The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

by Christina McKnight

  The baron, fully visible now, slipped his hands into the deep pockets of his coat while his stare settled somewhere below her eyes. “I saw you depart without a footman. It worried me—”

  “And you followed me?” It was what she’d left her home to avoid. The constant watchfulness of her elder siblings, each thinking they knew what was best for her. At least at Craven House, they made their actions known. It was far more upsetting to realize the baron had been following her, keeping track of her whereabouts, without her notice. How closely had he kept watch on her since she’d joined his household? A chill ran down her spine, and she stopped herself from reaching up to pull her collar higher. “My lord, I do not need a caretaker.”

  He shuffled closer, his regret visible. “I did not mean to insinuate that; however, as a member of my household, I was justified in my concern for your safety.”

  Her relief quickly dissipated as her anger took over.

  She clenched and unclenched her fists, and her skin heated despite the cold air.

  “I am a grown woman,” she snapped. “During the hours when I am not overseeing the children, I am free to come and go as I please. Was that not our agreement when I took the position in your household?”

  He nodded, but his green eyes flared. What right did he have to be angry with her?

  Never would she have left her home and taken a post as a governess, only to find the freedom she sought elusive once more.

  “Mayhap we should return to the townhouse and have this discussion.”

  For the first time, Payton noticed the baron’s breath in the frigid night at the same time her nosed ached with the cold.

  “There is nothing to discuss, my lord. Yes, I am a servant in your household. However, that does not give you the right to question my whereabouts at every turn.” She paused in an attempt to collect her thoughts, to express what truly angered her. “My duties for the day were done, the children are abed, and it was my understanding that I am free to do as I wish in the evenings.”

  He took the final step, coming to a halt before her, and she glanced up into his remorseful face. His cheeks were hollow, emphasizing the dark circles under his eyes as his gaze begged for her forgiveness. He was exhausted—barely standing, if she were to guess. She’d often noticed his disheveled appearance, even suspected nights of fitful slumber, but it appeared the man before her had not slept for a long, long time.

  “I think it best we return to Ashford Hall,” she mused, refusing to allow all her anger to slip away. “Seek our beds. Tomorrow will be a busy day for the both of us.”

  Lord Ashford, his light brown hair falling to cover one sparkling green eye, stood so close, she caught the scent of the Albany: a blend of lavender and citrus mixed with something wholly unfamiliar. Her eyes drifted shut as she attempted to place the aroma. Every instinct in her told her to retreat, make haste for the townhouse, find her room, and bar the door until morning—or at least until her good sense returned.

  He was not a lord to be trifled with—or a man she should allow to trifle with her emotions. Everything about the baron was confusing, vexing, and continuously changing. One minute, he was aloof and quiet; the next, he was inviting her into his private study only to push her away before inviting himself to dine with her and the children…even dangling the prospect of an entire day together. She’d lost track of how she felt about it all. Her path, only a few short weeks prior, had been set in stone: gain her independence, earn enough funds to support herself, and live any life she wanted. At that moment, Payton could think of nothing beyond the present, these precise few minutes alone in the London night with the scent of the baron carried on the breeze. His green eyes holding hers, asking an unspoken question that she had no answer for before she lowered her lids, fearing what he might see in her gaze.

  Surely, her good sense would return come morning light.

  Her eyes still closed, his hand brushed a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, and she felt the warmth of his touch through his glove. If she concentrated, she could almost imagine the feel of his flesh against hers. In her mind, his skin was smooth, his touch tender, and his words nothing more than a whisper.

  His ragged breath broke the silent hold the moment had encapsulated her in, and Payton’s eyes sprang open to see the baron’s soft stare taking in the sight of her.

  Pivoting, Payton pushed her muff higher on her arm and gathered her skirts, her winnings still heavy against her thigh. Without a backwards glance as her heart beat erratically, and her pent-up breath rushed from her lungs, she hurried back toward Ashford Hall. The baron’s footsteps trailed behind her, keeping pace but not daring to come any closer.

  Chapter 14

  “Pull over here,” Damon called, rapping his knuckles on the side of the carriage.

  “I thought we were going to the park and having a picnic?” Joy asked, lifting her head from Miss Samuels’ shoulder. “You promised—”

  “Yes, but we have one small stop to make before we arrive at the park.” Damon kept his focus off his children’s governess and on the row of shops bordering Piccadilly as Rigby halted the carriage. “I promise to be quick, and there is a treat in it for everyone.”

  “We can wait in the carriage while you attend to your errand, my lord,” Miss Samuels said, stroking Joy’s hair. “I am certain Joy would not mind a few minutes’ rest before the park.”

  Their day had started with an early afternoon at the menagerie. Seeing his children in such awe at the spectacles within the traveling show had Damon longing to give them more occasion for jubilation. Though their day was not yet complete, and he’d taken it upon himself to schedule a special treat for Miss Samuels and Joy. More a surprise for his daughter and something he owed Miss Samuels.

  “What is it, Father?” Joy pulled back the fabric covering her windowpane. “We haven’t traveled far from the menagerie. Are we going to see the show again?”

  “I’d rather eat.” Abram crossed his arms, and Damon heard the corroborating statement of his own stomach growling.

  Damon saw the shop out his window. It had been many years since he’d visited any establishment beyond those necessary for a lord. Even Joy’s pinafores and half boots were seen to by Flora when the child grew out of her dresses.

  “Madame DelFortaine’s Shoppe,” he proclaimed, hiding his smile by reaching forward to open the door before the footman set down the steps. “A new dress for you, Joy, and a replacement gown for Miss Samuels.”

  “I don’t want to go into any ladies’ dress shop,” Abram grumbled.

  Damon hopped down from the carriage and reached his arm in to assist Joy and Miss Samuels down.

  Helping both alight, he waited for Abram to disembark.

  “Abram, do hurry.” Joy bounced from foot to foot, glancing over at the row of shops. “I do so ever want a new gown.” She paused, tapping her finger against her chin. “I think purple…no, yellow. What do you think, Father?”

  “Either would look splendid.” Damon smiled at the child’s delight.

  “Abram,” Miss Samuels’ stern tone rang over the sounds of the many people hurrying to and fro, and several sets of prying eyes landed on them. “You will exit the carriage now.”

  Damon expected a sharp rebuff from the lad, but his son slumped to the walkway, his glaring stare focused beyond Damon to the shops at his back.

  “Do calm yourself,” Damon chuckled. “There is a bookstore two shops over with an entire shelf dedicated to wartime battles.”

  Abram did his best to keep his frown in place, but Damon knew the boy’s interest had been piqued.

  “Madame DelFortaine is expecting you.” Damon gestured to the modiste’s shop. “Abram and I will be at Oliver’s Bookseller. You can send Rigby for us when your shopping is complete.”

  “My lord, I cannot accept—”

  Damon had suspected she’d turn down his offer of a new gown, but he’d prepared for the argument. “Joy and Abram ruined your dress the other morning. The gown
is not from me, but a way for the children to make amends for their troublesome behavior. Isn’t that correct?”

  Joy had the sense to at least appear sheepish while Abram’s frown turned to a scowl.

  “Very well, we will see the pair of you as soon as you are finished.” Damon set his hand on Abram’s shoulder and guided him down the walk to Oliver’s.

  He could not remember the last time he’d been afforded any time alone with Abram that did not include a scolding for misbehaving. Any other time, Joy was present, and the pair seemed far more connected to one another, as if Damon were the outsider in their trio.

  “I’ve visited Oliver’s Bookseller since I was a child, no older than you,” Damon said, pushing through the door as a bell rang overhead to alert Oliver that a customer had arrived. “The shop owner is a collector of rare volumes, and every time I come in, I find myself stumbling upon a new book—or subject.”

  Abram pulled from his father’s side, stumbling to a halt as his head swiveled from side to side, taking in row after row of books.

  Regret pooled within Damon. It was his fault his son hadn’t experienced the excitement of a bookshop before today. It was Damon’s fault that now, a moment his son might remember always, he could think of nothing to say.

  “Can I have a look around?” Abram whispered.

  “Of course.” Damon spotted Oliver, the bookseller, behind his counter. “Mr. Oliver, this is my son, Abram.”

  “Master Abram!” the bespectacled proprietor called, hurrying around the desk to greet them. “It is lovely to have you in my shop.”

  “Where are the books on great battles, specifically the Ottoman Empire’s rise and fall?” Abram asked breathlessly.

  Oliver glanced at Damon with a grin. “Your boy doesn’t waste any time, my lord.”

  “No, he does not.” Damon clasped Abram on his shoulder. When the boy took a step away from him, Damon’s hand fell back to his side. “Please, Oliver, show him around. Books and knowledge, a boy can never have too much of either.”

  “Very good, Lord Ashford.” The man’s chin bobbed up and down at the prospect of a large sale.

  With the pair disappearing into the stacks, Damon was free to wander the shop and find a volume of his own. Unfortunately, it wasn’t books that interested him at the moment. After she’d fled inside the townhouse the previous evening, Miss Samuels had been distant with him. She was attentive and jovial with the children but refrained from any interactions with him that were not completely necessary. Bringing her to Madame DelFortaine’s hadn’t only been to replace her ruined gown but to repair the damage he’d caused when he followed her to 10 Mill Street.

  Bloody hell, he wasn’t sorry he’d loitered outside and made sure she returned home safely. He would never apologize for that. It was being caught he regretted. She was correct. She was in his employ, and Damon had no right to insert himself into her personal affairs. What was far more puzzling, was why he cared. Yet again, he knew why her safety, the safety of everyone in his household, was so important to him.

  Soon enough, Damon pushed from the bookshop and ambled two shops down to the modiste’s. Inside, he could see Miss Samuels looking through a mountain of fabrics while a seamstress measured Joy. His daughter seemed happy, her smile stretching from ear to ear, much as it had when they saw the monkeys in the menagerie. Her face was alight with wonder at the workings in the shop as the seamstress and her assistants hurried to and fro. He’d witnessed Joy smiling more in the last several hours than in the last few years.

  Contrary to Joy’s exuberant nature, her governess looked perplexed. Her forehead was scrunched as she shook her head and laid a bolt of muslin aside to pick up another.

  Miss Samuels’ lips pulled back into a smile, and she held a yellow silk high, gesturing for Joy to come and see it. His daughter hurried over, and both ran their hands along the fine fabric. The child had only been a toddler when she lost her mother. However, Damon couldn’t help but imagine what the last few years would have been like for her had her mother not passed away. Would she always be the precocious child he’d witnessed today? Happy, carefree, and quick to offer a kind word?

  What of Abram? Soon enough, he would need to learn all there was about running the Ashford Barony: the estate landholdings, business ventures, managing the account ledgers, meeting with his stewards and man of business. There was much Damon would need teach his son if the estate were to thrive and provide for future generations.

  Beyond the glass, Joy nodded vigorously, and Miss Samuels handed the bolt of silk to the modiste and returned to the table of fabrics. Would Joy have relished shopping outings with her mother, if she were still with them?

  Damon shook his head and turned back toward Oliver’s Bookseller. The question didn’t merit further thought. Miss Samuels would go the way every other governess had. She would tire of the position and move on, leaving Damon and the children alone once more. Perhaps he should have remarried long ago, taken another wife for the reassurance that his children would have someone permanent to care for them. He couldn’t imagine another woman beside Miss Samuels holding Joy close while she cried, rocking her to sleep, and tucking her into bed. There had been no other who’d treated his children with the care they needed and deserved: stern when their antics grew out of hand, yet compassionate when their sorrow overtook them. Even Flora, his dear sister, hadn’t found any special place in her life—or her heart—for Joy and Abram.

  “Father, Father!” Joy skidded out of the dress shop, her half boots clicking on the walkway as she ran to him. “Payton found the most perfect yellow for my new dress.”

  “Payton?” His brow pulled low. He should have known it was her given name as he’d briefly reviewed her reference before having Mrs. Brown contact them. Yet acknowledging her name meant a familiarity he hadn’t been comfortable with at the time.

  In his mind, governesses came and went. This one would be no different.

  “Miss Samuels, silly,” Joy giggled, yet another sound that should be familiar to him but wasn’t.

  His children were changing before his very eyes, and Damon was finding it difficult to keep up.

  “Miss Samuels says I can have a proper evening gown made from the yellow fabric,” Joy continued. “She called it silk. I wonder how long it’ll take to get my dress. Do you think it’ll be ready before Mama’s birthday?”

  Damon froze, searching his memory for what month it was. February. There were still several weeks until Sarah’s birthday came and went.

  “I’ll ask them to hurry. We should get it in, say, two days?”

  Joy looks doubtful. “What if it’s not ready?”

  “I promise.”

  She brightened. “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  Damon’s stare drifted back to the shop window where Miss Samuels—no, Payton—pointed to one of two fashion plates the modiste held up. Payton? An unusual name and one Damon should have been quick to commit to memory. If he’d heard the name before, it was for a man, not a woman. However, it was as unique as she was—and unexpected, as well. Much like her hair, long and curling, had come to symbolize her. Or the way her eyes sparked with the changing of her moods.

  “Father.” Joy tugged at his coat sleeve. “Do you really promise?”

  “Of course, dear one.” He wasn’t sure where the endearment had come from, but the moment the words left his mouth, Joy stopped tugging at his sleeve, her mouth fell open, and her shoulders tensed. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Her bottom lip trembled. “Mama called me dear one.”

  “She did, didn’t she,” Damon said, remembering Sarah’s melodic voice as she sang Joy to sleep all those years ago. “As did I.”

  The bell from Oliver’s chimed, and Abram exited, his arms laden with several massive tomes.

  The smile on his face was worth the invoice Damon would receive from the bookseller.

  “Can we go now?” Joy’s voice hitched.

  “Certainly.” Damo
n waved to the Ashford footman waiting by his coach. The servant hurried over. “Rigby, see the children inside the carriage. I will collect Miss Samuels and return.”

  “Very well, my lord.”

  The children followed the footman, Abram focused on the top book, while Joy shuffled alongside her brother.

  He’d been caught up in his daughter’s happiness, and he’d unwittingly caused her pain with his thoughtlessness. In the future, Damon would be far more careful when he spoke to his children. Rigby assisted Joy into the carriage and held Abram’s books while the boy found his seat.

  “Are the children ready, Lord Ashford?”

  Miss Samuels stood behind him, fastening the buttons on her long cloak before touching her perfectly pinned hair.

  “Yes, they are hungry and cannot wait for the park.” He held out his arm, and she stared at it as if debating whether to place her hand at his elbow. Something about the woman, her speech, her manners, her way of holding herself, spoke of a past spent among society. She had the poise of a woman raised with privilege. Could she be the daughter or relation of a nobleman? Before he could ask, she set her gloved hand at his elbow and then started for their waiting carriage. “I hope you selected a suitable new gown.”

  She kept her stare trained straight ahead. “You were under no obligation to purchase me a new dress. I should have kept a better watch on Joy and Abram’s antics…”

  “You are welcome, Miss Samuels.” He knew full well that he wasn’t only under obligation, it was something she’d expected.

  “I did not thank you, my lord,” she hissed.

  “Are you unfamiliar with accepting a kindness?”

  “A kindness?” she asked, her stare meeting his. “Mayhap it was more of an obligation.”

  “A kindness, a gift, or a mere obligation, regardless, I hope you selected a lovely new gown.” He handed her up into the carriage, bringing their brief moment of privacy to an end, though he suspected he’d touched on a subject she was wholly uncomfortable with. “To St. James’s Park, Rigby.”