Page 111 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Lord Barnard shuffled the cards, and Herr Wolf cut the deck. “Early night of warm milk for you, Beckworth?”
“It’s Adam. He has the ague. I’ll have to leave soon.”
“And play nursemaid to your brother?Tsk-tsk,” Lord Halliburton teased. “No gambling. Sick family. And no woman to warm your bed. A dull existence indeed.”
Shoulder muscles bunched under Mr. Beckworth’s coat. “I manage.”
“Your new venture,” Baron Atal called from the next table. “I hear you’re single-handedly saving Northumberland from a dearth of horseflesh.”
“Not single-handedly. Bowles is with me.”
“Bowles? Are you breeding racehorses?” A portly man in a bagwig beside Baron Atal spoke.
“Not exactly.” Head bent, Lord Bowles studied his cards, his other hand toying with the whiskey-filled glass.
“How does that work?” the portly man prodded. “Either you’re breeding racehorses or you’re not.”
“Utter dribble,” Marcus muttered and tossed down his cards.
“What’s that?” Barnard asked.
“My hand.” The chair creaked beneath Marcus, and he raised the glass to his lips for a sip. “The demand for horses has increased in the region.”
Genevieve held her breath. He took a drink and another before returning the glass to the table. This time, Lord Barnard won the pot, and the men proceeded with another round.
“Not a bad idea.” Baron Atal shuffled a deck of cards. “Supplying horses for stagecoaches. With the new bridge, could be a sound business.”
“A hostelry? A bit beneath you.” The dandy Halliburton fanned his cards.
Genevieve’s silent husband wrapped his fingers around the glass. Eyes hooded, he studied his cards and drained his whiskey. She nibbled her bottom lip. It wouldn’t be wise to comment on his drinking. She was his wife, not his nursemaid.
Baron Atal tipped back in his chair, fanning the cards in hand. “Not if you saw their stud. A fine bay. Worthy of Tattersall’s, if you ask me.”
“So he is,” Mr. Beckworth shot back. “Fast and strong.”
“One stud to service all the mares… He’d better be.”
Lord Bowles raised the empty glass, and a footman came forward and took it. “I’ll have another,” he said, not taking his eyes off his cards.
Genevieve sucked in a quick breath. “Perhaps we should return home, milord.”
“Not now.”
* * *
Marcus didn’t take his eyes off the cards. The king and queen of diamonds. Was his luck changing? A footman’s white-gloved hand set a crystal glass on the baize beside his elbow.
Liquid gold sloshed indolent and tempting. Despite the married pair in hand, Marcus’s blood pounded in his ears. The parched sensation clawed its way up his throat. The craving. He swallowed the dryness. He could control himself. Had for years. But his eyes burned. Across the table, the Prussian was too composed.
“Why don’t we raise the stakes?” Lord Barnard put in a twenty-pound note.
The Prussian set his pound note on the pile.
“Our first night, and you’re bleeding me dry.” Halliburton cheerfully tossed out a twenty-pound note.
Marcus stared at his cards and rubbed his eyes. The flat-faced queen warned him:Go home.Pound notes crinkled in his waistcoat pocket. A clock chimed the midnight hour. He pinched the cards, wanting badly to knock the foreigner out of his seat. The Prussian’s ante topped the pyramid of money, an amused light in his eyes.
Sweat prickled Marcus’s hairline. The horses…
