The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

by Christina McKnight

  No, she would return home.

  Craven House.

  A sound night’s sleep in her familiar, childhood bed would bring everything into clear focus. The heat that had gathered within her was nothing more than a base need and had nothing to do with her feelings—or her lack thereof—for Damon.

  The baron and his children did not belong to her. Would never belong to her.

  She was a hired servant in the Ashford home.

  The only place she could always count on returning to was Craven House. No matter where she went in life, no matter how many situations she ran from, that was her true home—despite her need to escape, it was the place she was always drawn back to.

  She would never be a part of Damon’s family, beyond her usefulness as a governess—just as the many men her mother had taken to her bed had never become part of her family. Time passed, and people moved on.

  Her kiss with Lord Ashford meant nothing. Promised nothing.

  There was no unspoken declaration on his part, as she would proclaim none herself.

  Payton slipped her small purse of coins into the hidden pocket in her skirts and made her way downstairs.

  Mr. Brown only nodded to her and opened the front door.

  Stepping into the early evening twilight, Payton walked away from Ashford Hall, her footsteps not the confident ones from the evening before but slow and hesitant.

  She didn’t want to leave the baron’s townhouse; however, after their embrace, the decision might not belong to her any longer.

  At the corner of Saint George and Grosvenor, Payton paused before hailing a hackney. Instead of returning home, she could walk the short distance to Regent Street and settle in an alehouse until the gaming house on Mill Street opened for the evening. At least if she were surrounded by strangers, she would be able to forget the disastrous predicament she’d created at Ashford Hall.

  But, no, while there was much she was willing to risk, losing her meager stash of coin was not one of them. She might very well need the money sooner than she thought if she were cast from the baron’s employ as she feared.

  Raising her hand, she signaled a passing driver, who pulled quickly to a stop but made no move to assist her into the conveyance.

  “Where ye be headed, miss?” the driver called from his seat, the reins hanging loosely in his grip.

  “Leicester Square.” When the man frowned, she continued, knowing her family home was nestled close to the edge of the respectable district. “Craven House, if you don’t mind the long drive.”

  He nodded agreement, and Payton took hold of her skirts, climbing into the back of the hack.

  As the driver sped toward the only place she knew as home, Payton didn’t fret over the dust coating her cloak from the filthy streets, she didn’t dwell on what was to come next for her, and she couldn’t allow herself to think about the baron’s lips pressed to hers.

  It had apparently been a moment of pure yearning for Damon. He had been overwrought with concern for his daughter, worried to utter exhaustion, and she’d been there. Payton had been there with him through it all. It had created some invisible bond between them, but not one that would last. Come tomorrow, she’d need to forget the few private moments she’d had with Lord Ashford—not Damon—and return to the townhouse ready to serve as Joy’s and Abram’s governess. Nothing more.

  She was not part of their family.

  Blazes, the baron and his children were barely a family themselves.

  But she suspected that they’d begun to heal if their day at the menagerie and the park were any indication. However, Payton had no place in their trio. That she knew.

  Even in her own home, she was the odd sibling out. Marce had Garrett. Sam and Jude, as twins, had one another. And that left her…

  Yes, living within but never truly a part of a family was something Payton knew very well.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she told herself it wasn’t her self-pity taking over but the wind whipping at her face that caused her eyes to moisten.

  The stark circumstances of her life had never been more apparent than in that moment. It was the reason she was determined to make a life of her choosing, even if she had to do it alone and leave the baron, his children, and her siblings behind.

  Damon watched out his bedchamber window for what seemed like hours after Payton had disappeared down Saint George Street. He’d wanted to go after her, to tell her to stay, beg her to sit with him in his study or perhaps return to their places on either side of Joy’s bed. And yet, he stood in his darkened chambers and watched as the sun completely set and the evening dusk turned to full night.

  She did not return.

  Without his noticing, Mrs. Brown had delivered his evening meal. It remained untouched on the table close to the hearth.

  At some point, his valet had turned down his bed and stoked the fire.

  Still, Damon watched for the woman’s return.

  She would return. She must return, he repeated silently.

  He glanced at the hearth, the fire waning but still enough to keep the room warm, before glancing back outside to the street below. In the hall outside his study, the tall clock chimed twice.

  Two in the morning.

  Where had the hours gone? Had Abram fallen asleep? Had Joy awoken to find him gone from her bedside?

  And where in the bloody hell had Miss Samuels disappeared to?

  He’d stopped himself several times from going to 10 Mill Street. Indeed, that must be where she was. Gambling.

  He wondered if it were a habit or an addiction for her. Did she gamble out of necessity or was it merely for the thrill of it?

  It didn’t matter why she did it—or even that she gambled at all. It was none of his concern, as she’d pointed out to him quite bluntly when she caught him following her the other night. She was a servant in his household. However, he could not forget the memory of her plunging into the water alongside him. She had been affected by the incident with Joy as much as he had.

  If it didn’t matter—if she didn’t matter—why had he settled her debts with the Duke of Catherton? Far more than that, why hadn’t he told her that he’d paid her debts? Payton hadn’t any notion that he knew she was the mysterious, masked woman at this gaming nights. Hell, until the previous week, Damon hadn’t known either.

  If it weren’t for his children’s horrid prank and the dye that had stained her arm, he might never have made the connection. Perhaps that would have been better for everyone involved.

  Damon pulled the cord, releasing the drapes, and they fell over the window, blocking out the street below. If she didn’t return by morning, it was his own fault.

  Kissing his children’s governess.

  He tensed, remembering the desire that had coursed through him at the mere touch of skin against skin. He’d forgotten how all-consuming a physical connection could be. Add to that the empathy in her eyes when he spoke of his past, and everything within him craved her—the connection of an honest conversation, the press of her soft body against his, the security of his arms holding another.

  What had come over him?

  But it hadn’t only been that moment. No, something had drawn him to her even before he learned her secret. He’d known when she stood before him dripping blue-tinted water all over the expensive rug in his study.

  He shook his head, clenching his fists at his sides. He stalked toward the hearth, past his waiting meal, and back toward the covered window.

  He could never betray Sarah in such a way, yet he knew he’d done precisely that when Miss Samuels had appeared at his door with references in hand. He hadn’t done his due diligence when hiring her to care for his children. Her letter of recommendation and references still resided in Mrs. Brown’s care, and though he’d read them, Damon hadn’t been in a place to be overly fastidious with his selection. He’d neglected his responsibilities where the governess was concerned, similarly to many other aspects in his life. It had been only Payton who applied for the po
sition.

  It was little wonder the woman had turned out to have unsavory habits not fit for a governess.

  If he dared tell her about paying her debts, she would demand to know why, just as she’d questioned why he followed her to Mill Street. Could he convince her that it was for his children that he’d done it and not for himself? Hell, he wasn’t wholly convinced either way.

  No, he couldn’t tell her. Wouldn’t tell her.

  If he did, she’d expect an explanation to follow—and he had none.

  He slumped into the chair facing the fire and stared into the flames, allowing them to soothe his aching chest and calm his pounding head while begging for sleep. For years, he’d been tortured by nightmares of losing Sarah all over again. But, for some reason, he suspected when he did find sleep, the terrors would be new…and not what he would expect.

  His worst nightmare, that of losing one of his children, would roll through his mind over and over again…overshadowed only by his absolutely horrifying lack of sense when he dared kiss Payton.

  …and liked it.

  No, he more than liked it, he’d been devastated by it. It changed everything, yet nothing.

  After all his years with Sarah—their love, their companionship, their joys and heartbreak—this dalliance with Payton was different. It hadn’t held the comfortable familiarity of an intimate moment shared with a woman he knew innately, likely as well as he knew himself, but that did not mean it was any less poignant.

  But it had only been a kiss, their bodies pressed close for no more than several breaths.

  It shouldn’t have happened, nor affected him in such a way that he couldn’t bring himself to find his bed until she returned for the night.

  Damon scrubbed at his face, his eyes strained and dry from exhaustion.

  Sleep would be impossible.

  He pushed to his feet and exited his chambers. If he were going to feel trapped in a disaster of his own making, he would at least do it in a room with plenty of scotch.

  On his way to the study, he paused briefly at Joy’s door and pressed his ear close, listening for any signs that she was awake or finding sleep difficult, but the silence that greeted him was deafening. Next, he opened Abram’s chamber door, but his son was similarly asleep.

  Damon stepped into the room, noticing that one of the drapes had been left partially open, allowing a stream of moonlight into the room. Before long, the light would reach Abram and awaken the child.

  Something about the sleeping boy drew Damon to his bedside. His sleep had been restless from the tousled, tangled nature of his bedsheets. He moved to the window, releasing the drape to cast the room into shadows. Abram shifted, turning onto his side to fully face Damon and settled with a contented sigh.

  Damon longed for even a mere speck of his son’s newfound peacefulness.

  Unfortunately, that was something he feared he would never have.

  Though peace and serenity, safety and security, were the few things he would always work toward giving his children.

  He turned, departing Abram’s room and making his way downstairs to his study.

  Chapter 17

  Hurried footfalls sounded as his children entered the room, already mid-banter as the import and gravity of the previous day had been long forgotten. Peculiar how resilient the pair was to such grave occurrences, while he could hardly stop himself from dwelling on the disastrous way their time at the park could have turned out.

  “You did no such thing,” Abram said with gruff indignation as he entered the dining hall. “Tell her, Miss Samuels. Tell Joy she did not best me during our history lesson.”

  Joy followed close behind her brother, her hair plaited down her back, and her black boots scuffed from her tendency to not lift her feet high enough in her hurry to beat Abram up the stairs.

  “I very well did thump you good, Abram,” she said with an arrogant grin. Where had she learned that the confident upturn of a smile could bring her opponent to his knees?

  “Miss Samuels.” Abram’s wail was commendable if it were meant to repel others away from him; however, they were all in the same room, and the dining hall was not large enough to swallow the grating cry. “Tell her. Joy’s questions were meant for a child, while mine were far more advanced. And I only missed two out of ten, while she missed one very important question.”

  Joy huffed and shoved Abram from behind, causing him to stumble farther into the room, nearly colliding with the back of a chair.

  “Ah-ha! So you admit it,” Joy announced victoriously. “I missed one question, while you missed two.”

  “Children.” Miss Samuels’ voice could be heard a split second before she entered the room behind his children. “I am certain your father does not want to hear you arguing after he’s been working all day.”

  Damon kept his eyes trained on The Post, raising it a bit higher to stop himself from giving in to the urge to gaze upon Payton. What gown had she donned that morning? Did she wear her hair with the long, single curl that hung over her shoulder? Was she looking at him as he longed to look at her?

  He’d resisted the urge most of the day to stray down the hall that would take him within hearing distance of the schoolroom. It was startling and utterly bemusing that instead of locking himself within his study for the entire day, he’d actually longed to spend time with both of his children and Payton.

  However, he’d never been a man to allow his wants to overshadow his responsibilities.

  “Good evening, my lord.” He heard the scrape of Payton’s chair as a footman pulled it out for her to sit. “Children?”

  “Good evening, Father,” Joy chimed, mimicking Miss Samuels.

  “Good evening, Father.” Abram took his seat next to his sire. “I would implore you to tell Joy that not knowing that King George II ruled over England in 1740 is a major disservice to our country. It is akin to treason, I should think.”

  “But you could not name the first Egyptian king, nor the father of democracy.”

  “You can neither spell democracy nor locate Egypt on a map,” Abram retorted.

  Joy merely stuck out her tongue at her brother, sending him into yet another fit of anger.

  Damon made a show of rustling his paper before folding it neatly and tucking it under his elbow on the table as he glanced between his children, his expression serious. This had been the way of things for the past several days. Damon joined his children and Miss Samuels for meals—but, beyond that, he kept his distance.

  Clearing his throat, he settled his hard stare on Joy, gaining a giggle of excitement from her. “Now, Joy Kinder, what is your defense for such an accusation?”

  Her eyes rounded, and she nibbled on her bottom lip. “My defense is…I was not born at that time and do not care much for stuffy, wigged, old men who likely smell worse than the Thames.”

  She nodded on the last word, and Miss Samuels broke into laughter.

  Damon couldn’t help but allow his stare to stray to the governess. Her face was alight with merriment as if she were enjoying herself as much as he was.

  “Miss Samuels,” he grunted. “You think to support Miss Joy Kinder’s treasonous declarations?” When Payton covered her mouth and nodded, Damon continued, “What shall be done, Master Abram?”

  “The gallows, I fear,” Abram responded with all seriousness.

  “You would send your sister and your governess to the gallows, good sir?” Damon asked.

  “King Henry VIII had two queens beheaded.” Abram lowered his voice to a hushed whisper as if he spoke to his father in privacy. “It would set a bad precedent if I were to be lenient with this pair.”

  Damon leaned close to Abram. “What do you know of leniency and precedent? You are only eight.”

  “I know that if King George III had been less lenient and set a precedent with the Colonies, we would not have lost so many lives,” Abram retorted.

  “Very true.” Damon rubbed his chin as if thinking through what fate Joy and Miss Samuels
would face. “However, the good peoples of the Colonies did not deserve the oppressive rules forced on them by a king who would just as readily leave them all to perish in the New World.”

  Joy smiled, sensing she’d won her reprieve, while Damon nodded to the footman over Abram’s head, signaling for the meal to be served.

  Several servants swept into the room, placing plates on the table and retreating, effectively putting an end to Joy and Abram’s banter.

  Damon would be lying if he didn’t find a measure of satisfaction in his children’s love for history, and Miss Samuels’ willingness to educate them in all respects of the past, not just those deemed proper for young children. Damon was a firm believer in the past predicting the future. If things did not change, then history was doomed to repeat itself. How that pertained to him—or his children—he did not know.

  Focusing on his plate, Damon felt Payton’s stare on him as he did at each meal they shared.

  It was as if she waited for him to look at her. That they’d share a private moment in the presence of his children. But Damon couldn’t allow himself that intimacy with her. Bringing about a closer bond between them was not something Damon could afford.

  He could keep watch over his children without making it known, just as he’d visited the schoolroom several times over the past several days and remained unnoticed by Payton and the children.

  Distance.

  It was best for them all.

  However, their bantering—and the jovial mood it brought—certainly wasn’t distance. The realization filled Damon with a speck of hope. For what, he wasn’t sure, but hope nonetheless.

  “My lord,” Payton said, demanding his attention, though her tone remained relaxed. “The children have asked about a possible trip to the British Museum. It would be beneficial to their studies and give them a day outside of the townhouse if—”