Page 14 of The Wager of a Lady
“We’ll each start with ten chips as our stake. We play for one hour. Whoever has the most chips at the end of the game will be declared the winner. Does that suit you?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t as if she had a choice.
Larkin dealt the cards quickly and efficiently, setting a small stack of chips in front of each of them.
“When did you learn to play poker, if I may ask, Lady Masterson? Seems something the well-bred ladies of New York wouldn’t learn along with embroidery and dancing.”
“At about the same time I learned to enjoy bourbon whiskey,” she replied without looking up. “Every young lady should have a hobby, don’t you think?”
Bourbon and poker often brought to mind John Winbow and everything that had come after. What started as a small rebellion, a mild flirtation with a riverboat gambler she’d met at a gathering, had eventually led to her banishment. Her father had been making noises about marrying her off, largely to rein in Georgina’s behavior. Mother had been busy watching the young men swarm about Lilian, Georgina’s older sister. Too preoccupied to pay any heed to her younger daughter. It seemed the perfect time for Georgina to make the acquaintance of a gentleman from Savannah who made his living by playing poker on the riverboats sailing up and down the Mississippi. Winbow had taught Georgina how to kiss properly, play poker, and enjoy the caramel flavor of a good bourbon whiskey from Kentucky, and he’d have taught her more had she let him. She’d stopped far short of giving Winbow her virtue. He’d responded by threatening her reputation.
Odd. Bourbon and her virtue were still being wagered. “My poor behavior has not been limited to my time in London, Mr. Murphy.”
“Leo.” The rich, buttery sound of his amusement flowed over her shoulders. “I expected nothing less.”
He had such resonance to him. A vibration she felt in the floor and up through her toes. The sound had certain parts of her person aching for something she could only guess at.
“Ladies first,” Leo murmured.
Georgina lifted the corner of her cards, careful to school her expression and give nothing away. Leo’s presence brushed against her, and her insides fluttered in response. She wished he’d sit on the other side of the room.
The trembling in her fingers was not due to fear.
3
Ashort time later, barely more than an hour, Georgina was still trembling. But this time with frustration and a decent amount of anger.
She’d lost.
“Close the door behind you, Larkin. Please inform Smith I’m not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”
“Not even for Lord Welles, sir?”
“Especially not for Lord Welles. You can leave the cards and chips here and collect them tomorrow.”
Larkin nodded, bowed sharply, and left Leo’s office, his footsteps barely making a sound on the thick rug as he exited.
Georgina sat perfectly still on the obscene settee, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She often prided herself on being a good loser, but she had to bite her lip to keep from spewing out a string of curses.
I’ve lost Beechwood Court. And a great deal of my pride.
There was an actual physical pain at losing her tiny estate. She was far more concerned about Beechwood Court than she was about Leo bedding her. If her experience with Masterson was any indication, she need only lie still and wait for it to end.
She glanced at Leo as a small ball of heat built inside her.
John Winbow, excellent kisser and terrible human being, had touched Georgina in a great many places. Her underthings had become damp while the rest of her had yearned for something Georgina couldn’t put a name to. But Winbow’s desire for her had beennothingcompared to his greed for her father’s money.
Leo Murphy was an entirely different matter.
He’d dragged out their game, intentionally letting Georgina win the first few hands until his stack of chips grew short, putting her at ease. Giving her hope. Then he’d pounced, a great cat who had merely been playing with his food before he devoured it. Leo had probably known the cards she held in her hands before she had.
Georgina hated him a little for that. “You’ve won.”
“I have.”
Murphy plopped down on the settee beside her, close enough so that the cushions dipped beneath his weight and her own body tilted toward his. He leaned back against one plump pillow with its frivolous display of tassels. “You’re angry.”
“I am,” she responded.
