Page 58 of To Catch a Viscount

“I agree with the lady.” Landon made a tsking sound.

Andrew’s ears went hot. “I’m not the one taking money from men I do not know.”

She gasped.

“Hey now, chum,” Rothesby said in a tone better suited to a tutor scolding a recalcitrant charge, and Andrew resisted the sudden need to shift on the bench.

“Yes, no need to be crass,” Landon chided.

Now he was getting lectures from Landon. Not that Andrew wasn’t deserving of it.

What in hell was wrong with him?

The duke looked at Marcia. “We do know one another now, do we not, Dorothy?”

“That is correct, Evan.”

Dorothy?Evannn?Since when had Rothesby and Marcia moved to using each other’s given names?

Cheers erupted as Maynard was declared the winner. Grateful for the distraction from just how well Marcia and Evan were getting on, Andrew shot a hand up, calling for the bet taker.

Lucinda was there in a moment. “Well done, my lord,” she praised in those sultry tones he’d come to recognize as the ones she used when trying to get a fellow to raise his wagering. He had a volatile enough energy thrumming through him that another big wager was due.

As he waited for her to record his bets, Lucinda trailed her fingertip invitingly along the décolletage of her dress.

He sat there, impatient, as he watched from the corner of his eye as Marcia and Rothesby spoke in that engrossed way about…

“…trout. The lakes are well-stocked, but—”

Trout? They were speaking about trout? And fishing?

“My lord?” Lucinda’s questioning voice cut across his thoughts.

“That is all,” Andrew said. “Thank you.”

As in, that was all for this bet and this night, and he’d really had enough of it all.

In fact, he didn’t need to stick around to even see if he won. Rothesby and Landon could see to it.

He made to rise.

“Oh, please do wait a moment.”

Marcia’s plea stayed Andrew mid-stand.

He glanced over.

The minx stretched a thick stack of notes—Rothesby’s notes—past Andrew and towards Lucinda.

“I shall take Maynard.”

“Maynard is a terrible bet,” Andrew said tightly. “He’s just fought, and he’s exhausted.”

Marcia turned a reproachful frown on him. “Well, I believe his adrenaline from fighting and winning is fueling him.”

“That is ridiculous,” he muttered.

Neither Marcia nor Rothesby nor, for that matter, Lucinda paid him any further notice, busy as they were finalizing Marcia’s wager.

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