The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(14)

“And the lady is . . . ?”

“The Duke of Wilkinson’s daughter,” he supplied.

“Ah,” Jonas said, inclining his head.

Yes, well, really what else was there to say, other than that? He shifted in his seat. Lords made matches with younger ladies every day. It was expected and the norm, and yet . . . there was something . . . wholly distasteful in the prospect of wedding a woman more than fifteen years younger.

“Of all the families to merge the Denningtons with, the Verney line is an honorable one.” And a wealthy one. That admission hung unspoken between them. He shifted in his seat. If he entered into a union to salvage his family’s wealth, then he was no different than Lucy Whitman. He fisted his hands. He could not marry with those ugly intentions. Surely there was something—

“I am sorry,” Jonas said quietly, bringing him back from his contemplation.

Robert forced a laugh. “So hopelessly in love are you that you’d bemoan my emotionless, though advantageous, match?”

His friend met his dry amusement with a sad, penetrating look. “I had hoped for more for you.”

He turned his attention to his drink. He’d never been one of those lords who’d spouted sonnets with romantic expectations for himself. Having been groomed for the position of duke from the nursery, he’d learned early on the expectations and responsibilities that would belong to him. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It is the way of our world,” he said with a pragmatism that elicited another frown.

Rolling his shoulders, Robert glanced about the club once more when, from the corner of his eye, the peculiar woman from before recalled his attention.

Attired in a modest green satin gown, she did not wear the same outrageous, gauzy creations donned by the other women wandering the floor. Her scarred pale cheeks, absent of rouge, and her lips devoid of color also marked her as a further oddity, different than the other whores employed at the Hell and Sin. As she darted her gaze about, Robert’s intrigue doubled. A small frown pulled at her lips and she again ducked further behind the lone pillar, pressing herself against it as though she wished to become one with the towering white structure.

Since he’d begun patronizing the Hell and Sin Club he’d never before spied the tall, lean creature. He finished his brandy. He would have remembered one such as her. She was not in possession of the beauty to match the voluptuous, blousy creatures who were the Hell’s regular girls, and yet the wistful gleam in her green eyes held him utterly captivated. Robert couldn’t look away. Those eyes bespoke none of the jaded hardness that iced over most of the other employees. Perhaps that would come in time. For now, she’d somehow managed to retain the veneer of innocence amidst an opulent den of sinners.

His earlier desire to get well and truly soused lifted, instead replaced with curiosity for the compelling woman who peeked her head out occasionally from behind the column. Robert looked at his loyal friend. With his glass of brandy largely untouched, cradled between his fingers, he made clear by his presence that Robert had his unwavering support. “Go home to your wife,” Robert said quietly. “You don’t need to be here.” At one time, after Jonas had suffered a broken heart, that hadn’t been the case. Not any longer. And Robert may one day be a duke, but he’d never be one of those stodgy bastards who expected the world to wait and watch for him because of the title affixed to his name.

Jonas hesitated.

“Go,” Robert insisted, again. He waggled his brows. “I’ll finish my moping and then head back to my rooms no worse for the wear. No worries over me wandering the streets of St Giles.”

His friend took a final sip of his drink and set it down. “Don’t do anything reckless here,” he said dryly. “We’re well past our days of impetuous behaviors.”

Robert drew an X on his chest. “I give you my word,” his mock solemnity earning a laugh from Jonas. Smoothing his earlier amusement, he looked the other man in the eye. “Thank you,” he said simply, the words enough, the meaning clear in the slight nod Jonas had given. No thanks were needed. During Jonas’s darkest days, Robert had been steadfast beside him, sitting in other disreputable halls, allowing the man to drown his sorrows in spirits. “Give my best to Mrs. Jonas,” he added.

“If there is anything I can do to help,” his friend offered. “Anything at all . . .” His meaning clear. Robert need but ask.

“Thank you,” he said again. No one but a master of numbers could salvage his family, now.

Jonas nodded, and then with a short bow took his leave.

Robert stared after him as he wound his way through the club until he reached the front doors, and then with a servant drawing them open, Jonas took his leave. Despite what his friend had hoped for or wished for Robert’s own marital state, the reality had always been, and always would be, the responsibility that went with the ducal line. As a second son of a viscount, Jonas had been granted freedoms and luxuries not allowed a duke. It was simply, as Robert had said prior, the way of their world.

Shoving aside thoughts of future brides and ducal responsibilities, Robert returned to his drink.



A short while later . . . or mayhap a long while, time had all blurred together, Robert shoved away from the gaming table. The room dipped and swayed. Then righted itself. He gripped the sides of the table and moved with slow, deliberate steps through the Hell.