The Last Gamble. Anabelle Bryant
unwilling to create the everlasting memory of his angered disapproval. But instead of railing at her or pleading his case further, he closed the distance between them and stroked his fingertip across her cheek.
She stared at him intently, noticing too closely the dark smudges beneath his eyes and strained creases that bracketed his strong jaw. It seemed that, just below the appearance he showed to the world, a tense tremor of emotion existed, and she wasn’t sure of what nature to label it. Still, in the glorious grey depths of his irises there was an acute tenderness, whether he meant to expose the quality or not.
‘What keeps you here, Georgina?’ His voice was a husky rasp that slid across the back of her neck like a velvet caress. ‘Surely even a prim governess, one as beautiful and desirable as you, thirsts for a bit of adventure now and again.’
The rich timbre of his question caused gooseflesh to dot her skin and it all at once became too much, the masculine scent of his nearness, the heat of his skin and undeniable plea in the depth of his eyes. He leaned a hair’s-breadth closer, his exhale sweeping across her temple and, for the tiniest breathless moment, she thought he might kiss her.
How she wanted that kiss. To exchange one memory for another more pleasurable one.
‘What is it that holds you back from taking a little time to help find a child?’
Tears stung her lids. His whispered query, frayed by emotion, touched her soul and yet she clung to fear. What if she returned to London and everything went wrong? She hated herself for making a selfish choice. The air between them vibrated with tension and anticipation. He waited on her answer and she quaked, anguished by the words on her tongue.
‘No more questions.’ As she whispered her response, she saw him swallow, her eyes following the movement of his Adam’s apple. They stood together, the coiled heat of desire pulling them closer while the answer to one singular question forced them apart. But she couldn’t acquiesce and destroy her family’s future in the process, simply because she yearned to experience his tempting kiss.
‘Just one more.’ He angled his chin, lowered his mouth and time slowed as if she watched from the soffit, a voyeur of her own forbidden desires, his lips upon hers, his plea, her promise, his luscious, beautiful mouth fitted over hers…
‘I can’t go with you.’ The words slipped out, barely able to fill the space between them before he pulled away and separated them with a black curse.
‘Not can’t. Won’t. You won’t.’ He thrust his fingers through his hair, spoiling his neat appearance with perfunctory efficiency, his tone now sharp as a razor’s edge. ‘There’s a world of difference between the two.’ His words sliced the air with undisguised anger and his eyes flashed dangerously.
‘You were going to kiss me to convince me.’ Her voice trembled though there was no mistaking the incredulous shock in her accusation. ‘That is the work of a scoundrel, a scapegrace.’ She was hot now too, but it had nothing to do with her anticipation of his kiss or the heated temperature in the kitchen, absolutely nothing to do with his devastatingly handsome disarray. No, insult fuelled her temper instead. Indignation reared up to trample disappointment and the foolish incrimination she’d practically disregarded her principles. ‘Did you think me a lonely spinster, desperate for attention and willing to compromise my decision with the first touch of your mouth on mine?’ Her face warmed with the picture drawn by the words but she continued, her emotions dismantled, a runaway carriage wheel, wobbly, off course, and out of control. ‘How dare you? I demand you go.’
‘Don’t bother throwing me out.’ He strode towards the front door. ‘I’m already leaving.’
‘Good. Leave.’ She sounded a petulant child, or worse, a peevish shrew. ‘And don’t come back.’
She doubted he heard her last declaration, the slam of the door punctuating their argument effectively. Locked in another room, Biscuit barked his approval.
‘Where is he?’ Jonathan Wraxall, Viscount Dursley, stormed across the hell floor to the corner where Cole Hewitt and Maxwell Sinclair, proprietors of the exclusive gambling establishment, loitered in conversation and assessment of the night’s activities. ‘Where’s my bastard brother? I need to see him now.’
‘Not here, Dursley.’ Cole hardly spared him a glance before he flicked his dismissive attention from the mottled-faced aristocrat to the piquet table.
‘Something wrong?’ Max offered the man a bemused smile. ‘Out of funds? I can arrange for an extension of credit.’
‘You know what I’m talking about. I’m here to see Reese.’ Dursley, a prig of a corpulent peer who’d allowed himself to go soft through the middle, huffed a breath, impatient in the assumption his bluster would gain him the result desired.
‘Can’t help you then.’ Cole took a step forward, bored with the conversation and anxious to be done with Dursley the same way one swatted a pestering gnat. ‘I’ll let Luke know you stopped by once he returns.’
‘He stole something of mine.’
A bit of spittle accompanied the angered statement and Cole slanted left to avoid the spray.
‘Then that settles the score, doesn’t it?’ Cole continued his journey across the floor, greeting the regulars in disregard of the viscount, who padded after him in full-blown fury, anxious to cause a scene that might better his advantage.
Cole ignored him. The card tables were busy. Good. Liquor was flowing. Excellent.
‘What does that mean? What has Reese told you?’ Dursley raised his voice and garnered further attention. ‘I’m talking to you, Hewitt. Look here.’
Cole had heard enough. He whirled on the viscount, collecting the man’s lapels in both fists and gingerly moving him backwards towards the door. Dursley’s feet failed to find purchase on the carpet. ‘No, you look. You’re not welcome here. We strive to keep the worst element outside these walls. You’re not fit for The Underworld.’ Releasing the man’s coat, he shoved Dursley at the exit and, with a sharp hitch of his chin, signalled two men waiting for the anxious opportunity to flex muscle and exert their strength.
Cole brushed his palms together, the symbolic motion figurative and literal. He would have liked nothing more than to wash his hands of Dursley, but until Luke returned his son home safely, he’d tolerate the man as best he could.
Life in Coventry proved lovely. An early-morning shower had laced Georgina’s cottage with an iridescent sheen and kissed the flowers along the slated walkway with a glimmer of dewdrop. There was no reason to leave the idyllic setting for the horrid reality in London. Coventry was very fine indeed.
Even now, as she walked towards the town centre, past sprawling fields of clover and alfalfa-blanketed countryside, the crisp, blue sky above and Biscuit at her heels, she couldn’t imagine a more peaceful respite. Homes, farms and fields spanned in pockets as far as the eye could see. If she forced her eyes to the horizon and stuffed unfinished emotion and contradiction farther down into her soul, she could live some resemblance of a pleasant life here.
With her reticule looped on her arm and the letter to her parents clutched in her hand, she strode towards town intent on posting her message and forgetting her abominable behaviour from the night before. With a Herculean effort to absorb the tranquil landscape, Luke almost escaped her notice, but there he was, keeping pace with her on the opposite side of the roadway almost as if he’d watched her house in wait of her departure and now stalked from fifty yards. Which, most likely, was exactly what he’d done.
He needed to find his son. She would have taken the same course of action.
She glanced in his direction a second time and could only have unwittingly encouraged his interaction because the detestable man crossed the roadway before she could object.
‘Off to send a letter?’ He didn’t bother with the good morning that would have composed a civil, obligatory greeting.
She noticed a similar missive in his hand.