The Courtesan's Wager (7 page)

“Are you?” she said, her voice catching in her throat. She coughed lightly and said, “Excuse me, I was merely going to ask if the rumor of your returning to sea is true?”

“It is quite true.”

“How very intriguing,” she said, her gaze wandering from his to survey the room behind him. Likely planning how she’d change the wallpaper once she was Duchess of Hyde, blasted snip of a girl. “I had no idea you were so taken with life aboard ship, Lord Cranleigh. What is it that draws you?”

“The complete absence of women?” he asked crisply. When her gaze returned to his, her blue eyes sharp with rebuke, he added, “A poor jest. Your pardon.” Without waiting for her to grant him pardon or not, he continued. “Adventure awaits me there, Lady Amelia. I would grab hold of it. A man cannot drift upon the waves like so much flotsam, his plans shifting upon the tides.”

“I understand completely, Lord Cranleigh,” she said pleasantly, her eyes once again on his face, holding his gaze. His pulse hammered. He quickly shifted his gaze elsewhere, to the butler’s feet, in fact. “It is, I fear to inform you, much the same for a woman. Drifting is not a desirable choice. Anything is preferable, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would,” he said.

“We have an accord. How pleasant. Shall I risk it by stating that a woman must grab hold as well?”

“Grab hold of what, Lady Amelia?” he asked.

“What would you suppose, Lord Cranleigh?” She looked at the room around him, at the high plastered ceiling and the richly colored walls and the fine furnishings. She took her time about it, too, cataloguing the place that she clearly wanted for her own. And then she looked straight into his eyes, her crystalline gaze quite clear, and said, “Why, grab hold of a husband, Lord Cranleigh. What else is there for a woman to grab? In fact, I have an appointment with the Duke of Calbourne in a few hours and I must make haste. Good day.”

And with that she was out the door before he could think of a response, verbal or otherwise.

T
HE Duke of Calbourne had lost a wager to Lady Dalby and because of that, he came very near to whistling whilst being dressed by his valet.

An intimate supper with Sophia Dalby had been the terms of the wager. Hardly a wager he was dejected about losing. He would dine, charm, and woo. He would, if things went well, find himself in her bed. Just one night, one tumble, was all he asked. That he had, at his advanced age of thirty, managed to miss seducing Sophia Dalby was not to be borne a moment longer. He was a duke. He did have his reputation to think of.

And because Calbourne, of all things, had a sense of humor, he laughed out loud at the direction of his thoughts. Life was very fine indeed if the seduction of the most beautiful and the most infamous of women counted as a task to be accomplished.

Calbourne arrived at Dalby House on time. A bit of reliable gossip was that Sophia did not hesitate to punish those who were not prompt. He was prompt. He was not going to start his seduction of her with a misstep of that paltry variety.

He was shown into the yellow salon, a large and beautifully proportioned room done up entirely in sunny yellow silk damask with costly deep blue porcelains of French origin dotted about, and made to wait. He had expected nothing less.

Calbourne was pretending to study one of the Sevres porcelains, a bit of truly remarkable artistry, but hardly something to hold his attention for more than a few seconds, when he heard Sophia enter the room. He did not turn immediately as he suspected she would expect that. He
was
a duke, after all, and some small measure of superiority and benign arrogance was due him.

When he did turn to face her, he turned slowly and with all the formidable grace his impressive size would allow. He was, rather famously, he thought, the tallest and, he was not too modest to admit, the most fit man in any gathering. He used his size to intimidate and to impress whenever possible. It was nearly always possible. He found that particular vanity about himself fully as amusing as almost everything else. Calbourne, blessed with everything the world could bestow, found life almost uniformly amusing and pleasant. Why should he not?

Sophia had indeed entered the room. She looked, as always, seductive and nearly attainable. He had given it quite a bit of thought and he had concluded that one of the reasons for Sophia’s fame was her precise
degree
of attainability. She maintained a certain degree of elusiveness that men, at least defined by him, found mesmerizing. He strongly suspected she found that amusing. He was not at all inclined to fault her. Did he not walk through life finding it more amusing than not?

At Sophia’s side was Lady Jordan, related through marriage to both the Marquis of Melverley and the Duke of Aldreth. Lady Jordan, as was perfectly usual, looked slightly foxed.

Here was an odd bit of business.

On the heels of Lady Jordan followed Lady Amelia Caversham, Aldreth’s daughter and rather too obviously in the market for a husband. She looked completely lovely, as was her habit.

Odd again. He could find no explanation for this parade of women into what was supposed to have been an intimate dinner between sophisticated and healthy adults.

And the parade was still not at an end, for nearly on the skirts of Lady Amelia came Mrs. Anne Warren, a particular favorite of Sophia’s and almost something of a project with her. Mrs. Warren, a woman of no particular credentials beyond her obvious beauty, was on the cusp of being married to Lord Staverton.

The women curtseyed. He bowed. They sat, clustered onto one side of the room, the candlelight playing delicately on their faces and across their coiffed hair, looking at him expectantly. Calbourne sat, slowly and without his usual grace.

Most odd.

“You look slightly bemused, your grace,” Sophia said, “which is completely understandable. If I may explain?”

“Bemused?” he asked with a half smile. “To find myself in the cheerful company of four lovely women when only one was expected? I should not be much of a man to admit to being bemused. Say instead, Lady Dalby, that I am delighted. Explanations can proceed or not, at your discretion.”

Sophia smiled and nodded her head once in acquiescence, or was it to hide a chuckle? One could never be completely certain of anything with Sophia Dalby.

“How very wise you are, your grace, to count on my discretion. I am, in all things, most discreet,” Sophia said. Which truly was rare humor as Sophia was discreet in nothing, particularly where men were concerned. Unfortunately, he was a man. “We had an arrangement for dinner, which will be met, but before we go in I thought that, in the way of pleasant conversation, one which I hope will build the appetite, you could answer a few questions.”

“Questions? Regarding what?”

“Why, regarding yourself,” Sophia said pleasantly, but there was something twinkling in the depths of her dark eyes that was not at all pleasant. Calbourne crossed his legs and lowered his chin, a pose that had sent more than one person skittering from the room. In this instance, no one skittered. Most inconvenient. “As you may be aware,” Sophia continued, “Lady Amelia Caversham is in the market for a husband.” At this statement of fact, Lady Amelia blushed and blinked rapidly. It was not at all becoming on her.

“Is she? How very wise of her,” Calbourne said, which was a most polite thing to say, after all. Far worse could have been said, but he was not in the habit of taunting young women, though he supposed he could develop the habit if it were necessary. Looking again at Amelia, blushing and blinking, he did not think he needed to develop the habit. At least, not at present.

“Isn’t it?” Sophia agreed.

Calbourne studied the women arrayed before him. There were four, yet Sophia was the only one engaging him. What was the significance of that? He knew Sophia well enough to know that everything had significance, whether one saw it immediately or not.

“And in the spirit of that wisdom and indeed, Lady Amelia’s unusual and exemplary boldness in pursuing her goals, matrimony in this instance, I have agreed to aid her in acquiring the proper husband.”

A truly alarming statement in any situation. That Sophia Dalby had mouthed the words made it almost dangerous.

“The proper husband?” Calbourne repeated, for what could that phrase possibly mean? And how on earth did it apply to him?

“But of course, your grace,” Sophia answered calmly. Calmly? When he could feel a bead of sweat moistening his left temple? “Proper. A woman would be a fool indeed not to seek a proper husband. Lady Amelia, like any well-brought-up woman, has her list of requirements and you, your grace, I am most pleased to tell you, fit them almost exactly. At least, what we know of you.”

The single bead of sweat had turned into a cluster. He was not even remotely amused. Calbourne could not remember the last time he had not been amused. He was, he realized with a slight shock, in a distinctly uncomfortable situation.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Dalby,” he said in growing annoyance, “
what you know of me
? What precisely is that supposed to mean?” And as Sophia was opening her mouth to answer him, he added in true irritation, “And what do you mean,
her list of requirements
? A list of requirements? As they pertain to me?”

“Why, naturally, Calbourne,” Sophia said with a smile of pure malice. At least it looked like malice to him. In any other circumstance he might have thought her smile delightful and charming. But not now, and perhaps never again. “You must know that you are entirely eligible and that Lady Amelia, not to be distracted by a less than winning smile or a poorly cut coat as so many of today’s young women are, has marked you as prime husband material. Surely, you should be as flattered as she is to be commended.”

What the devil?
Was his smile now being found fault with? He had a wonderful smile, truly one of his best features. His mother had remarked upon it often, or as often as she saw him. And there was nothing at all wrong with the cut of his coat. He engaged the finest tailor in Town. Still, he adjusted the sleeve with a rough tug. Perhaps the sleeve was a bit short. Damned tailor, was he turning him into a laughingstock? It was one thing to smile at other people’s foibles, that was truly amusing, but to be found laughable was not at all tolerable. He was a duke, after all. No one should find it necessary, or indeed wise, to laugh at a duke.

“Indeed,” he said stiffly, still fussing with his coat sleeve, “I am excessively flattered.” He looked at Lady Amelia, who, shockingly, was studying him rather more directly than was entirely proper of her. “I am, however, not in the market for a wife.”

“Are you not? Truly?” Sophia said, her smile almost seductive. “Of course, you do have your heir in the darling Alston, but there are other reasons to marry, delightful reasons, your grace. Would you deny yourself?”

“As to marriage, yes, I would deny myself. I find this . . . situation most awkward, Lady Dalby. Perhaps we may arrange for dinner another evening, when it is more convenient.”

“But this is entirely convenient, your grace, and there is the matter of the wager between us. This evening
is
the payment of that wager, as you must surely remember. I’m terribly afraid that there is no escape for you.”

The look in Sophia’s eyes was both amused and calculating. If he defaulted on their wager, she would make certain that everyone in Town knew of it before the week was out, as well as knowing all the particulars. That was not to be tolerated. The Duke of Calbourne was not going to be run out of a salon by four unmarried women. Calbourne took a deep breath, uncomfortably aware that his coat was tight across the chest. Blasted tailor.

“If there is no escape,” he said, forcing himself to relax against the stares of the four women before him, “then I shall just have to relax and enjoy myself, a condition I have ample experience with, Lady Dalby. Continue on, Sophia, I will not make a break for the door, nor will I fight against the restraint of feminine bonds of curiosity. What more would you know of me, Lady Amelia? How shall I satisfy you?”

Lady Amelia, as was entirely proper, blushed brilliant pink. Well deserved, too. Blasted women, making a mess of what should have been a lovely and uncomplicated evening of seduction and mutual satisfaction.

“Is he not as I described him to you, Lady Amelia?” Sophia asked, eyeing him with blatant amusement and, dare he admit it, appreciation. He found he could almost smile in return. “A remarkably pleasant and delightful man, the Duke of Calbourne, and if any man deserves the ideal wife, it is surely he.”

The ideal wife? An oxymoron of ridiculous proportions. Calbourne had been married, after all, and had the son to prove it. He also had the most unpleasant and disagreeable memories. It had not been a pleasant experience, being married. He had done it only to please his father, marrying the woman his father had deemed ideal for him. His father had been deeply mistaken. When his wife had died, he had, almost disgracefully, breathed a sigh of relief. When his father had died, that had ended all thoughts forevermore of marriage. He had his heir, the Calbourne line was secure, and his duty was done. Life, from thence forward, was to be enjoyed. And he did; he enjoyed it devotedly.

But he was going to find a better tailor the first thing tomorrow.

“You jest, surely,” Lady Jordan said.

Calbourne was more than a bit surprised. He had supposed that this was to be between he and Sophia, as it had been thus far; that Mary, Lady Jordan, had decided to speak was a bit of an unpleasant surprise.

“In what manner, Lady Jordan?” Sophia asked politely.

“In that a man, having found the ideal and, indeed, the proper wife, would hardly know it. Men,” Lady Jordan said in an unattractive and entirely uncalled-for display of pique, “never appreciate a woman properly.”

“Never?” Sophia said musingly, her dark gaze turning from Lady Jordan to Calbourne. “Surely that is not so. Certainly I have, upon more than one occasion, been very well appreciated.”