The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  Ah. There it was. Owen almost smiled. By the nervous titter elsewhere in the room, he was not the only one who knew precisely what Addington meant every time he spat the word “major.” For most people, the soldiers who fought Napoleon were heroes. Never Owen. No military title, no heroics or self-sacrifice, no amount of medals could ever erase the blight cast upon him at the moment of his conception.

  Nothing he could ever do or achieve would stop him from being gutter-bred Owen Turner. Bastard of an earl. Worthless.

  “Not me.” Owen inclined his head toward the other end of the small table. “Her.”

  Her. Although he still hadn’t brought himself to speak her name aloud, it had never been far from his thoughts. Or his soul.

  Lady Matilda Kingsley. He’d met her when he was ten, and she was eight. Her pinafore cost more than all his clothes combined. She’d escaped her sleeping nanny and was deep in the back garden in search of adventure. He’d been crouched on her side of the property line, peering through the fence at the adjacent estate in hopes of glimpsing his father.

  He’d found something much better.

  “Very well.” Lady Matilda’s voice was smoother than he remembered. More refined, like everything else about her.

  She was no longer the lonesome sixteen-year-old he’d left behind, but a grown woman who captured the eye of every gentleman who crossed her path.

  Like right now.

  She was removing her gloves. Inch by bollocks-tightening inch, the rolling crimson silk revealed ever more of her perfect, creamy skin. Those fingers might be oft employed in the flipping of pages, but every man in the room was imagining them doing something very, very different.

  The first glove fell to the table in a pool of red silk. She turned her attention to the second glove. They all turned their attention to the second glove. Its unveiling was even more deliberate, more sensuous than the first. Her lashes lowered. She held every eye transfixed… and knew it.

  His lips tightened. This seductress was not the fresh-faced innocent he’d left behind. That girl was gone. The Lady Matilda seated across from him was a stranger.

  And yet he was here because of her.

  “Vingt-et-un,” Addington reminded her the moment the second glove hit the table.

  She leveled him with a freezing look. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Owen glanced away as she shuffled the cards. He could not risk catching her eye and seeing indifference reflected back at him. Not if he wished to walk away with his heart intact. He let out a slow breath and fought to keep up his spirits.

  His evening had wanted only this.

  He’d been stationed all over France, and was finally back in England on a two-week leave. He’d gone straight to North Yorkshire, straight to Selby, straight to her.

  She wasn’t there, of course. She was already in London for the Season. But rather than continue on to his empty cottage, he’d first swung by the baker’s to retrieve his dog. He’d found Ribbit the same day he’d met Lady Matilda. He’d been able to keep Ribbit. When he’d enlisted in the army, he’d entrusted his half basset hound, half lump of molasses to Mrs. Jenkins and sent considerable funds for Ribbit’s safekeeping.

  But Mrs. Jenkins had lost the dog within days of Owen leaving.

  As if it could possibly make up for it, she had presented him with a coin purse containing every penny he had ever sent. He’d brought the money back to London, intending to throw it away on whiskey and women until it was time to sail back to France. But he’d found himself rubbing shoulders with the very people who had never before noticed his existence. People who now included Lady Matilda.

  Tonight, when he’d seen her a-swirl in another man’s arms, he’d been struck with a yearning so sharp and so deep, he’d had to force himself not to yank her into his own embrace. A mad scheme tumbled into his head. He’d hurried to the gaming parlor, intent on turning the funds he’d meant for his dog into a gift for his lady. If he won enough coin, perhaps then he would be worthy of her affection.

  But instead of luck, all he’d found in the gambling parlor was Lord Addington, who was all too eager to divest Owen of his money. Addington’s eyes were as cold as Owen remembered, his nose as crooked as Owen had left it four years ago. Addington hadn’t forgiven Owen the slight. Owen hadn’t forgiven Addington the reason behind it.

  Lady Matilda placed the set of playing cards in the center of the table. She lifted a palm toward Owen, then folded her hands back into her lap.

  He divided the stack into three piles, then placed them back together. His entire body was on edge. He’d led troops, faced down enemy squadrons, taken a bullet in the thigh, and he was never more nervous than when in her presence. It’d been thus since the day they met.

  She’d introduced herself as Lady Matilda. She’d dipped a curtsy, then took him to task when he didn’t bow. Why should he? He’d never been taught to bow. Or been curtsied to. He’d been mortified by his failure to please her. From that day forward, his dream no longer was to be acknowledged by the father he’d never met, but to meet with approval in the eyes of Lady Matilda Kingsley.

  For a short time, he’d even succeeded.

  “Ready?” Her fingers hovered just above the stack of playing cards.

  No. He would never be ready. If he hadn’t been willing to lose the game to Addington, he certainly wasn’t eager to risk losing in front of the woman he most wished to impress.

  “Ready.” He hoped his grimace counted as a smile.

  She turned over the first card and placed it before him.

  One-eyed Jack. Spades, not hearts. Ten points. Owen rubbed his damp palms down the soft buckskin of his breeches. So far, so good. He held his breath. The next card was hers.

  Eight of diamonds.

  Not splendid, but not terrible. He rolled his shoulders back. His score might be closer to twenty-one at the moment, but he wasn’t closer to winning. He needed to be closest to twenty-one without going over.

  “Bets?” Addington called out. His mocking eyes cut to Owen.

  Owen cast him a level stare. The blackguard knew Owen didn’t have anything left to bet. He’d already bet it all. Addington just wanted to parade Owen’s unsuitability in front of Lady Matilda.

  She was the first to reply, her voice firm. “No more bets. The stakes are high enough.”

  Owen’s spine went rigid. She’d saved him. But she shouldn’t have needed to. A sour taste filled his mouth. Addington had been right after all. Owen wasn’t good enough for her. Yet the truth didn’t stop him from wanting her. Or wanting her to know how he felt. His heart clenched. When he won the game, he would buy her what she desired most. And then… he would file onto a boat and sail back off to war.

  She lifted the next card and placed it next to his jack of spades.

  Eight of clubs. Not bad. He was up to eighteen. He would stand here. Taking a hit with anything higher than seventeen was to risk losing it all.

  Her next card was the ace of spades.

  His lungs froze. The ace was either one or eleven, which meant she now had nineteen points. She was winning. His skin went clammy. Gambling was a rich man’s pleasure and a poor man’s folly. Never had it been more apparent that he didn’t belong here. His throat was too thick to swallow. But like it or not, he would have to take another hit.

  He inclined his head toward the stack of cards. He did not trust his finger to point at them without shaking.

  He needed a three. Dear Lord, let him have a three. Surely Fate wouldn’t strip him of his pet, his home, his dignity, and his last moments with his lost love all on the same day.

  Lady Matilda turned over the final card.

  Even though his eyes were open, even though he was staring right at it, the image did not immediately register in Owen’s mind.

  It didn’t have to. Addington’s crow of delight and sputtering laughter was proof enough.

  Owen blinked at the card until it swam into focus. Five of hearts. Wrong number.

  He had
lost.

  Lady Matilda reached across the table. “Owen—”

  He leapt to his feet before her bare fingers could scald his. Or worse. Her cousin wasn’t the only witness to her familiar use of Owen’s given name, and he’d be damned if he ruined her on top of being a disappointment.

  He gripped the back of his chair. “If I leave now, I can have the cottage clear within a week.”

  Addington pealed with laughter. “What possessions can you possibly own that would need to be cleared out? That dilapidated shack is only fit to be razed to the ground.”

  “I’ll do no such thing!” Lady Matilda glared at him.

  Her cousin was, in all fairness, likely correct. Owen didn’t see his childhood home as a dilapidated shack because he’d remodeled every inch with his bare hands. To a marquess, however, the cottage would be nothing short of laughable. And to Lady Matilda—

  “Ciao.” Addington wiggled his fingers at Owen. “Long walk ahead, since you haven’t any coin for a hack.”

  The crowd tittered.

  Owen bowed instead of replying, which he knew would rile Addington the most. The marquess was obviously trying to egg him into saying or doing something rash. But Owen had spent four dark years serving his country. Self-control was one of the first things he’d learned.

  Not that it mattered overmuch. He’d never see Addington or Lady Matilda again. Instead, in another week’s time, he’d go back to battle. Just another soldier who no longer had any home or anyone to return to.

  He turned his gaze toward Lady Matilda one last time.

  She glanced away.

  He was not even to have eye contact, then. Very well. Owen stood straighter. He’d been foolish to think he could ever be worthy of her, for even a moment. Had he won instead of lost, had it been five million pounds instead of five thousand, it still wouldn’t have changed the essence of who and what they were. She was a lady. He was a bastard. They would never be equals.

  She could never be his.

  Chapter 3

  Lady Matilda didn’t wait until the weekend, nor for her cousin’s approval. She needed to speak to Owen before she lost the chance forever. Last time, he had not bothered to say goodbye before disappearing. This time, he would not be so lucky. She might not merit his love, but she certainly deserved an explanation.

  Before first light, she arranged for a carriage and tore out of London toward North Yorkshire. With luck, Cousin Egbert would be too involved in his gentlemanly pursuits to note her absence until at least the morrow. All the posting houses had known her family for years and would do what they could to speed her along, but their country home in Selby was still two and a half days’ journey.

  When she arrived at Owen’s small cottage in the poorest section of town, she asked the driver to return in an hour’s time. Despite her being the daughter of a marquess—or perhaps because of it—he refused to leave. The carriage would remain out front, and that was final.

  Matilda had no choice but to acquiesce.

  Whether the driver feared for her life or her reputation, she couldn’t say. But Owen was only fearsome in battle, and as for her reputation… Well, she was unlikely to run into anyone of her social circle on a street such as this. And even should she find herself immortalized in gossip rags, there was no scandal powerful enough to undo the allure of marrying a young lady with a thirty thousand pound dowry.

  She held no illusions about her appeal. Her name and her money were the only reason any eligible bachelor took an interest. Were it not for her fortune and bloodline, she would be just another plain-faced wallflower, with no friends save the ones she found in books. That was the way the world worked.

  Owen was the only one who had ever treated her like something more than a title and a purse. All he saw in her was a friend. During every one of her nanny’s afternoon naps, Matilda had shot straight out the servants’ exit to the secret meeting place in the backwoods. Owen taught her to whistle and trounced her at chess. She taught him his sums and read to him from books nicked from her father’s library.

  Until he disappeared without a word.

  She needed to know why.

  But now that she was here, standing atop the stoop she’d only visited once before in her life—right after his disappearance—she couldn’t quite bring herself to lift the brass knocker. Last time, her call had gone unanswered because he’d joined the army without so much as a fare-thee-well. And this time… What if he stood on the other side of the plain wooden door, and still didn’t care enough to answer her knock? How would she go on?

  She lowered her hand.

  The door flew open.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Owen. Furious and handsome beyond words.

  Her body tingled all the way to her fingertips. He was not what one might call pleased to see her, but at least he wouldn’t be leaving without saying goodbye. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

  She elbowed past him. Or tried to. He was a fortress, tall and unmovable. He filled the doorway. His strong arms locked around her torso, preventing her from entering.

  Or leaving.

  She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. When Owen was a boy, he’d been too poor to smell like anything other than soap and sunshine, but now the clean red wool of his military jacket bore the faint scent of cologne. Something rich and spicy.

  A long moment later, he still hadn’t moved. Nor did she wish to. She was pinned too well to wrap her arms about him as she wished. Instead, she laid her cheek against his chest and listened for the beat of his heart. But the thick wool blocked the sound. Even trapped in his arms, she still could not reach him.

  He released her abruptly.

  “I suppose you’ve come to have a look at the goods. And why not? It’s yours.” He didn’t bother to hide the bitterness from his voice.

  She hitched up her chin. She hadn’t forced him to wager his childhood home on the turn of a card. Her shoulders sagged. Nor had he forced her to take a stance against him. She bit her lip. She’d only wished to prevent her cousin from having something else to lord over Owen, but all she’d managed to accomplish was to drive a wedge further between them.

  “A tour, madam? Your mansion awaits.” He brandished his arm as if he were escorting her into a royal palace. Both his tone and his grandiose movements dripped with sarcasm.

  His anger was well-placed. Nor could she blame him for being displeased with her unexpected appearance. But she had no choice. This was the last time she would ever see him. If she did not take his arm now, the opportunity to touch him, to stand by his side, would not present itself again.

  She curved her fingers against the crook of his elbow before she could change her mind.

  He tensed, his entire body still as stone.

  She stared straight ahead without blinking. If his expression betrayed displeasure at her touch, she had no wish to see it. “Ready.”

  Without another word, he led her down the hall. He seemed to be avoiding her gaze as assiduously as she avoided his. The muscles of his arm had not relaxed. But although he controlled his steps with the precision of a soldier, his stride was nonetheless graceful.

  He was comfortable with his body in a way he’d never been as a boy, she realized with a jolt of awareness. Back then, he had been awkward and carefree. Now, he moved with the confidence of a tiger. Lean and strong and devastating. Her heartbeat thundered. No wonder ladies everywhere swooned in his presence. The aura of controlled danger was irresistible. This was a man who knew what he wanted and took as he pleased. It would be heady indeed to be the object of such single-focused passion.

  It would be her darkest desire come true.

  She tugged his arm closer. “Let’s make a new wager.”

  He stopped walking. “A new wager for what?”

  “This. Everything.” She rolled back her shoulders. “All or nothing.”

  His eyebrows arched. “You already have everything. What more would I have to offer?”

  His heart.
His soul. His love. She fumbled in her reticule and pulled out a stack of playing cards. His lip curled. She forged ahead. “One shuffle. Highest card takes all. If you win, you keep your house and the money you would’ve earned last night.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And if you win?”

  “I’ll tell you after.” If she won, she would give it back anyway.

  “No deal.” He leaned away from her. “I don’t gamble without knowing what I’ve wagered.”

  “What if we both do?”

  His head jerked up. “Wager blind? Are you mad?”

  “We can write down what we wish to receive if we win, and seal the bets with wax. Completely fair.”

  A laugh startled out of him. “The loser has no option to say no, regardless of the winner’s choice of spoils, and you call that fair?”

  She could see he had no intention of agreeing to something so risky. “Is that a no?”

  He nodded. “It’s a yes.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I’ve paper at my escritoire. Come this way. We may as well start the tour with my bedchamber.” Heat flashed in his eyes before he turned and strode down the corridor.

  The shiver that raced down her spine was half panic, half desire. She rushed after him. She had just wished to return what was rightfully his in the one way he would feel honorable about accepting. What if she’d risked more than she was prepared to give?

  She hurried through the open doorway.

  He was already at his escritoire, dipping his pen in ink. A small bed stood to one side, a humble wardrobe at the other. The room was otherwise empty.

  She crept forward, trying not stare too obviously at the bed, with its twin white pillows and one corner of a chestnut-colored blanket turned smartly down. It was simple but inviting, and she shouldn’t have been able to see it. Much less wish to lie upon it in his embrace.

  He dripped wax atop a folded scrap of paper, then rose to offer her the chair. “Your wager, my lady.”

  She slid a narrow-eyed glare in his direction, but this time could find no trace of irony in his words or mien. Her stomach fluttered. With a final glance over her shoulder at the open doorway, she straightened her spine and crossed the last few feet to the waiting chair.