Owen leaned against the corner of his bed. He was too far away to touch, yet his gaze upon her stripped her as bare as if his rough hands were undressing her.
Her fingers shook as she reached for the pen. Somehow she managed to dip the nub in black ink and scratch out a few fairly legible words. When she blew on the paper to dry the ink, she caught his dark gaze out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t staring at the parchment, but rather the pucker of her lips. His slow, arrogant smile melted her like honey in a kettle.
She folded the paper as quickly as her trembling fingers allowed and sealed the edge with candle wax.
“Here.” She thrust the small square toward him without waiting for the wax to harden. “My wager.”
He shook the wax dry, then rose to his feet. Her wager disappeared into his pocket along with his own folded square. He held out his arm. “Care to see the rest of the cottage? Or do you prefer we remain in the bedchamber?”
She leapt up from the escritoire and flew out into the corridor without accepting his proffered arm.
His low chuckle sent heat down her flesh. He followed her into the corridor and placed her fingers upon his sleeve before lowering his mouth to her ear. “A scoundrel can hope.”
She glared at him. At least, she meant to. The problem was, she was less shocked by his scandalous suggestion and more disappointed that he hadn’t meant it. Her cheeks burned. She’d waited almost one-and-twenty years for someone to kiss her, and thus far no one had ever tried. She smiled bitterly. A spinster could hope.
He led her to the next chamber, hesitating only slightly before flinging open the door.
The room was completely empty.
She glanced up at him, a question surely writ upon her face.
“My mother’s room.” He didn’t meet her eyes.
Her heart squeezed. “You must miss her terribly.”
“She was my mother,” he said simply.
No other words need be spoken. Matilda well knew the pain of losing a parent. She’d believed it the worst possible hell when she lost both her parents at a young age. Poor Owen. His father still lived, but had never once acknowledged him. His mother was all he’d ever had. Losing her meant losing everything.
She held his arm a little closer to her side. “Must you go back to the army?”
He snorted softly. “What other choice is there?”
She plucked at the folds of her gown. “You could sell your commission.”
“With no home to return to? Come. There are only two rooms left to show. First, the kitchen.” He turned to look at her, his eyes hopeful. “Might you stay for luncheon?”
She shook her head. “I shan’t put you to any trouble. I’ve a carriage out front, and—”
“Sit.” He pushed her onto one of two battered stools flanking a scarred wooden table. “I learned to simmer broth and boil potatoes at my mother’s knee, but I learned to cook in France.” He stoked the fire beneath the stove, then shot her a mischievous grin. “I also learned ribald drinking songs, but I’m guessing you would appreciate the food more.”
She stared in disbelief as he chopped and diced seemingly at random, tossing handfuls of ingredients into a sizzling skillet until the resulting aroma made her mouth water and her stomach clench in anticipation of a delicious meal.
It didn’t disappoint.
“Anyone would hire you as a chef,” she said once she’d eaten the last bite.
He wrinkled his nose. “Chefs don’t get invited to nearly as many dinner parties as soldiers do.”
She grinned despite herself. “A salient point.”
He cleared the table and submerged the dishes into a basin to soak. “Ready for the last room?”
She nodded and allowed him to help her down off the stool.
He curled her fingers back on his arm—odd how much they felt like they belonged there—and led her into the corridor toward the final doorway. Like the other chambers, the door was closed tight. But unlike the others, he made no move to open it.
He turned to face her, his expression serious and his eyes unreadable. She had to force herself not to babble to fill the heavy silence. He took her hands in his, then dropped them just as quickly. She held her breath and waited.
“Lady Matilda…” He shoved his hands in his pockets for the briefest of seconds before reaching forward to take her hands once more. “Before I left, I called upon your cousin.”
She nodded. “I know. You broke his nose.”
“Yes, well, I…” Owen gripped her fingers harder. “What you don’t know is why. I didn’t drop by that day to fight with Addington. I came to ask for your hand. In marriage.”
She nodded again. “I know. He told me.”
“But then Addington said—What?” Owen dropped her hands in disbelief. “He told you I wanted to marry you?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “We’re cousins. He keeps no secrets from me. That night, he sat me down and explained that any man who asked for my hand was actually asking for my money. He said a smart woman would exploit her wealth in exchange for the highest title her dowry could buy.”
Owen’s jaw dropped. “That’s exactly what that halfwit said to me. That’s why I punched him.”
“But he’s right.” Matilda’s voice was flat. “Every suitor I’ve ever had has been in want of more coin. They’ve made no attempt to hide it.”
Owen grabbed her upper arms. “That doesn’t mean it’s the sole reason they court you.”
Of course it was. But she lifted a shoulder and tried to hide how much the truth had always hurt. “What other reason is there?”
“Love, for one.” He cupped her cheek. “Passion, for another.”
He drew the pad of his thumb over her lower lip and she shivered. “P-passion for me?”
“Only for you.” He slid his fingers into her hair, his strong hands cradling her face. He lowered his lips until they touched just beside hers. “I’ve wanted you from before I even knew what that meant. I’ve spent years dreaming of you every night. Imagining your touch on my skin. Your lips beneath mine. Our bodies locked together.”
She gasped. Or possibly panted. Her insides had melted and she had to grip him tight just to stay upright. She leaned closer.
His lower lip was now low enough to graze the edge of her jaw as he spoke. “Lady Matilda, if you don’t strike me across the face right this second, I’m going to kiss you senseless.”
She gripped his waistcoat. “It’s about bloody time.”
Desire flashed hot in his eyes and then his mouth was finally on hers.
Molten heat streaked inside her as his lips parted hers. His soft kisses became harder and more insistent as her body cleaved to his.
His fingers sank deep into her hair as he held her to him. He suckled her lower lip and then swept his tongue inside her mouth to claim her as his own.
She tightened her grip on his hips and yanked him closer. She loved the feel of his hands in her hair, his mouth mating with hers, the hardness of his body flush against her belly. She loved him.
They stumbled backward until her shoulders hit solid wood. A door. The fourth room. One which ideally contained a bed, and if not, at least a floor. Without lifting her mouth from his, she reached behind her back for the handle and twisted it open.
The door flew inward. They would have toppled over, had Owen not caught her at the last second and swung her upright. His eyes were no longer clouded with passion. He looked… embarrassed?
Reluctantly, she pulled out of his embrace and glanced about. Her mouth fell open in surprise.
Two lonesome wingback chairs constituted the entirety of the room’s furniture. But the walls—the walls! Custom floor-to-ceiling pine bookshelves lined every inch of the room. They were empty, save for a handful of books lying in the far corner.
She walked the perimeter in awe, pausing when she reached the small pile of books. One was The Old English Baron, the last book she’d loaned him before his disappearance. The s
econd was her favorite out of all Ann Radcliffe’s novels. The third was a well-worn book of French poetry. She clutched all three to her chest, then spun to face him.
“Did you do this?” she demanded, unable to tear her eyes from his. “Did you build a library?”
He nodded hesitantly. “I knew you wouldn’t accept anyone who wouldn’t open his arms to your books as well as you. They’re just as big a part of you as… as you are. That’s why I was in the gaming parlor, risking my last penny. How could I offer you an empty library? I thought, maybe if I stocked it full of the things you loved best… If I came to you with a dowry, something you couldn’t resist…”
The room seemed to disappear. All she saw was him. He loved her. Or at least, he had. Once. Her breath hitched and her legs wobbled. She tried to smile. “We never played our last hand.”
“I want no games between us.” Owen stepped forward, a determined set to his jaw. “We can throw the wagers in the fire, or we can open them together.”
“Together.” She linked her arm through his so that she stood by his side. Where she intended to be for the rest of her life. But whatever he’d written, he’d written before he’d known how she felt about him. How would she live with herself if he wanted nothing more than to have his cottage back? If he’d rather head off to war than face a future with her? She took a deep breath. Her legs remained unsteady. “Ready?”
He nodded.
They broke the seals together. The parchment unfolded. Her throat clogged when she read the same five words printed on both scraps of paper:
ALL I WANT IS YOU.
And so it was.
THE END
* * *
In the new Rogues to Riches series, Cinderella stories aren’t just for princesses… Lovable rogues sweep five strong-willed ladies into a whirlwind rags-to-riches romance with rollicking adventure.
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Lord of Chance
Disguised as a country miss, Charlotte Devon flees London, desperate to leave her tattered reputation behind. In Scotland, her estranged father’s noble blood will finally make her a respectable debutante. Except she finds herself accidentally wed to a devil-may-care rogue with a sinful smile. He’s the last thing she needs…and everything her traitorous heart desires.
Charming rake Anthony Fairfax is on holiday to seek his fortune…and escape his creditors. When an irresistible Lady Luck wins him in a game of chance—and a slight mishap has them leg-shackled by dawn—the tables have finally turned in his favor. But when past demons catch up to them, holding on to new love will mean destroying their dreams forever.
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Sneak Peek
Scotland, 1817
Mr. Anthony Fairfax might not be the lord of a manor, but he was king of the gaming hells. Or had been. Anthony glanced at his pocket watch. He should be resuming his throne at any moment. His luck was already turning back around, right here in a humble inn on the Scottish border. And Anthony knew why. He slid another look toward a certain young woman seated alone in the shadows.
Making her acquaintance was almost as tempting as winning the next hand of three-card Brag.
To feign disinterest in the twitches and tells of the other three men at the card table, Anthony lifted his untouched glass of brandy to his lips and leaned back in his chair. Careful to keep a subtle eye on the other gamblers, he glanced about the inn’s surprisingly well-appointed salon while he waited his turn.
This particular posting house was a bit dear, given the unpredictable condition of Anthony’s purse, but he’d chosen it for that very reason. Rich guests meant higher profits at the gaming tables.
Bored gentlemen—after all, who stopped at a small village on the border between Scotland and England save those on a long, dusty journey?—meant virtually every soul present had wandered into the guest salon after supper to be entertained for a moment or two. Drivers. Gentlemen. Ladies.
For Anthony, the most interesting of all was the intriguing woman in the corner. She drank nothing. Spoke to no one. Seemed uninterested in the bustle of life about her. Yet he knew she was not.
Light from a nearby candle reflected in her eyes every time she looked his way.
Anthony was certain she was the catalyst for his phenomenal luck this evening. A rush of hope filled him. As a lifelong gambler, he was accustomed to both long stretches of near-invincibility as well as dry spells of dashed fortune. From the moment he’d laid eyes on this mysterious woman, every hand he was dealt contained at least a flush or a run.
She was his talisman. His saving grace.
Her moss-colored gown was simple muslin, but the blood-red rubies about her neck and dangling from her ears indicated wealth. A nondescript bonnet bathed her face in shadow. Were it not for a rogue ringlet slipping out the back, he would not have known her hair was spun gold.
“Fairfax?” prompted Leviston. “You in?”
“Absolutely.” Anthony placed a dizzying sum of money on the corner of the table. Thirty pounds was more than he’d seen in months—and far more than he could afford to lose. But with Lady Fortune gazing in his direction, he knew he could not fail.
Mr. Bost, failing to hide his smug expression, tossed his final cards onto the table, face up. Mr. Leviston and Mr. Whitfield groaned as they displayed their cards.
As Anthony had expected, their cards were no match for his. Not tonight. He turned over his straight flush without fanfare.
Bost gasped in dismay. “You are positively beggaring me tonight, Fairfax!”
Anthony gazed back impassively as he tucked his winnings into his purse. He knew a thing or two about being beggared. It was what had chased him from London to Scotland—but only temporarily. He would recover his losses. Every penny.
Beau Brummell might be able to hide in France for the rest of his life, but Anthony had friends and family in England. People he loved dearly and would miss dreadfully. He straightened his shoulders. London would welcome him back with open arms once his vowels were paid. A few more big wins, and his IOUs would be a distant memory.
Tonight was the night. He could feel it. Fate had been on his side from the moment Leviston had suggested a game of three-card Brag. Anthony could not possibly have resisted.
He had always preferred games of chance over strategy. His strength was not in counting cards or doing figures, but in being incredibly lucky. Any gambler experienced periods of soaring highs and devastating lows but, in Anthony’s case, fortune favored him so often that his winnings at the gaming tables had been his family’s sole income for years.
True, he had also suffered agonizing losses but, as any gambler knew, a windfall was always a mere turn of the cards away. Tonight, in fact.
All he needed was one big win.
Whitfield shook his head. “Demme, I should never have believed the rumors of your luck running out. You’re unsinkable! Think you’ll ever retire from the gaming tables and leave a few pence for us mortals?”
“Never!” Anthony twisted his face into a comical expression of horror.
Chuckling, Whitfield gathered the remaining cards and began to shuffle.
Anthony sent a quick smile toward his shadowy Lady Fortune. She was his charm, his muse. Her power was immeasurable. He had won that last round simply because she’d gazed upon him.
“I see our would-be adversary has caught your eye,” said Whitfield.
“She wagers?” Anthony asked in surprise.
“She’d like to,” Leviston answered dryly, “but Bost wouldn’t let her join us.”
Bost drained his brandy and waved his empty glass at a barmaid. “What do women know about cards? She’ll lose her money. Her husban
d should pay more attention to the purse strings.”
Whitfield’s eyes glittered. “And if she hasn’t got one, she should just say the word. I’d be happy to step in for the night.”
Anthony’s lips flattened in distaste. “Leave her alone.”
“Why?” Bost’s laugh was cocky. “You have claims on the lady?”
“You certainly do not,” Anthony countered icily. His tone served to silence the blackguards.
Good. He needed to keep winning. A brawl over Lady Fortune’s honor would have ruined everything.
“Your wine, my lords.” The harried barmaid refilled the other gentlemen’s glasses, then turned toward Anthony. “Anything for you, sir?”
“Not for me.” Anthony placed a gold sovereign he’d set aside onto her tray. “For you. Everyone deserves some good luck once in a while.”
Her eyes glistened. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
Anthony inclined his head. Inn staff would not know him this far north, but he always shared a small token from his winnings. Everyone did deserve good fortune. He couldn’t imagine a worse fate than having to be employed to scrape out a living—not only because gentlemen of his class did not work. Anthony had never cleaved to anyone else’s schedule or demands. Gaming hells were much more suited to his style of living.
In fact, he won the next several rounds. A thrill shot through him each time. Lady Fortune’s presence had made him unconquerable indeed. Tonight’s total winnings were well over a hundred pounds.
“I’m out.” Bost pushed his chair back and stood with a disgusted expression. “If I risk any more, I shan’t be able to afford to break my fast in the morning.”
“Make that two of us.” Whitfield glanced at Anthony as he rose to his feet. “I suppose the gossips also lied when they said all the gaming hells in London had closed their doors to you.”
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