“No,” James said.
“Then put the contract in the pot and let’s be done with this.” He glanced at Markland, who stared at the cash at the center of the table with greed lighting his eyes. Disgust rolled through him for this man who was willing to risk his own daughter for the sake of the game, a man so weak he didn’t recognize when he had been bested. “You can still just call the hundred,” Nicholas urged, carefully enunciating his words to keep them from slurring. “There is no dishonor in betting only what belongs to you.”
“Scared, Wetherby?” Markland asked, his lips curving into a smug sneer, and Nicholas fought the sudden inclination to punch him in the face. “I’ve placed my bet. You can call or fold.”
Nicholas shrugged and leaned forward to push the remainder of his cash into the center of the table to join the rest of the goods in the pot, and he heard James’s wry breath of laughter. Under his breath, James muttered, “You’re right. He does deserve it.”
If anything had sealed the girl’s fate, it had been her father’s words.
“Fine,” Nicholas retorted. “I call.”
Flipping over his hand, Markland said, “Four eights! Beat that, Wetherby!”
Nicholas whistled, stunned to find the Markland had a far better hand than he had thought. “That’s a...a good hand,” he said, and the older man leaned forward to eagerly begin collecting his winnings. With a wave, Nicholas stopped him. “Not so fast, my friend.”
Markland stared up at him in bewildered surprise. “You know I have you beat. You said so yourself. I have a good hand.”
“It’s a good hand, but I never said it was the best.”
With the back of his hand, Markland wiped away the sweat dotting his brow as he backed away from the pot. “The jacks and queens are out, so I know you don’t have those,” he said, and Nicholas could almost smell the desperation leeching from his pores, much like the cheap tobacco and equally cheap alcohol already did. “You can’t have the kings or aces—I think Campbell had at least one of those. I have the best hand.”
With a smile, Nicholas said, “I don’t have four of anything, that’s true.”
“Then what?” But even as he said the words, Nicholas watched Markland’s face fall as the older man finally realized which hand he hadn’t taken into account.
Nicholas leaned forward, and to Markland’s dismay and Nicholas’s everlasting delight, he turned over the best hand in poker: the royal flush. Without another word, Nicholas collected his winnings and the contract. The crowd gathered around the table dispersed, seeking out the next big drama. Looking back at Markland, who sat at the poker table with his head in his hands, Nicholas said, “I’ll be by tomorrow to pick up the marker. Make sure she’s ready.”
With those parting words, Nicholas left the hall.
Lexie Markland dusted off her skirt as she answered the insistent pounding at the door. Expecting the usual ruffians who came to collect payment for some creditor of her father’s, Lexie was surprised to find the most attractive gentleman she had ever encountered standing on her sagging front stoop. Tall and broad, dressed in fawn colored pants and a dark, finely tailored day coat, he had tawny blond hair swept back from his forehead and bright, blue-green eyes the color of a turquoise stone her mother had once owned. Her breath hitched as she stared at him, for he was handsome in a way she couldn’t define, as if he glittered when he walked. What business could such a man possibly have here? People like him didn’t do their own dirty work. They had others do it for them.
He studied her, his bright eyes interested as they searched her face. After a few moments, she noticed the papers he tapped in his hand. Dismayed, she said, “If you’ve come to collect a debt of my father’s, we haven’t much left to sell.”
He made a noncommittal movement of his shoulders, as if to concede he understood their financial situation. “May I come in?”
Lexie shivered at the sound of his voice, deep and seductive, but stepped aside to allow him entrance. A man like him wouldn’t come by her house except to collect a debt owed by her father—over the years, she had become accustomed to it. But this man was no debt collector, and obviously didn’t need the money. What had her father had promised that had driven a man of his status to her section of town? Their little house, with one foot in the slums, was a long way from his neighborhood. Given her father’s latest foray into gambling, some nights they barely had enough to eat. Lexie hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday, and she harbored little hope of getting anything before supper.
“Of course,” she answered evenly, struggling to keep her expression neutral. “I’ll go get my father. I’d offer you tea, but I’m afraid we just ran out.” She paused for a moment and then made the only allowance she would to her circumstances, the only acknowledgement they were flat broke. “You must understand, my father can sometimes be...unreliable.”
“Oh, your father’s proven reliable enough with the one thing that interests me,” he said in a voice dark with promise, and her eyes shot to his face in surprise. Even she didn’t believe her father’s word anymore. Extending his hand, he said, “I’m Nicholas Wetherby.”
“Alexandra Markland.”
“Alexandra,” he said, giving her the impression he tasted her name as it rolled off his tongue, and she tried to suppress the rush of excitement coursing through her at the sound of it on his lips. Taking his hand, she was startled when he laid a solicitous kiss upon the top. Her skin burned where his mouth moved against it, a touch so primal and searing she wondered if he had left a mark. Warmth spread across her belly, like she’d had too much to drink. Her head began to spin and she felt faint.
When she tripped over her own feet, he was instantly by her side, holding her elbow to keep her steady. Embarrassed, as she regained her equilibrium and her composure, she said, hoping he believed her, “My apologies. I’m afraid I haven’t had anything to eat yet, and I’m a little light-headed.” She had never had such a reaction to anyone in her entire life, and she thought about his hand on her arm, the warmth of his skin where he touched her, and the smell of him, masculine and clean. Her corset suddenly too tight, she struggled to catch her breath.
His gaze burned when he asked, “May I assist you to the sitting room?”
Lexie laughed, feeling a little giddy. She turned in the direction of the sitting room, but thought better of it. She didn’t want him to see what they had left. They had nothing in the sitting room but a threadbare rug the debt collectors hadn’t seen fit to take.
“Why not come with me to the kitchen?” she offered.
He nodded, and as they walked in that direction, Lexie became aware of his hand on the small of her back as he guided her. Surely such a simple touch shouldn’t have her heart racing, but it did. Pulling away from him as they approached her father, Lexie said softly, “Father. We have a guest,” and laid a gentle hand on his back.
Her father had been having a rough morning, and more than once Lexie had caught him regarding her with sad, glassy eyes. She had assumed he was sick with drink—he was sick more mornings than not these days—but something in his demeanor told her it was more than that. Long ago, she’d learned never to trust surprises.
Even ones as pleasant as finding a man like Nicholas Wetherby at her door.
Her father had done something and it was becoming clear she wasn’t going to like it.
Markland raised his head and regarded Nicholas with blood-shot eyes. “I have come to collect,” Nicholas said by way of greeting.
“You can’t mean that!” Markland exclaimed. With a groan, he buried his face in his hands and closed his eyes. She wordlessly placed a glass of water in front of him, which, other than a bottle of cheap bourbon, was the only thing she had to offer him. The water sloshed from the glass, and Markland’s eyes shifted from the small pools of water in front of him back to Lexie. She folded her arms against her chest and scowled at him—she was done cleaning up his messes. It was all she ever did anymore. Shrinking under her wither
ing glare, he turned his eyes back to Nicholas.
“It’s completely unfair. Everyone knows you can’t collect on such a wager,” her father protested dully, and Lexie was possessed by the sudden urge to give Nicholas Wetherby anything he wanted, just so long as she didn’t have to listen to her father’s wheedling anymore. Saturday mornings, like clockwork, her father would whine about the latest “unfairness,” as if his actions hadn’t been the cause of all their problems.
“As you would not have collected had I lost?” Nicholas countered, turning those glittering turquoise eyes over to Lexie. His gaze was so intense she had to look away, and she studied the tabletop as if it were the most interesting thing she’d ever seen. “You were salivating over my money last night, and yet, once you’ve lost, you refuse to honor your debt to me?”
Dismayed, she watched the drama play out between the two men. She had heard her father’s protests far too often. She had begged him to stop, but nothing was more important to him—there were always fortunes to be won. For the last five years, her job had been to pick up the pieces. She had taken on some work as a seamstress, but her father, worried about his image among the elite of the city, refused to let her take on too much. She had offered to search for a position as a governess or a schoolteacher, but her father opposed that option too: how would it look if his daughter had to work? Keeping up the appearance of having money seemed to be the only thing concerning John Markland.
If only they could eat appearances.
Lexie put a hand to her forehead, trying to rub away the ache beginning to form just behind her brows. Wearily, she asked, “What did you promise him, Father?”
“Nothing! It was a jest!”
“I have a contract, signed by you. That’s not a jest.”
Lexie found herself intrigued by the masculine timber of his voice. He had the voice of a preacher, deep and melodic, and she turned her gaze to him. He caught her eye and a smile lit his features, and she fought the urge to faint again as her heart danced wildly in her chest. When he smiled, it was as if it were meant just for her, so dazzling she felt temporarily blinded to everything else but the desire to have his lips on her skin again.
Lexie placed a hand on the back of a chair to steady herself as she pushed away the idea. She was no fool. One look at Nicholas Wetherby told her he wasn’t the man for her. A man like him wouldn’t be caught dead courting the destitute daughter of a drunk, even if she were available. Too rich, too good-looking, too self-assured, he could have any woman he wanted. He’d probably marry some pale, blond goddess who would bear him a whole passel of pale, blond children.
Strange, how that thought made her sad. Steeling herself, she said, “I assure you, Mr. Wetherby, whatever my father owes you, I will make every effort to repay you.”
Nicholas nodded. “Your father has already generously provided me with his preferred method of payment.”
Startled, her eyes flew to his face. Trying to cover her surprise, she said, “What did he promise?”
Nicholas glanced over at Markland. “Did you not tell her?”
Markland put his head down on the table. “You can’t do this, Wetherby,” he said miserably.
“Oh, but I can,” he said, his lips curving into a wolfish smile, and her heart lurched painfully in her chest. “Having come here, I intend to collect my marker.”
Markland moaned into the table, refused to look up. Temper flaring, Lexie demanded, “Oh, for God’s sake, Father, what did you lose this time? What is this marker?”
Nicholas turned his bright, glittering eyes to her, his lips curling in the ghost of a smile. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Would I be asking you if he had?” she retorted.
He visibly suppressed a smile, as if he found her amusing. “No, I suppose not.”
“So what’s he lost? What did he bet this time?”
Nicholas ran his eyes over her in a way that sent shivers up her spine, and she felt naked under his gaze, as if he saw through her and into her soul. Silent for what seemed like a long time, he handed her the contract and in a low voice said, “You.”
Chapter 2
Wide-eyed and in shock, Alexandra stared at Nicholas while she absorbed his words. As the silence stretched between them, he took in the pale face, the huge, dark eyes, and worried his pronouncement had been too much for her. After the space of about ten heartbeats, the girl’s wits returned to her, and when they did, she was furious.
“What?” she demanded, her color returning as anger wreathed her features. Lifting her chin, she scowled and narrowed her eyes before turning her back on him. She rounded on her father. “What did you do?” she hissed from between clenched teeth.
From the tone of her voice and the rage in her eyes, Nicholas was quite sure if she had a weapon, she would kill them both. He found he rather liked her spirit—just another in a long line of things he liked about her. From the moment she opened the door, he had been stunned to find Markland had been right about one thing the night before: his daughter was a rare beauty. Had she been out on the circuit, she would have been married by now. Her hair was black as night with eyes to match, obsidian gems shining in a face so fair it stole the words from his mouth. She wore a dress which had probably been a dark red once but had long since faded to an indiscriminate rust color, and he noticed the way it hung from her body despite her efforts to tailor it to fit. The image of her bedecked in rubies and dressed in scarlet silk swam behind his eyes—she would be an absolute vision. Her full lips were untouched yet a deep, rich red that immediately turned his thoughts carnal. He wondered what it would be like to taste them, to take her full lower lip into his mouth and kiss her until she begged for more.
But she was more than just her pretty face—there was her spirit to consider. He wasn’t oblivious to the fact she had guided him to the kitchen rather than the sitting room. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw an empty room containing nothing but a well-worn rug even the mice scurrying behind the walls would abandon. The kitchen was bare, save for the table and two rickety chairs, and Nicholas would wager his entire fortune the larder was as empty as the rest of the house. Yet she didn’t use their poverty to plead for clemency—in fact, she didn’t seem to want his pity. Though the top of her head barely reached his chest, he didn’t intimidate her. He wondered if anyone would.
“The terms are in the contract,” Nicholas began.
“Oh, I haven’t even gotten to you yet,” she snapped, holding up her hand, and Nicholas bit back his words. She opened the contract, the fire leaping in her dark eyes as she read the terms of their agreement. Throwing the papers down, she glared at her father, who kept his eyes locked on the table. “Look at me, Father!” He refused to comply, and she slammed her hands against the tabletop so hard the man cringed. It must have hurt, but she didn’t even flinch. “You lost me in a card game, the least you can do is look at me!”
He turned his miserable, blood-shot eyes to her. “I never thought he’d collect, honey.”
“Don’t you ‘honey’ me!” she shot back. Turning to Nicholas, she grabbed the contract and, waving it at him, said, “This can’t be legal! You can’t bet a person!”
Nicholas shrugged and kept his features neutral, but his pulse pounded like it did when he was on the verge of winning a big hand on a bluff. Hung over and feeling belligerent, he had come strictly to witness Markland’s shame and leave his daughter with a warning, but once here, he found he wanted what had been offered to him. He intended to collect his due. “Well, if either you or your father have the money to pay the debt, I would be happy to take it,” he said.
She gestured angrily to the bare kitchen. Her mouth set into a frown, she notched her chin and squared her shoulders, her stance emphasizing the curve her breasts. “Clearly, Mr. Wetherby, we do not,” she said in a voice tight with anger.
He acknowledged her admission with a nod, suspecting this was as close to begging as she would get. “I can think of no other way, unless your father
here would care to change places with you.”
Lexie turned her dark eyes to her father. Nicholas found himself pitying her for the hope he saw in them—and hoping for himself Markland wouldn’t surprise him by turning honorable and offering to take her place. He’d be forced to relieve Markland of his debt then and leave the girl here with her father.
Nicholas was not above admitting he had no intention of leaving without her.
“Father?” she asked. It surprised Nicholas that, after months of decadent, hedonistic living, just the sound of the hope in her voice made him feel like a cad. His honor, long since silent, quietly hissed he should write off the debt and return to court her, but her father had already bet her once, and what would prevent him from doing so again? If he didn’t claim her as his prize, what would happen to her the next time her father had a run of luck?
He pushed the thought aside. He didn’t need to court her—he’d won her, fair and square.
Markland folded his arms against his chest, his mouth a thin, hard line, an expression mirroring his daughter’s. “I can think of no other way. You’d be cast out of the house if I went to work for him, and where would you be then?”
The relief surging through Nicholas at Markland’s words thoroughly disconcerted him.
Gesturing to the empty kitchen, she cried, “I’ve already been cast out! You sold me like you’ve sold all our things! I’ve already agreed to so much, Father! I’ve got so little for you to take, and yet you somehow manage to do it, selling me because you can’t stop gambling, because you haven’t figured out that when you gamble, you don’t win!”
The chair crashed to the floor as Markland stood up abruptly and raised his hand to her, ready to strike. Lexie scrambled behind the table, putting herself out of his reach. “You don’t get to talk to me like that!” he bellowed, lurching toward her. But before Markland had a chance to follow through with his threat, Nicholas stepped between the two of them, shielding her with his body.
The Marker Page 2
