Not things.
He had improved.
Elijah’s views on life and his future had altered in an uncanny and unexpected way.
For a brief moment, he actually desired to belong here among the wealthiest members of society—Sam’s world, not his.
“Let us have it, Calhoun!” The round, balding man who shuffled the cards called. “Record the bloody wager and allow me to deal another round. Some of us have other entertainments this evening.”
“Then be off with you,” a man mumbled—obviously Calhoun—hunched over a large tome with a quill fresh with ink. “I need make certain the wording is correct, or Applegate will likely try to wiggle his way out of making good on his debts…again.”
A lanky, freckled faced man sat up straight with indignation. “I have always paid my debts. I have an enraged father to show for it.”
The table erupted in another round of laughter.
Elijah wondered if he’d been raised closer to London if he’d know why Calhoun was fretting over the verbiage of a written wager or why Applegate’s enraged father gained such a jovial response from the men around the table.
With a flourish of his hand, Calhoun sat back and smiled. “Very good. I look forward to seeing you attempt to extricate yourself from this one, Applegate.”
Before the man dealt the cards, a servant bustled forward to remove the large book from the table—obviously, the famed White’s betting book.
The servant made to whisk the leather-bound book away, but noticed Eli’s interest and halted. “Would you care to place a wager, my lord?”
“Have him bring the blasted book over here,” Garrett shouted, waving Eli back to their table, their heated discussion about the phaeton blessedly at an end. “You can peruse the thing at your leisure once you have a drink.”
Garrett was obviously not in favor of Eli joining them. A fact that would normally concern him, but at the moment, the man’s brash attitude mattered little. He followed the servant back to their table and took one of the two open seats, his back directly to the flames from the fire. It gave Eli ample opportunity to survey the room—the crowd growing with each moment as men flooded into the club in groups, pairs, and a few singles.
As he searched the sea of unfamiliar faces, the black-and-blue-garbed manservant set the betting book on the table before him. Elijah ran his hand slowly over the worn leather cover to caress the cracked binding as the smell of aged paper and history settled about him. How many men had filled this club, entered their name and wager in this very book? This would have been a very unique treasure to collect.
Elijah closed his eyes and breathed in deeply as Cartwright and Garrett spoke. He lost track of their words when he opened the tome to a wager recorded in January of 1797. A chuckle escaped him when he read the stakes of the bet—a rather mundane wager—but the victor was entitled to submit a full-page advertisement in The Post regarding the minuscule size of the loser’s manhood.
Had Lord Argyll followed through after he’d won their wager?
Oh, to locate a copy of the newspaper from late January 1797.
“Something comical?” Cartwright asked.
Elijah turned to more recently recorded wagers. “A Mr. Marcus Bosworth wagered his father could not be tricked into purchasing a lame horse. Unfortunately, the elder Bosworth was duped into buying the horse, and therefore, Lord Argyll was announced the victor.”
“How much did Argyll win?” Garrett took a long pull on his drink. “A few shillings, a pound?”
“No.” Elijah chuckled again, shaking his head. “He won the right to place an advertisement in The Post, denouncing the…ummm…grandness of Bosworth’s manhood.”
“Who would speak ill of an old man’s part?” Cartwright’s brow scrunched in confusion.
“Not the elder Bosworth’s part,” Elijah retorted. “But that of Mr. Marcus Bosworth. Wonder if the fool ever found himself a bride lucky enough to not read The Post.”
“I have never understood the logic in placing a wager on an undetermined and unpredictable outcome.” Cartwright sat back in his seat, his interest in the betting book gone. “Makes absolutely no sense.”
“There is much you do that makes no sense to me, Cart,” Garrett laughed. “I do enjoy a good shaming now and again.”
Elijah read page after page of wagers on horse races, winter hunting expeditions, and even the occasional bet over who would claim the hand of a certain lady, or more shockingly, which gentlemen would be caught in a lady’s marriage noose.
The work at the museum, and his pursuit of Miss Samantha, would extend his stay in London into the foreseeable future. Elijah flipped to the most recently recorded wagers. Maybe he would wager a spot of coin on an open bet. Something with moderate stakes and a high likelihood of a payout.
He was almost nearing the final recorded wager when a familiar name stood out to him, written in the bold, sharp handwriting of a man.
Who shall take Miss Samantha P—as mistress?
The page was divided into five columns; Lord Gunther, Lord Proctor, Mr. Tobias Shillings, Lord Meyton and…
Lord Ridgefeld?!
“What in the bloody hell?” Under each name, men had been placing wagers—large wagers—on who would take the woman to bed as their mistress first. Even more startling, his name only had one man betting he would take the prize: Mr. Harold Jakeston? “That…well…”
Before Eli could slam the betting book shut, run from the room, and burn all evidence of the scandalous wager before either of his companions saw, Garrett pulled the book from his grasp.
Samantha’s brother’s face went from a leisurely smile to a tight line of disbelief to utter outrage as his nostrils flared and he pushed his chair back to stand. Garrett’s hard stare lifted to meet Elijah’s.
“I would never,” Elijah protested. “Have never so much as thought—“
Garrett planted his palms on the table and leaned toward Elijah. “You’d bloody damn well better not be caught with my sister in a compromising position of any sort,” Garrett seethed. “I am not so forgiving as to accept your proposal of marriage after you ruin her. Oh, no, you will see the blade of my sword or the end of my pistol before I agree to any such thing.”
Garrett immediately pivoted and walked out the front door.
“And the man says I am the odd one,” Cartwright mumbled, withdrawing his journal from his pocket. “Lord Garrett has a tendency for dramatics, do not let him convince you otherwise. He is much like his sisters in that regard.” Cartwright nodded as if agreeing with his own words. “No matter, there will be more food for us.”
Elijah ripped the page from the betting book and slipped it into his pocket without Cartwright glancing up from his scribbling.
“My lord, you cannot—“ The servant who’d delivered the book to their table hurried back over. “That book is a piece of history. It is not to be tampered with in any way. I must demand you return what you took.”
Cartwright glanced up at the stammering man, confusion etched on his face. “I brought this journal, my good man. Now, off with you before our meal grows cold.”
Eli risked a glance at the servant, his face red and flustered, and he did what any marquis would, he nodded in dismissal to the man. Reluctantly, the servant bowed, took hold of the book, and moved across the room, keeping a close watch on Elijah as he did.
No one would ever place a wager regarding Miss Samantha again—or they would answer to him.
Chapter 28
Sam waited in the foyer for her carriage to be brought round to take her to meet Jude and Lord Cartwright. Her afternoon had crept by as she waited for a reply from her sister. It had arrived during supper, and their housekeeper had delivered it immediately to Sam—to Marce’s disapproving glare.
It had taken a bit of convincing before her eldest sister acquiesced to Sam’s pleas. It was only an evening at the outdoor playhouse, and she’d be properly chaperoned by a respectable, married woman—yes, she’d stooped
so low as to dare Marce to refute Jude’s newly acquired respectable status as a countess—and now Sam was almost free of the confines of Craven House. The most shocking aspect of the entire situation was that Marce had not bid Sam take Payton with her.
With any luck, the new Lord and Lady Cartwright would be too enamored with one another to notice if she and Elijah slipped away.
To appease her sister further, Sam had donned the demure, high-necked, pink evening gown with cuffed shoulders and white gloves. Her beaded ivory reticule and matching fan went splendidly with her dress and didn’t take attention away from her pearl earbobs. She’d gathered her hair low on the back of her head and allowed her locks to hang free over one shoulder.
There was no need to glance in the looking glass again. Elijah—and any man with proper eyesight—would see how stunning she looked. Graceful, poised, and every inch a lady.
Now, if only her carriage would hurry.
She was ready to be anything but a lady.
Jude expected her shortly, and they’d not want to be late and face the crushing crowd of people hurrying to their seats before the curtain rose.
The front door opened, slamming against the doorframe when Garrett stumbled in.
His face flamed red, his shirt untucked, and his hair mussed.
“Heavens,” Sam yelped, her hand lying against her chest to settle her erratic heartbeat. “Whatever is the matter with you?”
“With me?” His cynical laughter filled the room as he set his hand against his own chest, mimicking her stance. “Never mind. Where are you going?” He took in her fancy garb and neat hair, as he looked her over from her crown to her toes peeking from beneath her skirts.
Sam took a deep breath, refusing to look away from his intense glare. “Jude invited me to accompany her and Lord Cartwright to the playhouse.” A moderately adjusted form of the truth. “Marce gave me permission to attend. She is in her office if you’d like to check for yourself.”
Garrett narrowed his eyes, huffed, and started off down the hall toward their sister’s office, the stench of liquor following in his wake.
Her nose wrinkled at the horrid smell. Very unlike her brother to imbibe overly…and then dare show his face at Craven House. Marce was no fool. The only thing she despised more than scandal was a man who drank in excess.
Odder still, her brother had never taken much interest in his siblings’ comings and goings. There was little reason now for him to take more than a passing notice of Sam’s evening entertainments. While he was the only male member of their family, it was common for Garrett to leave the rearing of his younger siblings to Marce.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled despite the warmth of the foyer. Anything out of character for Garrett unsettled Sam.
The jingle of horse riggings sounded outside.
Her maid had insisted she take her shawl and muff, as well as her jacket. The outdoor playhouse was known to be a bit on the frigid side into the late evening, and Sam thought it wise to listen. Especially since she planned to slip away from the lighted areas for a few moments alone with Elijah.
Sam hurried outside, and Mr. Curtis handed her into the carriage before they were off. It was only a short ride to Lord Cartwright’s townhouse. With no one to invade her musings, Sam allowed her thoughts free rein. They immediately focused on Lord Ridgefeld. The cut of his broad shoulders. The way his eyes matched the shade of his hair almost perfectly: dark with hints of gold. The way a single dimple appeared high on his cheek when he smiled. His strong hands.
Those same hands holding the naughty book at Hollybrooke, his eyes aglow with surprise but quickly fading to a deep, lust-filled stare. In her altered memory, no servant had disrupted them. They’d stayed wrapped in each other’s arms as their lips and hands explored to their hearts’ content. When they’d explored as much as possible being fully clothed, Eli had swept her into his arms and carried her to the chaise lounge, laying her down gently as her hair fanned around her like a halo, all her hairpins suddenly gone and forgotten.
Elijah’s body did not follow her to the lounge. No, he had other plans for her.
Her body shuddered at the thought.
Instead of joining her, he kneeled and used his hands to push her skirts up to reveal her slippers. Those same hands gently removed them, his fingers trailing along the bottom of her stocking-clad feet before traveling up to her ankle and farther still.
Sam’s head fell back, and she moaned, just as she did in her own imaginings of that night.
His fingers caressed up her calf to the bow just above her knee. With a swift tug, the knot came undone, and Eli rolled her stocking down. He smiled at her in wonder before pressing his lips to her leg and following the path his hands had taken to remove her other stocking.
Why did she long for his hands to move higher on her leg, between her legs, not downward?
She swallowed, altering her own memory. Now, his hand did follow the path she imagined. Higher and higher until his hand brushed her most sensitive spot. Warmth flooded her, centering at her core as she shifted to allow Elijah easier access to push her drawers to the side and…
“Samantha?” Jude cleared her throat. “Are you sleeping?”
Sam’s eyes popped open, and she attempted to focus, but all she saw was the ceiling of the enclosed carriage, her head still thrown back and yet another moan struggling to escape.
How had she journeyed all the way to the Cartwright townhouse in the blink of an eye? Certainly, it was not possible. Maybe she was asleep, and Jude was invading her dream. Sam glanced to the open carriage door, her sister poking out, her head tilted to the side and her lips pursed.
No such luck; she had indeed arrived.
No matter how much she wished to return to her musings of moments before, it was impossible.
“Are you ill?” Jude demanded. “We can have you taken back home if you wish.”
Sam sat up straight and felt along the seat for her muff and handbag, her shawl was still draped across her shoulders. “Heavens no.” Sam moved to depart, and Jude stepped back to allow her room. “I am quite well, I assure you. And looking forward to a night at Covent Garden.”
“Very well.” Jude assessed her sister from head to toe. She often wondered if when her twin looked at her, she felt as if she was staring into a mirror. “My carriage awaits.”
Sam followed Jude to the Cartwright transport, glancing over her shoulder to see Simon standing by the conveyance. But Elijah was not in sight. Was it possible he’d turned down the invitation? Or more likely, Simon hadn’t extended the invitation at all.
An entire evening trapped with Jude and her doting new husband would be more than she could handle. Claiming ill did not seem the worst idea.
It was obvious Elijah had had his fill of her—and her antics.
Did Simon know it was Sam’s fault his phaeton lay abandoned on the road leading out of London?
His welcoming grin when she and Jude joined him said he did not. This was a relief, but had Elijah taken the blame? Had Simon and Elijah argued over the damaged carriage? Had Eli been asked to leave the Cartwright townhouse? Knowing she need take responsibility for her part in the incident, a rock settled in the pit of her stomach.
However, Simon would not look so…happy, if he and Elijah had indeed had a row over the phaeton.
“Shall we depart?” Simon asked, holding his hand out to his wife. “I find I am looking forward to the play.”
Jude swatted at his arm with a laugh. “You are in no way excited or so much as the least bit anxious to attend Covent Garden. You and Ridgefeld would have enjoyed spending the entire evening entrenched in a card game at White’s—or sorting ancient, dusty artifacts at the museum—much more.” She wiggled her finger in his face. “The first rule of marriage is not to lie to your wife.”
Jude dropped a quick kiss to Simon’s cheek and took his arm.
Sam had to remind herself she was happy her sister had found a love match, a man who suited h
er perfectly in every way…even if their outward displays of affection had Sam dwelling on her own lack of connection to others.
A spot of movement caught Sam’s attention as they rounded the carriage.
Taking her eyes off her sister, she noted through the open door a figure already seated in the conveyance.
And any thought she had of claiming ill evaporated.
Elijah.
He smiled tentatively, something different about the set of his shoulders.
“Good evening, Lord Ridgefeld.” Sam’s smile was in no way timid. “I was unaware you’d be joining us.”
His furrowed brow told her he didn’t believe her words for a second.
“Yes, well,” Simon cut in. “My dear wife says it is only proper—and expected—our guest be invited to join us. She also says it would be rude on Ridgefeld’s part to turn down the invitation.” He paused, looking to Jude for approval. Her scowl conveyed her words were not meant to be shared. “Anyways, here we all are. Two of us wishing to be anywhere else…”
Sam raised an eyebrow at Elijah, her question clear: did he wish to be anywhere else?
When he only shrugged, Sam accepted the footman’s assistance into the carriage and took the seat next to Elijah.
“I am most certain my dear sister and I can find a pair of gentlemen who would be more than willing to escort two beautiful ladies to the playhouse,” Jude teased with a pout.
“No chance of my wife joining another man for an evening out.”
The couple entered the carriage and had no more sat before the door closed.
Sam adjusted on the bench, sliding her thigh to rest against Eli’s. The dim interior—and the volume of her skirts—hid her subtle move from sight, but Elijah’s sideways glance told her he was aware of her every move, though he did not draw away.
Interesting.
“It is my understanding that tonight’s performance is to be a tragedy.”
“Taming of the Shrew?” Simon inquired.
“That is a comedy, my dear husband.”
The Mistress Enchants Her Marquis Page 24
