The Earl's Wager

by Rebecca Thomas

  “Why do you care?” Georgia stared straight ahead. Perhaps it was a rude question to ask, but if she couldn’t be honest in the back room of a dress shop tucked away from all the prying eyes and judgment of Londoners, where else could she be herself?

  “I care about all my customers.” Mrs. Marchant pulled several pieces of fabric from a nearby armoire. “Especially anyone related to the Earl of Marsdale, even if you are American.”

  “You’re not as proper sounding as most Englishwomen.”

  “It’s because I’m French, not English.”

  They all seemed the same to Georgia. They were not American. She had no allies. She had no friends. She was an ocean away from everything she knew and loved.

  “You don’t have a French accent,” Georgia said. “At least not that I can tell. Everyone knows I’m American. If they don’t know by the mere looks of me, they only have to listen to my voice to know.”

  “It’s not a bad thing.” Mrs. Marchant lifted a brow. “That way, you can do many things…and if you say something inappropriate, you can say you didn’t know. No? You’re American. You have a built-in excuse to do whatever you want.”

  Despite her efforts to remain despondent about this entire dressmaking ordeal, a smile tugged at her lips. “I like the way you think, Mrs. Marchant. If only I really could do whatever I wanted.”

  “You are a young, strong woman, you can do a great many things.” The modiste pulled on the thin fabric of Georgia’s chemise and pinned it tight against her skin. “You can make many choices for yourself.”

  Mrs. Marchant disappeared for a moment then returned carrying three different colors of fabric draped over her arm.

  “What choices can I make? It’s a man’s world. They make most of the decisions.” Georgia crossed her arms over her chest.

  “What is it that you want?” Mrs. Marchant draped a piece of yellow taffeta across Georgia’s shoulder.

  In the confines of this private room, locked away from the rest of the world, Georgia felt safe to confess her worries to this woman.

  After she explained her marriage problems, the modiste said, “I see.” She removed the yellow fabric and replaced it with green.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” Georgia muttered, wondering if she’d confessed too much.

  “I’ve heard a great many things in my shop. Nothing surprises me.” Mrs. Marchant looked in the mirror at Georgia. “The green goes nicely with your skin tone. You’re wanting an older man who is in ill health.” She removed the green fabric and replaced it with an off-white, creamy color. “I can help you with that.”

  “You can? How?” Georgia blurted out.

  “Clothing, dresses in particular, can seduce a man.”

  “I don’t know how to flirt, let alone seduce a man. I’ve never even been kissed. Well, except one time when I was about eleven years old, but I don’t think that counts. I know nothing of seduction.”

  Georgia examined herself in the mirror. She wasn’t beautiful, but she wasn’t homely either. She was petite, and her body had curves. Looking around the dress shop at the pink taffetas and blue silk, ruffles and scarves, she realized with sudden clarity that she didn’t wear clothes that exposed her best assets.

  “I can create dresses that will make you look your very best. My dresses will accentuate your curves and make you very attractive to a man.”

  “What will that gain me, exactly?” Georgia asked. “An old man, I hope.”

  “Every man wants the woman who all the men are looking at. You want to be noticed. My dresses will assist in that endeavor.” Mrs. Marchant seemed an unassuming dressmaker, but she was very shrewd indeed.

  “Tell me more. I want to learn everything.”

  “The first thing you must know is the power you possess. With only a look, you can bring a man to his knees. And a man who adores you will do anything for you.” Mrs. Marchant gazed into the mirror at the blue fabric draped over Georgia’s shoulder. “Anything.”

  Georgia made eye contact with Mrs. Marchant in the mirror and knew she’d found a friend—an ally, someone to help her achieve what she wanted. She was filled with new hope. If not Sir Richard, then she’d find another man to marry. “Have you always been a seamstress? Or did you have another kind of employment when you were my age?”

  “I’ve worked in many places,” Mrs. Marchant said, “but I enjoy owning my own dress shop the best.”

  “I want to work as a jockey, or if I can’t do that, then as a racehorse trainer. Either way, I need access to my inheritance. My father’s will says I have to be married to receive my funds, or by age thirty, whichever comes first. I’m not willing to wait another six years to have my money.”

  “Understandable. You need only to find the right man.” Mrs. Marchant took measurements along her shoulder and arms. “A man who will support you in what you want to accomplish.”

  “Exactly.” Georgia swiveled her hips to look directly at Mrs. Marchant, instead of the mirror. “Once I find this man, how do I make sure he adores me and will do anything for me?”

  “You must seduce him, of course.”

  Heat rushed across her cheeks. “How do I do that?”

  “I will help you.” She nodded and pinned fabric around her waist. “When you come back for your next fitting, we will discuss specifics. But having appropriate clothes—in the best colors and proper cut—is the first thing you need to accomplish what you want.”

  Finally, she had a plan and an ally. With Mrs. Marchant to assist her, she had renewed hope of finding the perfect man to marry.

  With a lighter heart, Georgia hoped for easy conversation during the ride back to Autumn Ridge. Once she had left the modiste and was back in the carriage, she asked Grandleigh, “How did you fill your time during my fitting, my lord? I trust you found some form of entertainment?”

  “Yes, I met with a builder,” he stated simply.

  “How very interesting. What are you having built?”

  “I’m putting an addition on my stables. We discussed expanding some fencing as well.”

  “Fascinating. For what purpose?”

  “I’m hoping to enter some horse races, possibly as early as next year.”

  “I didn’t know.” Georgia was astonished. They’d not spoken of racing before. “Do you have a racehorse, then? If so, you failed to mention this.”

  “You never asked, but no, I don’t currently have a horse that can compete on the racetrack, but I hope to acquire one soon. However, I do have two brood mares, so with the right breeding, I hope to have a fine racing stable one day. Maybe not as grand as what Autumn Ridge has, but one never knows.”

  Georgia still couldn’t believe her ears. She’d known of Arabella’s interest in horses, but she never said her brother had similar interests. Eager to hear more, she said, “Tell me about the addition to your stable.”

  He quirked one of his interesting eyebrows. “If I’m to expand, I need at least four additional stalls. I was thinking of making them a bit larger than what I currently have, because I want the mares to have plenty of room for their foals.” His eyes lit up, and Georgia couldn’t believe she didn’t know they had this in common. “I want at least two of them to have an entrance to their own paddock.”

  “I think that’s a grand idea.” Despite all the reasons she shouldn’t be interested in anything Will Sutton did or didn’t do, she couldn’t help herself. “So are the plans in place? Have you hired the builder?”

  “He’s working on an estimate for me. It will all depend on the cost, and I may have to adjust the footage. I have a budget and must stay within those parameters.”

  “I have a good idea of the ideal size for stalls, especially if they are designed as birthing stalls. I could look at your plans, if you’d like. It’s important to set up the proper ventilation and ideally, if you can, leave plenty of space, even a tack room, between the birthing stalls and the remaining stalls. That is what’s best, so the mare isn’t stressed. She needs a quiet pl
ace apart from the other horses. That way, she’s likely to be calmer.”

  Will’s eyes narrowed, and his lips twitched.

  Maybe she’d said too much. There was no way to discern his thoughts—he probably thought she had no knowledge of such things, but she did. And blast it if she cared what he thought anyway, so she continued. “I mention the ventilation because you said each stall would have its own paddock, and while that is good in theory, a door creates drafts, and direct drafts can chill a newborn foal.”

  His face unreadable, he stared at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but she had to add one more thing. “I only mention this because I’ve seen a foal get chilled before, and since you’re building this addition, some of these potential problems can be avoided.”

  He tipped his head to the side, contemplative. “I appreciate your candor. And I admit, I hadn’t thought of the ventilation,” he said smoothly. He blinked several times, then said, “I should very much like you to look at my plans if you’d care to.”

  Pride consumed her, and she swallowed hard against the knot in her throat. It felt nice to be complimented by him instead of told what to do or say. “I should like that very much, my lord.”

  She couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at her lips. She’d been certain he’d find something wrong with her ideas, but instead he’d asked for her opinion. Maybe in some small measure, he even respected it. Perhaps she’d judged him too harshly; perhaps he could be on her side.

  She meant to keep her eyes averted, but her gaze shifted involuntarily to his face.

  He was staring at her, assessing her, and she couldn’t look away. The green of his eyes reminded her of the moss along the riverbanks at her home, in Virginia. In the fall, the color perfectly matched his eyes. It was uncanny.

  “Miss Duvall, you are staring,” he said.

  “I know. It’s just that the color of your—it reminded me of… Oh, never mind.”

  “You might try being a little less bold in how you hold your gaze. Decorum, as it were. At the dinner party we’ll attend, you should look a little more demure.”

  She nodded, then fisted her hands at her sides. Of course what commonalities they might share would ultimately be crushed because she wasn’t behaving properly. She was no simpering English Miss who wouldn’t be allowed an opinion of her own.

  She knew better than to think Grandleigh had a heart and might care about her interests. He was a tutor to her, a tutor she shouldn’t need to keep for long. He was nothing more than that.

  Chapter Six

  Will had a lot of work to do in three days’ time if Miss Duvall was going to be ready for Lady Laurel’s gathering—a country party would be the best way to practice before he took her to London. The house party would have card games, some dances, dinner, but nothing too formal, nothing to overwhelm her.

  He waited for her in the drawing room and tried to keep focused on the task at hand—he’d agreed with Oliver to make a good match for Georgia, and he would…

  Since when had he started thinking of her as Georgia instead of Miss Duvall? Perhaps it was because of their carriage ride and their talk about his stable expansion. He truly respected the knowledgeable information she’d given him, although he hadn’t shown his appreciation. Instead, he’d pointed out the improvements she needed to make in her manners. He’d purposefully changed the topic, because her blue eyes staring at him had been so damned distracting, and he simply couldn’t lose his focus. He had a job to do.

  Before she came downstairs, he’d instructed the housekeeper to arrange a table with chairs in the drawing room and had brought cards so he could assess her knowledge of games. With such a long list, he needed to prioritize. While she wasn’t required to play, it would be helpful if she knew at least one game.

  Georgia entered the drawing room with a loose, easy stride, wearing a day dress of pale pink. His gaze did not stray from the smooth lines hugging her slender waist, and his stomach pinched as though reminding himself he should be evaluating the dress, not the woman, and certainly not her feminine curves.

  The dress was a far cry better from the too-tight one she’d worn previously. He’d made a note to speak with Mrs. Marchant about her dinner-party dresses, but perhaps he should make sure some day frocks were made for her as well.

  “Good morning, Miss Duvall. I trust you slept well after our busy day of travel. A trip to London can be tiring.”

  “I’ve been awake since five o’clock this morning. I’ve just returned from the stables helping Harland with a training run. So no, I’m not tired, at least not from the trip to London.”

  He gave her a curt nod. It was unseemly that Oliver allowed her to be involved in training racehorses, but she wasn’t his ward, and it wasn’t his place to say anything. His lessons would certainly be easier if her pursuits were more in line with needlepoint or embroidery, but Oliver had given him fair warning about his cousin. “Very well. Shall we commence with your lessons for today?”

  “And what lessons might those be?” Her lips pursed. He swore her somewhat polite tone held an edge of mockery. And oddly, while her accent had irritated him at first, it now intrigued him. He wasn’t sure when he’d altered his opinion.

  “We should make sure you know a few card games, in case you’d like to play. Lady Laurel always has a drawing room set up for such frivolities. I had Mrs. Carston arrange a table and food for us.”

  “Card games require food?”

  “At the party, I’m sure they will have wine, cheese, bread, and fruit at the sideboard, so I’ve tried to recreate what we might encounter.”

  “It appears you’ve thought of everything,” she said with a wave of her hand, before stifling a yawn. “I suppose we should get on with it then.”

  He came alongside her and asked, “What card games do you play?”

  “I’ve played a little bit of piquet, loo, and whist.”

  “Well then, we shall have fun, won’t we?” He realized he sounded entirely too eager, but truthfully he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since their trip to London and the meal they’d shared prior to that. He convinced himself that she was constantly on his mind because she was his student who still needed a vast amount of tutoring and he didn’t want to disappoint Marsdale, but deep in the marrow of his bones, he knew there was something more to it.

  A tiny bit of a smile lit the corners of her face. “Certainly,” she replied smoothly. “I suppose we could have fun.”

  As he’d instructed, Mrs. Carston had set up a table with four chairs. “I believe Lady Laurel enjoys whist, so I thought a table for four would be a good place to start.”

  “Oh? Will Arabella and Oliver be joining us?”

  He’d stopped to see her upon his arrival and was pleased his sister seemed in good health, albeit bored, which didn’t surprise him. “No. Arabella is resting, but we can pretend, can we not?”

  “Yes. Or we could play piquet, since there’s just two of us?”

  “Is that what you’d prefer?”

  “It makes more sense to play a two-person game, since there are only two of us to play.”

  “I agree, but the point I’m trying to make is that we should prepare you for the party, where they will most likely be playing whist or loo.”

  “I understand your point perfectly, my lord.” She rounded the table and took a seat.

  Will sat across from her and shuffled the cards.

  “And will we be having more eating lessons as well?” she asked.

  “I think you should be taking this a bit more seriously, Miss Duvall. I am only trying to help.”

  “Yes,” she bit off. “Yes, I know you are. I don’t mean to be cross.” She glanced across the table’s surface. “Why don’t you wear gloves?”

  “I find them cumbersome.”

  “But that isn’t keeping with tradition, is it?”

  “No, but some rules are meant to be broken.” Keeping his gaze downcast, he continued shuffling the cards and resisted the ur
ge to look up—he could only imagine the smirk on her face at his revelation.

  “The Earl of Grandleigh, a rule breaker. Who would have ever thought?” she quipped.

  “But for the purposes of our lessons, there will be no breaking of the rules.” He gave a curt nod and cut the cards. “You may go first.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, no. Because if we are playing by the rules, the person who draws the highest card gets to choose the dealer.”

  “Touché.” Will drew the highest card and chose to deal. “Tell me more about your home in America. I fear there isn’t much I know except I’m guessing you don’t have as many rules to follow.”

  She sorted her cards and selected which ones to discard. “I miss the freedoms I had there. I didn’t require a lady’s maid to accompany me everywhere I went, although I did have one to help me dress. I didn’t have to be home for tea at a particular time of day. I lived in a relaxed atmosphere on a farm. I thought I’d be there forever.”

  “Autumn Ridge is similar to a farm, is it not?”

  “Oh, yes, I like it here very much. I can’t imagine living in London, and I hope Oliver never requires me to live in their townhouse. I want to stay here—it reminds me more of home.”

  Will looked into the blue depths of her eyes. And when she returned his gaze, something seemed to lock into place. He wanted to remedy the glimpse of loneliness he saw there.

  Truly that must be all he was feeling, just a touch of sympathy for her plight.

  Miss Duvall dealt him three cards. Will noticed the way she surveyed her cards then bit down on her bottom lip. Her bright eyes widened with excitement. A mistake to reveal her hand.

  “Do you have good cards?” he mused. “I tend to think you do.”

  Her eyes widened more. “I couldn’t say if I have good cards or not. Besides, it’s all a comparison, isn’t it? I might think I have good cards, but in comparison to yours, maybe they aren’t.”

  He liked the enthusiasm she displayed. She studied her cards, discarded, and drew some more, all the while seeming content. She made her move, then looked up at him with calm expectation.