by Diane Gaston
‘Yes, I do think that shocked her,’ Rhys admitted. ‘I admired her. She handled the whole situation with exceptional grace.’
Ned glanced up at him. ‘She is an exceptional woman.’
Rhys clapped Ned on the soldier, surprising himself that their conversation was devoid of hostility. ‘Come with me to Coutts Bank. I’ll transfer the money to you right now.’
‘Excellent!’ Ned’s mood improved. ‘But I must be done by four o’clock.’
‘We’ll be done,’ Rhys assured him.
* * *
Celia excused herself after two of her mother-in-law’s friends came to call. Adele had already begged to be excused so that she might ready herself for her ride in Hyde Park.
It was endearing to see Adele so excited and happy. This past year of mourning had been so difficult. First the shock of their financial situation, then what amounted to an eviction from the only home Adele had ever known.
And now Luther thought he could court Adele?
Not if Celia could help it.
Although Celia was unsure about Neddington, as well.
But she was getting ahead of herself. Adele was engaged only for a ride in Hyde Park, not marriage.
Celia retreated to her bedchamber.
Her lady’s maid emerged from her dressing room. ‘Good afternoon, ma’am.’ She lifted a gown she carried in her arms. ‘I came in for this. Needs some mending.’
‘Thank you, Younie.’ Celia smiled. ‘I am surprised to see you here, though. I thought Adele would be running you in circles to get ready for Hyde Park.’
‘Oh, I am to go to her in one half hour,’ Younie said. ‘After she has rested so the dark circles under her eyes disappear.’
‘What dark circles?’ Adele looked as fresh-faced as ever.
Younie chuckled. ‘The ones in her imagination, I expect. It is best to go along with these notions, though. You cannot convince a girl that age of anything.’
‘I am certain you are right.’ Celia had never had an opportunity to be so young and infatuated. She’d been married two years by the time she was Adele’s age. Love seemed impossible.
An image of Rhys flew into her mind.
‘And what of you, ma’am?’ Younie asked. ‘Do you go out tonight?’
Celia knew what she meant. ‘After the theatre? Yes.’
Her insides fluttered.
She could hardly think of anything else but going to the Masquerade Club tonight. Or that Rhys wanted to bed her.
Her body roused as if he’d again been near. Could Younie tell? she wondered.
‘Which gown do you wear tonight?’ Younie asked, appearing not to notice anything amiss.
Celia wished she had something new and even more fashionable to wear tonight. She wanted him to look on her with admiration.
Which made her not much unlike Adele, she supposed.
Celia sat at the dressing table and peered at her reflection. ‘Do you think I have dark circles?’
Her maid clucked. ‘You ought to have, with the amount of sleep you are getting.’
She looked closer, pulling the skin under her eye taut to examine it better. ‘Oh, dear, is it taking a toll?’
Younie put her fists on her waist. ‘Does it look like you only sleep four or five hours? No. No one would know.’
‘That is good,’ Celia murmured.
Younie picked up the dress again and walked over to her. ‘You ought to rest, ma’am. You need it more than the young miss.’
‘Excellent advice.’ Celia touched the woman’s hand. ‘Perhaps I will lie down a little. Will you make certain I am up before Adele leaves?’
‘That I can do! Shall I untie your laces?’ Younie asked.
‘Yes. I’ll take off the dress only, though. I can lie down in my shift and corset.’
After Younie helped her from her gown, the maid left. Celia climbed into the bed.
And thought about Rhys.
His invitation was scandalous.
And exciting.
He liked her, he’d said. And he had been kind to her. And protective, all of which was extremely novel to her. Besides, he was young and vital and strong. What would it be like to lie with such a man?
She was inexperienced, but not naive. One could not be naive having been married to a wastrel like Gale. She well knew that men and women engaged in affairs without being married.
What would she discover if she allowed herself to accept Rhys’s proposition? Would she feel pleasure?
His kiss had promised pleasure. It made her yearn for more.
That was what shocked her.
She hugged herself and imagined his arms around her again.
Would there be any harm in having an affair with him? Plenty of widows had affairs and society turned their eyes away from it. She would never marry again, so this might be her only chance to see what the sexual act would feel like with a man other than her husband.
It might even erase the memory of what it had been like with her husband.
That was something she very much desired.
Her time with Rhys was limited. As soon as Adele was settled, Celia would move away and live the quiet, independent life she craved.
She was in no danger of losing her heart to Rhys. He was a gambler. Her mother had shown her that loving a gambler was a very bad risk. The only person she intended to place her bets on was herself. She could trust herself to pay the bills, to live within her means, to do whatever she chose to do.
She sat up and climbed off the bed.
There was the one thing she wished most to do that she could not choose. She could not choose to have a baby.
She paced the room, finally coming to the window. She gazed into the street below, but saw nothing of the carriages passing by or people walking to and fro. Her arms still ached to hold a child of her own, and nothing would replace that void in her life—not even the babies Adele would have.
Those babies would never be hers.
She swung away from the window and sat at her dressing table, staring at her reflection.
Rhys had said she was alluring.
She could not see it, but his words did thrill her.
He admired her, liked her, comforted her, protected her. Why not let him make love to her, as well?
Why not accept what Rhys offered her?
Chapter Eight
Rhys strolled through the game room, keeping his eye on what he’d laboured to create. The hazard and faro tables were the most crowded, but several patrons also played vingt-et-un and rouge et noir. The occasional gentleman wore a mask, but all of the women came disguised. More and more of them came each night.
Xavier glanced up at him from a game of whist and gave him a look that showed Xavier was still at outs with him. Rhys could forgive it. Xavier’s concerns came from friendship, a friendship Rhys valued. Xavier, and perhaps MacEvoy, were the only people in the world who cared a fig about whether Rhys lived or died.
Rhys nodded to Xavier and continued his rounds.
He turned towards the doorway and saw Celia enter.
She wore the same gown and mask as the night before, but her hair was simply dressed with only a ribbon threaded through it. She paused just inside the room and turned in his direction.
Their gazes caught and held.
He smiled. Her mouth moved ever so slightly.
Was that a yes?
It surprised him how much his spirits were heightened. He’d not quite allowed himself to think about whether she would come this night. And whether she would agree to his invitation.
Some gentlemen approached her and, amidst her protests, led her to the hazard table. She finally nodded her head and took the dice in her hand.
‘Rhys?’ A voice at his elbow caused him to turn away from the sight of her.
Both Hugh and Ned stood there. They rarely came to the Masquerade Club on the same night.
‘Gentlemen.’ He nodded to them. ‘Did you make your appointment in time?’ he asked Ned.
‘My appointment?’ Ned looked puzzled.
‘At four?’
Ned coloured. ‘Ah, that appointment. I did indeed.’
Hugh’s brows rose.
Rhys asked, ‘How is your mother?’
Hugh glowered. ‘Quite upset.’
Rhys said, ‘I regret that.’
Hugh turned away.
Ned broke in, ‘We came to say again how grateful we are that you paid the money today.’
‘Your mother gave her word,’ he responded. ‘It was enough for me.’
Hugh glanced back at him, his expression quizzical.
Ned surveyed the room. ‘It looks like a good crowd.’
Rhys agreed. ‘The numbers grow every day.’
Ned paused, but finally said, ‘We will not stay long. We came only to thank you again.’
If their situation were different, Rhys might find Ned a comfortable acquaintance. He was sober and earnest, a decent sort. Rhys had known boys like him at school. They’d always treated him fairly. Hugh, though, was a different story. Rhys suspected they were too much alike to ever co-exist without battling each other.
The same blood flowed in their veins, so it should be no surprise that their personalities were similar. Of course, Rhys had learned to hide his emotions. Hugh’s emotions were always on display.
‘I bid you goodnight, then,’ Rhys said, extending his hand.
Ned shook hands with him. Hugh did not.
Rhys turned back to the hazard table. Westleigh had joined the crowd and handed Celia the dice.
‘Pass them on, sir,’ Rhys heard her say. ‘I’ve lost enough.’
‘One more roll,’ Westleigh urged. ‘Your luck could change.’
She hesitated, but finally accepted the dice and threw them on the table. ‘Six!’ she called out.
She nicked the roll with a twelve.
A cheer went up from the men crowding around the table. At their urging the young woman croupier scooped up the dice and handed them back to Celia.
She called out a seven this time, but rolled a four and a two. The croupier handed her the dice again and she won this toss with another roll of six.
Another cheer rose from the table.
It looked like she was on another winning streak tonight. Last night’s tally showed they had indeed lost at the hazard table, but nothing alarming. The profits at faro and rouge et noir more than made up for it. Rhys liked that her winning drew a bigger crowd to the hazard table. In the long run hazard would turn a profit.
Rhys moved through the room again, still keeping an eye on the hazard table. Celia won a third time, and, egged on by the patrons betting with her, she more eagerly accepted the dice from the croupier to try again.
He’d seen winning streaks like this before. He did not mind if she had some big wins, since money was important to her. Better she win than lose.
He wanted her to be happy.
He also wanted her to come to him this night. He felt the twinges of arousal merely thinking of it.
* * *
When Celia had entered the game room, she’d immediately caught of glimpse of Rhys. She’d also seen Neddington and another young man approach him, so she avoided speaking to him right away. Before his conversation ended, two gentlemen whisked her over to the hazard table.
‘Come give us the luck, madam,’ they’d said to her.
‘As you wish,’ she responded.
She played hazard again because she expected to lose. If she could encourage men to bet with her like the night before, they would also lose and maybe she could return to Rhys some of the money she’d cost him.
It worked, too. An occasional roll was successful, but most were not. She’d set her limit at fifty pounds, which she would then try to recoup by playing card games that gave her better odds.
As she tossed the dice on to the green baize table, a man’s hand touched her back.
Westleigh.
Her skin shuddered where he touched.
‘Greetings, my dear. Allow me to assist you.’ He scooped up the dice, put his closed hand up to his lips and blew. ‘For luck.’ He smiled.
It made her sick.
She tossed the dice and won. And won again. And again.
Soon she’d lost all sense of time. All she knew was the feel of the dice in her hand, the sound of dice hitting the table, the cheers when the right numbers turned up. Her heart pumped wildly and she became dizzy with excitement. The fever had returned.
This night she woke from her reverie at the sight of Xavier Campion scowling at her.
She came to her senses and threw up her hands. ‘I am done!’
She hurried away from the table. Pausing to check the timepiece in her reticule, she realised she’d not even thought about Rhys while in the fever. The dice had been too important.
It was two-fifteen! She’d spent all her time at the hazard table.
Someone touched her back again.
‘Would you care for some supper, my dear?’ Westleigh had followed her.
She’d even forgotten he’d stood next to her all that time. ‘No. Not at all. Forgive me. I must speak with Mr Rhysdale.’
‘Rhysdale?’ Westleigh sniffed with contempt.
‘Yes.’ She could not be bothered with this man.
She searched instead for Rhys and found him leaning against the door jamb, his arms folded across his chest.
He saw her, nodded and walked out of the room.
Surely he knew of her new winning streak.
‘I must go,’ she said to Westleigh.
As she made her way to the door, she suddenly felt unable to breathe. She’d not decided about his proposition, but now she feared he would withdraw it. She walked briskly through the room.
A gentleman stopped her. ‘Some whist, Madame Fortune?’
‘Madame Fortune?’ She did not comprehend.
The man smiled. ‘That is what we call you now.’
She groaned inwardly. Her good fortune was Rhys’s loss. ‘I see.’
‘It would honour me if you would partner me in whist,’ he persisted.
She glanced toward the door. ‘I—I cannot tonight, but perhaps next time?’
He bowed. ‘I shall count on it.’
She hurried to the door and made her way to the room where the cashier sat.
‘Cashing in early, ma’am?’ he asked.
She nodded.
When her accounts were settled she thanked him and made as if she were leaving, but instead of entering the hall, she turned towards the servants’ stairway and climbed those stairs to Rhys’s private rooms, not knowing what reception she would find.
The drawing-room door was ajar and she could see him in the centre of the room. He’d removed his coat and waistcoat and stood only in his shirtsleeves, his back towards her. Her hands flew to her suddenly flaming cheeks.
She took a breath. ‘Rhys?’
He turned, but his expression was impassive. ‘I was uncertain you would come.’
‘Of course I would come.’ She spoke the words without thought. ‘I needed to.’
His brows rose.
She entered the room and closed the door behind her, her heart pounding. ‘I—I mean I must speak with you.’
He did not move, but she felt him withdraw as she came closer.
‘I must explain.’ A wave of guilt washed through her. ‘I won tonight, Rhys.’ Had this been how her father had felt when he lost? Ironic she should feel it for winning. ‘I must have cost you over a hundred pounds between my winning and those who bet with me.’
The experience was now a blur of dice hitting the table, people cheering and the intoxication of win after win.
She took a breath. ‘Surely you noticed.’
‘Is that why you are here?’ His posture was stiff and his shirt so white it seemed to light the room.
She gripped her reticule to keep her hands from shaking. ‘I expected you to be angry.’ Her husband had become angry at so much less.
>
He stared at her. ‘I told you it is of no consequence. You and the others will lose eventually.’
His tone was still so stiff she feared he’d meant the opposite of what he said.
He gestured to her. ‘At least take off your mask, Celia.’
Her hand flew to her face. She’d even forgotten her mask. She wearily lowered herself onto the sofa, setting her reticule down beside her. She untied her mask and dropped it next to the reticule.
He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘You have not answered my question.’
She searched back, but could not remember what it was. ‘I’ve forgotten it.’
He remained standing, but sipped his drink. ‘Did you come here merely to tell me you won tonight?’
She gazed at him, so tall, so taut in his stance that it felt he was coiled like a spring. A flutter of nerves—or excitement—made her press her hand against her stomach. It did not help that his shirtsleeves accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist. She was robbed of breath.
‘Not only for that,’ she answered. No matter her fear or her nerves, her decision was made.
He met her gaze, but remained grim. ‘For what, then?’
She blinked. ‘Are you going to make me say it?’
One corner of his mouth turned up. ‘Indeed.’
Courage was failing her. ‘What you asked of me—I might say yes.’
He tilted his head. ‘Might say yes?’
She gathered her resolve and stood. ‘Will say yes.’
He took her hand and raised it to his lips, which were warm and firm and sent a thrill deep within her.
‘When does your driver return?’ he asked.
‘Five-thirty,’ she said. Three hours away.
Her coachman had raised his brows at the request for a later hour. She herself was surprised she’d asked for it.
Perhaps she’d always known what she would decide.
He raised a hand and touched her cheek. ‘You are certain?’
No. She was not certain at all. But she could not make herself refuse.
She did not want to refuse.
‘Come.’ He took her by the hand. ‘I will show you my bedchamber.’
He led her to another room on that floor. Candle flames fluttered when they entered, illuminating a chest of drawers, a table, side chairs...and a bed. He’d prepared for her.
