It got to be boring, after a while, constantly winning. Though the winnings at the table helped to keep her suitably decked out in the gowns she required in order to keep her place in Society, and also would help some of her other less superficial interests, so she didn’t really wish to be losing. Who would wish to lose, anyway?
But sometimes, after she’d won yet another considerable sum, she wished she could be surprised into a loss. To find an opponent who would be worthy of her skill and her attention.
That, it seemed, was not to be. Might never be.
Not that she wasn’t grateful to be here at all, she certainly was. The cold truth of it was that she was invited to these events not because she was a good card player, but because she was a scandal, but not too scandalous. So any hostess who invited her would be seen as daring, and she would add color to the festivities, simply because of who she was.
That she was able to support herself and the causes to which she’d dedicated her money was a welcome side effect of her scandalous wake.
“It is your deal, Lady Sophia,” Margaret murmured as she passed the cards to her left. The lady took the cards, nodding, and Margaret leaned back in her chair, glancing around the room.
She’d only been back in London for a few months, as soon as she’d found out her parents had departed, and it already seemed as though she hadn’t ever left. She’d missed it, even though she’d liked living out in the country, just walking alone for hours at a time and thinking. Just thinking.
Thinking was at more of a premium here, what with all the other things she had to be doing, as well: attending social gatherings such as this one, visiting with her sister, the Duchess of Gage, and her new niece, plotting out how to get her heroine even more in danger with the dangerous hero in her ongoing serialized story, which had just been increased to a weekly publication—another delicious bit to add to her scandalous reputation.
Avoiding her parents.
She felt her jaw clench as she thought about them, how they steadfastly refused to acknowledge her in public since she’d rebelled against their plans for her. As though she would marry someone as loathsome as Lord Collingwood, not that he had any desire to marry her, either. He had just wanted the funds her parents had promised along with her body, and had been dumbfounded when their second—in so many ways—daughter had refused to go along with their plans.
It hurt, even though she should have been accustomed to it by now. And it must bother them, as well, to know that she had returned to Society and had continued to be accepted at parties, and that she was perfectly able to survive on her own. If they thought about it at all, of course.
“Lady Margaret?” Oh, she’d been too engrossed in thinking to realize it was her turn to play. She took a quick survey of her cards, sorted them into their respective suits, and glanced at what had been played. Jack of hearts, two of hearts, and the ten. She had four additional hearts in her hand, as well, which left six other cards. She figured out which ones were missing, then tossed her queen into the pile and took the hand, before laying down a six of diamonds.
It wouldn’t do to play too many hearts, she thought to herself ruefully. Not that she had ever given her actual heart. That organ remained intact, not even dented by her close encounter with Lord Collingwood. Her pride, now that stung, but pride would heal; a heart would not.
The play lagged as a footman bearing wine approached the table. Everyone but Margaret took a glass, and then out of the corner of her eye she spotted a large black shape reaching for a glass, as well.
It was a man, of course, a gentleman, since if it were a bear or a mobile rock or something there would have been more screaming and less allowing of the bear/rock to take a refreshment. And as she turned her head to look at him, she felt something inside her stutter to a stop, her breath caught in her throat as she looked.
He looked as though he could have walked right out of the pages of one of her more outrageous serials. He was tall, very tall, taller than all the other gentlemen in the room. And broad, as well, with shoulders that would have strained at the seams of his jacket if the garment in question had been less impeccably cut and less exquisitely molded to his form. His very excellent form.
And that was without even mentioning his face, which was just as excellent. He was clean-shaven, a rarity among the gentlemen in the room, and that meant the sharp planes of his face were clearly displayed. Of course what most people likely noticed was the black patch that covered his left eye, the ribbon tying it on also black, which happened—fortunately—to match the black of his hair and his eyebrows.
As she regarded him, he caught her eye and stiffened, as though he’d recognized her, and didn’t want to associate with her, or he hadn’t recognized her, but hadn’t appreciated her gawking at him.
Either way, she thought with a mental shrug as she returned to the play, he clearly didn’t want to have anything to do with her. Pity, since he looked as dangerous as she felt.
“My trick, I believe.” Lady Sophia scooped up the coins from the table and Margaret leaned against the back of her chair, only about the seventh most shocking thing she’d done this evening.
The first, of course, had been having the audacity to win at cards despite being a female with a slightly tarnished reputation. The second and third likely had to do with the hat and gown she was wearing—she refused to continue to wear the pale colors of an unmarried woman. The colors didn’t suit her, for one thing, and for another, she had no desire to indicate her unmarried status. So instead of insipid ivory, she was wearing blue, and not the wan blue of an early morning sky. This was the fierce, triumphant blue of a cloudless summer at midday.
The numbers leading up to seven likely had to do with declining to dance when asked by gentlemen who thought that because her reputation was tarnished that her behavior would be equally suspect, and taking a second glass of wine. Although she wasn’t entirely sure, she imagined that she had likely done things to tick up the number of shocking events that she wasn’t even aware of.
And that was why she’d been invited anyway, wasn’t it?
It didn’t miss her notice that leaning against the back of the chair was just as shocking as refusing a blackguard or a dance. Now if she were a man, she could get away with such behavior. She could lean against chairs, drink as many glasses of wine as she chose, and never have to dance with anyone she didn’t wish to. She sighed as the possibility floated above her, like a tantalizing balloon she just couldn’t catch.
And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw another black shape, only this one didn’t intrigue her as the pirate had. She knew this man, and she wanted nothing to do with him. Hadn’t seen him, in fact, since before her parents had announced she was to be married to him. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to come proposing himself, he’d allowed them to tell her what was to be done. Even thinking of it, thinking how close she had come to surrendering her freedom, made her grit her teeth and raise her head as though in challenge.
Although that was incredibly stupid, wasn’t it, because then it increased the chances he’d spot her.
“Excuse me,” Margaret said, nodding to one of the people watching the card game, “would you mind taking my seat? I find I am need of some air,” and she left without waiting for a reply, walking through the crowd quickly in the opposite direction of Lord Collingwood.
Lasham took a sip of his wine with the nondamp hand, squelching the desire to find out just who the lady was who’d met his gaze so—so directly. He wasn’t accustomed to that, not at all; either ladies didn’t look at him because they were awed by his title or they were frightened by his eye patch. But her—she’d looked at him, and looked at him some more, so he had to avert his own gaze from hers.
He had noticed, however, that while she wasn’t as young as most of the debutantes currently giggling in the ballroom, she wasn’t old, either. Nor was she beautiful, not in
the way of most beauties, but there was something—something sparkling about her, as though she’d been dusted in starlight or something like that. A ridiculous thought, and he didn’t know where it had come from.
Her hair was a rich, lustrous brown, pulled back from her face with one curl resting coquettishly on her shoulder, which was bare. Her eyes were brown as well, huge, with thick lashes surrounding them. Her mouth was wide and sensuous, if a mouth could be sensuous, and as he regarded her, he’d seen a tiny smile creating a dimple on one cheek. Unlike the usual beauties, she looked utterly, deliciously approachable, which was why he absolutely must not find out who she was or plot to meet her. She looked dangerous, if not in reality, then to his peace of mind.
Lasham continued threading his way through the crowd, nodding to people here and there, keeping his focus away from anyone’s eyes so as to avoid conversation. He just wanted, needed, a moment away from the party, from the constant scrutiny, from people who kept regarding him as though waiting for him to do something remarkable. Or unremarkable.
He arrived at a door near where the servants were bustling in and out, turned the handle, and stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him. He stood in what appeared to be a small library, the streetlamps outside lighting the room enough so he could navigate, even with only one good eye.
He went and leaned against the windowsill, looking out at the street below, the carriages and their patient horses and coachmen waiting for the partygoers to finally decide they were done for the night. At the yellow glow of the streetlamps making the night seem as though it were faintly tinted, at the dark streets with the day’s detritus still scattered on the ground.
And he was at last, finally, blissfully alone.
He heard the door open just as he was beginning to gather his resolve to return to the ballroom, to do his duty to the debutantes currently on display, to dance for the next few hours until he could return home and collapse into bed, only to get up and be the responsible duke all over again the next day.
A woman stepped into the room, darting a glance behind her as she shut the door. It was her, of course. The sparkling woman from the card table. That was why she’d been looking at him. He felt the sour taste of it in his throat, the certain feeling that she’d marked him as someone she could manipulate.
“You should go,” he found himself saying, even though it was entirely rude and entirely unlike him.
She started, as though she hadn’t noticed him, and Lasham felt a twinge of uncertainty.
“I should go?” Her voice held a note of amusement. “I’ve just arrived, it seems to me that you should be the one to go, since you’ve been in residence longer. Do allow someone else to have a turn, my lord.”
My lord. So she didn’t know who he was. Did that please him or annoy him?
“No,” he said, and the word, the word he wished he could say to all those people who wanted things from him, wanted him to appear at their events just because he was a duke, slid from his lips as easily as if he’d been saying it his entire life.
“No?” She repeated him, imbuing the word with humor, again, as though that was what she always did. She walked further into the room, her skirts rustling with a soft sh-sh-sh. “Then we are here together. Perhaps we should be introduced, although there is no one here to accommodate us.” She stepped closer, stopping to rest her hand on the back of one of the sofas. “I am Lady Margaret Sawford.” A pause. She tilted her head at him. “And this is where you should offer who you are.”
“Oh, yes.” Had he ever encountered such an odd woman? But not odd in an unpleasant way. In fact, the way she was looking at him, so directly, so appraisingly, was entirely refreshing. Of course once she knew who he was, that would all change. “Yes, Your Grace, I will leave immediately.” Or, worse yet, maybe not—“No, Your Grace, what will people say if they knew we were alone together? You have compromised me, and now you must do the right thing.”
“I am the Duke of Lasham. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Margaret.”
She nodded her head, and he saw her smile. “Excellent, Your Grace. Now we are improperly introduced.” She gestured to the sofa. “Would you mind if I sat? I promise not to speak, I just want to sit in here a moment.”
Lasham couldn’t speak himself, he was so taken aback. She—she wasn’t here to entrap him, or engage his interest, or anything beyond, apparently, wishing for a moment alone.
He watched as she looked at him for a few more seconds, shrugged, then sat down and leaned her head back, closing her eyes.
“You can sit, as well, if you want.” She spoke with her eyes still closed. “If you’re not going to leave, which you said you weren’t.”
“But—” And here Lasham finally found his words. “But if we are discovered, that will put you in a very awkward situation. That is, we being together, it isn’t—well, it isn’t proper,” and didn’t he sound like the most stuffy prig in the world, lecturing her on propriety when he’d himself told her no.
She chuckled. “And then what? You will no doubt make all sorts of proper offers, and then I will very improperly say no, and my reputation will be blackened a bit more.” She opened her eyes and turned her head to regard him. “It is not the end of the world.”
He gaped at her. Not the end of the world? Who was she? Where was the usual response of “Oh, Your Grace, of course, yes, I will leave, or yes, I will marry you, or yes, it will be just as you wish”?
And this woman, this person who’d dared to stare so boldly at him, who’d refused his request, even knowing it came from a duke, had just informed him it would not be the end of the world if they were discovered. That she would not insist on marrying him, or otherwise forcing his hand in any way.
And, contradictorily, that just made him want to know her more.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MEGAN FRAMPTON writes historical romance under her own name and romantic women’s fiction under the name Megan Caldwell. She likes the color black, gin, dark-haired British men, and huge earrings, not in that order. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and son. You can visit her website at www.meganframpton.com. She tweets as @meganf and is at Facebook.com/meganframptonbooks.
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No Groom at the Inn
Put Up Your Duke
When Good Earls Go Bad (A Novella)
The Duke’s Guide to Correct Behavior
Coming Soon
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild
Give in to your Impulses . . .
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MONTANA HEARTS: HER WEEKEND WRANGLER
By Darlene Panzera
I NEED A HERO
A MEN IN UNIFORM NOVELLA
By Codi Gary
BLUE BLOODED
A BENEDICTION NOVEL
By Shelly Bell
BEST WORST MISTAKE
A BRIGHTWATER NOVEL
By Lia Riley
An Excerpt from
MONTANA HEARTS: HER WEEKEND WRANGLER
by Darlene Panzera
Darlene Panzera returns with a sweet new Western series perfect for fans of Debbie Macomber’s heartwarming romances.
Bree Collins has finally come home to Fox Creek, Montana, to manage her family’s guest ranch. She knows she can handle any challenges that come her way, but when the infuriating Ryan Tanner reappears in her life, Bree suddenly has doubts about her ability to stay professional—and away from the handsome cowboy.
Bree stayed a few more minutes to watch them sway in time to the music, then spun around to search for the three CEOs and collided straight into a hard, chiseled chest. A soothing warmth spread over her entire body as she gla
nced up into Ryan’s handsome face and gasped. “You’re here.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
She leaned to the side and glanced at the three men behind him. “And you brought your brothers!”
“Yeah, they’re the reason I’m late. They didn’t want to come but I knew how much it meant to you, and why,” he said, giving her a mischievous grin. “So I had to negotiate a deal to get them here.”
Bree smiled because of the way his mouth twitched when he grinned, because of the excitement in his eyes when he looked at her, and because of the way his dark navy blue dress shirt and jeans clung to his splendid physique. Whoa, girl! Remember to keep it casual. Recollecting her thoughts, she met his gaze and asked, “What kind of deal?”
Ryan placed a hand on either side of her waist, his touch firm and . . . pleasantly possessive. “I had to trade them my earnings from working your ranch so they can buy a set of new tires for their quad.”
He did that for her?
“Which means,” he continued, flashing her another pulse-kicking grin, “I’m a little short on money and I’d be willing to be your weekend wrangler for the rest of the summer, if you’ll have me.”
Stunned, Bree sucked in her breath and stared at him, unable to speak, unable to process exactly what this would mean for her family, unable to think of anything except that Ryan Tanner was absolutely, undeniably, the very, very best! With a little hop, she squealed, unable to hold back her delight, and with her heart taking the lead, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.
It was a quick kiss, over before she even realized what she had done, but when Bree pulled back she didn’t know who was more surprised, she or Ryan.
His gaze locked with hers for several long, breathless moments, then he cupped her cheek with his hand and drew her back toward him . . . and this time he kissed her.
His mouth was warm, tender, and soft against her own and filled with such passion she blocked out every sound around them, every presence, everything except the fact that Ryan Tanner, the guy she’d wanted to dance with since high school, held her in his arms.
No Groom at the Inn: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novella Page 12
