The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(12)

Granted, in his youth, he’d been too blinded by the illusion of love to listen to his grandfather’s reasoning. However, he was no longer that same callow lad. Had his father possessed the decency to speak with him on the solvency of the estates, he’d have listened. Instead, his sire had developed an underhanded scheme better reserved for the late duke.

At three and thirty, Robert well knew the responsibilities expected of him. He’d just failed to realize the extent of those responsibilities—until today. Then, that isn’t truly your father’s fault. He fisted his glass so hard, the blood drained from his knuckles as on this day, of all days, that betrayal stung all the deeper.

Lightening his grip, Robert swirled the contents of his glass in a circle. For the past twelve years, he had lived for his own pleasures, a rather carefree, roguish existence. How very different his life would have been had it continued along a different trajectory, with Robert wedded that long-ago night. He’d even now be married, and most likely a father. He’d not be riddled with matchmakers and scheming misses.

Lifting his gaze from his drink, Robert skimmed it over the mindless revelry being celebrated throughout the gaming hell. He was no father. He was no husband. And by his father’s admission today, Robert, with his sudden shift in financial circumstances, was not unlike every other bored gentleman losing a fortune at his respective faro table.

And there was something so very humbling in that truth. Tightening his mouth, he refocused his energies on his drink. Tomorrow he could focus on the expectations the world placed on him. Now, he’d spend the night fanning the long-buried resentment and regrets for what had almost been and what would never be because of the title he’d been born to.

A young woman, with thick blonde hair and an invitation in her eyes, sidled up to him. “Would you like company, my lord?” she purred on a throaty whisper that promised carnal delights.

He eyed the lush beauty. On any other night, if he weren’t maudlin and more eager to lose himself in the mindless amusements of the club and the fine French brandy, he would have followed the nameless beauty abovestairs. She grazed her fingers over his sleeve, and leaned close.

Not this night. This night, he’d come for but one purpose. He waved his hand. At his clear dismissal, her plump, red lips formed a small moue of displeasure, and then she moved on to some other patron.

Raucous laughter and the clink of coins hitting felt gaming tables resonated through the halls of the club, that revelry mocking Robert with the carefree levity of those around him. He raised the tumbler to his lips once more and froze. The slightest movement at the edge of the gaming hell floor snagged his attention on a woman on the fringe of the entertainment. Perhaps it was the splash of her mint-green dress amidst the mostly black coats, that color pale and pure against the garish canary-yellow and burnt-orange waistcoats of the dandies circulating the club.

Robert swirled the contents of his glass and studied the woman as she skirted the tables, weaving between wagering gentlemen and fierce-looking bouncers. But for the vicious scar down the right side of her face, there was nothing immediately remarkable about her. Her hair drawn tight at her nape accentuated too-sharp features. Her gown hung on a too-slender, narrow-hipped frame. Nay, she hardly possessed any kind of beauty that beckoned. Rather, it was her sly steps that gave him pause. The woman didn’t walk, nor sprint, nor stride. But rather . . . tiptoed about the room. Occasionally she paused, and cast furtive glances about.

She came to a stop beside a pillar and scanned the room. Her full, bow-shaped lips moved, as though she were talking to herself.

And in that moment, all previous melancholy lifted, replaced with a sudden intrigue. Did she seek to lift a man of his coin? Or search for a bed-partner?

He cursed as a tall figure stepped directly in his line of vision, obliterating the hint of the mysterious woman. Robert leaned around, searching for a glimpse of the fey creature—

“You look like hell.”

Well, that wasn’t the standard polite greeting he’d gritted his teeth through for nearly a month now. Through dry eyes, he snapped his gaze up at the interloper, and blinked several times. Richard Jonas stood before him. Which really wouldn’t be shocking for most gentlemen . . . except this one. Recently married, and exceedingly happy, the horse breeder didn’t leave the country . . . and he decidedly did not come to scandalous clubs. “Jonas,” he greeted. Having suffered a broken heart when the woman he’d loved wed his brother, Jonas had ultimately found a deserved happiness. Though never one to visit London, he was even scarcer now since his joyous nuptials.

“I’m in London for business,” he explained. “Discussing the sale of a mare for Lord Drake’s young daughter.” Jonas gestured to the vacant seat. “May I?”

Robert tipped his chin toward the chair. He’d suffered through a parade of gentlemen asking after his father, making it a point to not invite any of them to sit. This was a friend he’d never turn away. And with all he’d learned today, Robert was welcoming of the company.

“Your sister paid a visit to Gemma a short while ago.”

Robert frowned. That was hardly news. The two young women, who’d somehow found themselves wallflowers, had also found themselves as thick as thieves in the Dials. “Did she?”

“Your sister is worried,” Jonas said, knocking Robert into apprehensive silence.

Had Bea gathered their family was in dun territory? “Worried?” he repeated, flatly.