitter taste of her loss.

  She had faced ruin before. It had not beaten her, and it would not beat her now. The Langdon well of luck might be bone-dry, but the Langdon spirit will revive. She heard her father’s words and closed her eyes.

  She wished he would shut the hell up.

  He had gotten her into this mess in the first place. She slid a finger underneath her cravat and tugged at the tie.

  A waiter carrying a tray of drinks passed. Alex summoned him over when suddenly a steel grip curled around her upper arm and she was dragged to the side of the room. Speechless at the audacity, she stumbled, gasping when the hold tightened to steady her. Before she could recover, her captor reached across her and shoved open the adjacent window. A blast of cool air whipped in, fanning her flushed cheeks and shattering her shocked immobility.

  “Still going to pass out?”

  Her head jerked back at the words. Enraged, she yanked her arm free and whirled around to confront her assailant. Her words died in her throat and she staggered back a step. Steel gray eyes bored into hers.

  Kendall.

  Why had he followed her? What more did he want?

  His eyes narrowed on her. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Indignant, she met his gaze before her eyes strayed to the pulsing beat in the column of his throat, mesmerized by the strip of golden skin. He had discarded his cravat and opened the top buttons of his shirt. It was scandalous. She smelled Richmond’s cigar on him. His linen shirt stretched over broad shoulders and clung to a rock-solid body standing intimately, dangerously close. Too close.

  Towering over her, he was formidable. She stepped away until the wall braced her back and cut off further retreat.

  “Christ.” Kendall spun her around again to face the window, prodding her toward it. “Breathe.”

  She cursed the man but sucked in deep, calming breaths of the cool air. She damned him for being right and herself for being a fool. She couldn’t afford to pass out or lose her wits. Thanks to him, she had lost enough this evening.

  The urge to faint passed along with the fleeting hope that Kendall would disappear. Collecting the shattered remnants of her dignity, she planted a hand on the windowsill and braced herself to face the man, ignoring the staccato rhythm of her heart.

  His brow furrowed, the now-familiar frown curving his lips. Minus the scowl, the man was striking. She noticed he was thin, not gaunt, but pure sinew, hard angles and whipcord strength held in tight rein.

  Confused at her train of thought, she pressed her hand to her temple. Suddenly aware the gesture made her appear as if she still planned to faint, she jerked it down.

  She drew in a steadying breath before meeting those eyes. “Thank you.” The words nearly choked her, but years of ingrained etiquette forced them out.

  “Christ. You fools get younger every year. How old are you?”

  She stiffened and thrust her chin up. “Old enough.”

  His lips pressed into a firm line, but he did not question her further. After an interminable silence, he spoke. “I’ve ruined enough men’s lives, but I draw the line at boys. Here.”

  She stared at him blankly until she realized he was shoving something at her. She nearly gasped at what he held. Her notes. Blood rushed to her face. He was returning his winnings to her.

  “Take it,” Kendall demanded.

  Her hand lifted, then snapped back to her side where she curled it into a fist. No, she couldn’t. If she accepted it, she could never show her face in a card room again. She bit her lip. She felt like the fox fleeing those hunters, wondering if the escape route before her led to safety or another trap.

  She needed to think, but he never gave her the chance.

  Swearing, he caught her hand and dumped the notes into it, curling her fingers around them. He wore no gloves, and she shuddered at the touch of his bare skin against hers. His hand was hard, his fingers calloused.

  “Next time, don’t bet what you can’t afford to lose.” He turned away.

  “I’ll pay you back.” Finding her voice, her words bounced off his broad back.

  “Don’t bother.” He didn’t break stride
as he answered. “I don’t want it.” He was clearly done with the matter. Done with her.

  Stricken by his response, she stared at his retreating figure in silence. His gracious gesture burned to ash under his scorching dismissal. The transaction meant nothing to the man. To her it meant everything.

  Everything.

  To Kendall she was simply a prick at his conscience, a blister he felt compelled to lance. While surprised he possessed a conscience, she hated him for it. She recalled his comment about the men he had ruined. His words disturbed her, but envisioning his cold, slate gray gaze, she believed them. After all, he had nearly ruined her.

  Realizing she stood blankly staring at Kendall’s back, she searched her surroundings. She feared facing censure for not honoring her bet. But no one glanced her way. Only Kendall was privy to her loss of face.

  All the more reason to detest the man.

  She blinked away the moisture blurring her vision as she shoved her notes into her trouser pocket, hiding the incriminating evidence. She withdrew her gloves and shoved her hands into them. Damn him. He wouldn’t make her cry. She never cried.

  She needed to get out of here.

  Ducking her head, she fled the room, suppressing the urge to run. Why bother? There was no escaping the man. Storm gray eyes were branded in her memory. No matter how fast she fled, they would follow.

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