Page 27 of Lucien's Gamble

She leaned forward, and Lucien was caught by the earnest intensity of her voice. “You deserve to be happy. If Lady Julienne makes you happy, you should fight to the death for her. Youareworthy of a highborn bride. Never doubt that.”

“I’m not worthy of Julienne.” There was no bitterness in his voice, just quiet resignation.

Raw hurt glittered in his mother’s eyes. “I am the only difference between you and Fontaine. You are wealthier, you are more handsome, and your blood is almost as blue. Are you ashamed ofme,Lucien? Is it because your mother is a courtesan that you feel unworthy of Julienne La Coeur?”

“No.” He reached across the table for her delicate hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It has nothing to do with you. I’ve never been a good man, never aspired to be one, and I’ve been perfectly content. I have no desire to change. Julienne is an angel, the purest thing I’ve ever known. Agreeing to my suit would alienate her from the only life she’s ever known. Eventually she would grow to hate me for that.”

“I think you underestimate her strength, Lucien. You may find that you won’t make her a lesser woman. Instead she may make you a better man.” Amanda shot him a quizzical glance. “Does your bastardy offend her?”

“No.” Lucien smiled. “She thinks your affair is ‘romantic.'”

“And so it is,” she said, with a smug smile. “I liked the girl last night. I like her even more now. She seems a very practical sort.”

Lucien arched a brow. “I recognize that look. Stay out of my private affairs, Mother. I do an excellent job of botching them up on my own. I don’t require any assistance.” He stood. “I have to go now. I have work to do.”

“And a lot to think about as well.”

He grinned affectionately and ignored her comment. “I shall see you next week.”

As her son left, Amanda Remington sat back in her chair and contemplated her next course of action. She knew what her son needed, even if he didn’t.

And she would see that he got it.

Chapter Nine

Hugh La Coeur, the sixth Earl of Montrose, paused on the step of his carriage and grimaced at the imposing three-story, columned entrance to Remington’s. The morning sun shone brightly on the white façade as various members of the peerage exited and entered the popular gentlemen’s club. Behind him, traffic was heavy on St. James. The steady clatter of rolling carriage wheels, horses’ hooves, and harnesses reminded him that life was still bustling forward for the rest of London, while he prepared to face his largest and most ruthless creditor.

With a deep, fortifying breath, Hugh climbed the steps to the watered-glass, double-door entrance. A footman in black-and-silver livery welcomed him inside, and Hugh handed his hat, gloves, and cane to one of two waiting attendants. He stepped into the round entrance foyer, with its black-and-white marbled floors, and again admired the massive chandelier that hung three stories up, with a large round table centered below it. A gigantic floral arrangement dominated the center of the table, its heady fragrance permeating every corner of the foyer.

Straight ahead was the gaming area. From there, one could find either the staircases that led to the upper floors—where the fencing studio, courtesans, and private rooms were located— or to the lower floors, where the pugilist rings were kept. To the left was the kitchen. To the right were the offices of Lucien Remington.

Hugh took one last, wistful look at the gaming rooms and then turned to his right. He walked through the huge wooden door, with its oval glass center, and handed his card to the secretary, expecting to wait. He was surprised when he was announced without delay.

Nervous trepidation plagued him as he entered the sanctum of Lucien Remington. He’d never been in the offices before, and he took in his surroundings with a curious eye. The first thing he noticed was the carved mahogany desk, which directly faced the door. The massive piece of furniture was flanked on either side by floor-to-ceiling windows, and the desktop was littered with paperwork, silent confirmation of the strength and breadth of Remington’s empire.

The room was done in masculine shades of deep green, cream, and gold. An immense fireplace to the left was the focal point of a conversation area holding a settee and two leather wingback chairs. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases took up all the available wall space. To the right, sunlit windows afforded views of the street below.

“Good afternoon, Lord Montrose. I trust your trip to the country was pleasant.”

Hugh turned toward the deep voice and saw Remington standing behind his desk, his famous blue eyes lit with amusement as he waved a hand toward one of the chairs that faced him.

“How did you know where I was?” Hugh asked crossly as he took a seat.

“You owe me one hundred thousand quid, my lord. I’m not likely to misplace you.”

Hugh scowled. “A drop in the bucket for you, Remington.”

“True. Now, I assume you’ve come to repay me?”

Shifting uncomfortably, Hugh said, “I was hoping to make payment arrangements with you.”

A black brow lifted. “I see. What do you propose?”

“At the end of the Season, I can repay half of what I owe, and then—”

Remington raised a hand. “I won’t accept Fontaine’s money.Youowe me.Youwill pay me.”

“Damnation!” Hugh flushed with anger and embarrassment. “Money is money, damn it. Why do you care where it comes from?”

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