The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(11)

How am I supposed to know that, unless I observe the proclivities of our guests . . . ?

In a bid to view additional tables, she took a step and then stopped. Her gaze collided with a pair of sapphire blue eyes. Time stood still in a charged moment, with the nightly revelries carrying on around her in a whir of muffled noise. In a world in which she was invisible to all, the burning intensity of the stranger’s stare stripped away her anonymity, and there was something so gloriously heady in being—seen. Her heart skittered a beat. Mayhap this is why Ryker keeps me shut away. Not with worry of the harm Diggory might do her, but rather to keep her from experiencing this irrational pull that robbed a woman of logic.

And then she registered the blankness within the fathomless depths. A profound sadness, and pain so deep, it stretched across the room and held her frozen.

In ways that moved beyond the beauty of his chiseled features and aquiline nose, the stranger’s barely concealed anguish made him stand out amidst the gaiety of the other patrons. He was a solitary figure, one who belonged even less than she did in this room. The golden-haired lord grabbed a bottle of brandy, and swiftly poured himself a drink. Then their eyes met once more. This time, there was no sadness but rather a piercing intensity that made her pulse race through her veins.

She swallowed hard. No gentleman had a right to be so gloriously golden and masculinely perfect. Even with the distance between them, there was an aura of commanding strength to his broad shoulders and square, noble jaw. The faintest cleft lent a—

A dandy in burnt orange satin breeches stepped in between them, and jerked her back to the moment.

Cheeks ablaze, Helena gave her head a hard shake, and continued on. After all, her visit to the floor had nothing to do with a too-handsome-for-anyone’s-good lord, and everything to do with the responsibilities she saw to in the Hell and Sin. For all the worries her brothers had for her well-being and safety, Helena had grown up in the streets. She might speak like a lady and read with an ease that would have impressed an Oxford scholar, but she could protect herself better than most men.

From across the club, a faint buzz went up, and she followed the attention. Ryker cut a path through the club. His face set in a hard, unyielding mask, he strode past gaming table after gaming table. One horrifying moment stretched on to eternity as she waited for him to notice her. Only when he stopped to speak to Calum without even glancing in her direction did she breathe again. Thank goodness.

It was one thing to embrace your freedom and a sense of control, but it was an altogether different matter to openly defy that man. Brother or not, Ryker Black would never tolerate broken rules—not in his club, and most definitely not by his sister.





Chapter 3


Rule 3


Never overindulge in spirits.

If Robert Dennington, the Marquess of Westfield, was manipulated, maneuvered, or deceived by one more Duke of Somerset, he was going to lose his bloody everlasting mind. As it was, he opted for the welcoming distraction of drink.

Particularly as it prevented him from thinking on all the stares directed his way . . . and all because of the lie perpetuated by his conniving father.

His lips twisted in a cynical smile. It was his lot to be manipulated . . . and by those he trusted most. Older matrons, marriage-minded misses, of late, eyed him with an increased interest aspired to that coveted ducal prize. With the papers reporting on the impending demise of the duke, well, the most relevant news in the whole of England happened to be: Robert’s marital state.

Robert took another swallow of his drink. Or mayhap he already had lost his bloody mind. It was also why, at this moment, with a bottle of brandy before him, in a club that was decidedly not polite or respectable, Robert intended to get bloody soused.

After his third glass, he’d ceased to feel the burn or sting of the fiery spirits.

Then he was already well on his way to the everlasting goal.

“My regards for your father, Westfield.”

Oh, bloody hell. This? The polite, murmured greeting pulled his focus away from his noble task of getting foxed to the gentleman who stood at his table. Lord Hubert, was it? He furrowed his brow. Or Lord Halpert? After four snifters of fine French brandy, it was really hard to sort through the man’s identity. Lord Something-or-Another stared expectantly back.

Lifting his glass in appreciation, Robert murmured the expected, appropriate words of thanks one would give a person sharing regret about the impending demise of your father. After all, there were social expectations that went with being a future duke . . . and that included acknowledging polite company when you’d much rather send them to the Devil, and be on your own business.

Grateful of the other man’s departure, Robert downed his drink and reached for the bottle.

One would correctly argue that there was nothing acceptable about a duke getting drunk in one of the most disreputable, notorious gaming hells in St Giles.

Then, certain liberties were permitted to dukes. Even more liberties permitted to marquesses whose fathers were close to meeting their maker. His lips pulled in disgust. Not abandoning his father’s side during the summer, Robert would have struck a deal with Satan to prolong his father’s life. But then, perhaps he had. For all his devotion, for having pledged to marry and do right by the Somerset line, he’d been repaid with this.

Through all the treachery of Lucy Whitman and his grandfather, he’d now add his father to the list of those who’d betrayed him. For even as those two men had sought to protect Robert, they’d done so in a way that was so wholly manipulative, it could never be truly forgiven.