Page 53 of The Duchess in His Bed
“I’ll take her some warm milk.”
Aiden wanted to shout at her to kick the doxy out, felt rather grateful that he’d grown up with far different examples—but then his mum wasn’t all innocence and goodness either. She’d done things of which she wasn’t proud in order to survive. The countess was correct. Women had a rougher go of it than men.
As he lumbered over to the sideboard housing decanters, Elverton didn’t deem to acknowledge Aiden, but then Aiden hadn’t expected he would. The earl followed the same routine he had when Aiden had first called on him years earlier. He poured himself a scotch, stalked to the desk, dropped into his chair, and glared. “What do you want?”
“I want nothing. I’m here to make a demand. Stay clear of the Duchess of Lushing.”
Elverton barked out a laugh. “You do not make demands of me, boy.”
Aiden tossed back the scotch, then hurled the glass into the hearth where it shattered into shards. The earl jumped, which brought him a great deal of satisfaction. “She is not for you.”
“Think she’s for you, do you? She’d not give you the time of day. How do you even know her?” Holding up a hand, he snapped his fingers. “Your club. No, that can’t be. She’s in mourning, observing it quite strictly. Unless she went before Lushing died.”
“Don’t worry yourself over it. Just stay away from her or you’ll find yourself with more broken bones.”
“You’ve got nothing to offer her. Not respectability, not a place in Society. She’s the daughter of an earl, has been the wife of a duke, for God’s sake. Do you really believe she would allow herself to be seen with you?”
No, she’d fuck him but not walk beside him. And that grated, not that he’d give Elverton the satisfaction of seeing how his words had hit the mark. Aiden marched over to the desk, flattened his hands on it, and leaned toward the arrogant sod. “Stay. Away. From. Her.”
His sire tapped a finger against his glass. “For seventy-five percent of your profits.”
He’d given him sixty percent to save Finn, but he’d been younger then, all of twenty-three, not as confident, not as sure of himself. Then Finn had visited the earl a few months back and put an end to the arrangement. “Heed my warning or see yourself ruined.”
Turning on his heel, he strode with purpose for the door.
“You are nothing!” his sire yelled after him.
He fought not to let the words take root, but it was a challenge. He’d believed he had something special with Selena. He thought she’d cared for him. But she wanted to use him, just as the earl had used whoever Aiden’s mother had been. When it came to the heart, no one had power.
The Earl of Camberley liked playing cards at the Cerberus Club. Nothing about it was fancy. The dark smoke-filled rooms were a reflection of London’s underworld, and within these walls, commoners mixed with the lesser lords, second sons, third, and fourth. Those with pockets that held little save lint. Those no longer welcomed at White’s or allowed through the doors of other proper gentlemen’s clubs.
The language was rough, the laughter loud, the liquor cheap. Gin mostly. But he was not in a position to complain. He was able to get credit extended to him here, while he wasn’t at other places. And in a few more hands, he was going to have to ask for more credit. His luck was atrocious this evening.
Although it could very well be day by now. No windows allowed for the viewing of the passage of time, and he was always surprised when he looked at his watch to see how many hours had passed. He was reaching into his waistcoat pocket to retrieve his timepiece when everyone around him went quiet. Glancing up, he saw Aiden Trewlove, the club’s owner, standing there. It wasn’t often that he made an appearance. He was too busy managing his new club, the club Selena was now frequenting, the club that would provide their salvation.
“Camberley.”
He didn’t much like being singled out, especially when he heard no respect in the club owner’s tone. He was determined to match it. “Trewlove.”
“What say you and I play a game, just the two of us?”
Before Camberley could provide an answer, the lads with whom he’d been playing shoved back their chairs and went in search of other tables. Trewlove dropped into a vacated chair and began gathering up the scattered cards. “You don’t seem to be having much luck tonight.”
“I’ve had better.”
“Not often. You’re an atrocious player.”
“I shouldn’t think you’d complain about that. It puts money in your coffers.”
Trewlove’s grin was more predatory than friendly. He began shuffling the cards with a skill and swiftness that was unnerving. In his hands, the cards merely whispered as they fell into place. “Do you know what you owe on your marker here?”
“Twelve thousand pounds.”
“We’re going to play a game of War. Your vowels will be the bet. Double or nothing. If I win, you’ll owe me twenty-four thousand. If you win, your debt to me is cleared.”
Camberley’s heart began racing as though it were a thoroughbred on a racetrack. Never before had he wagered so much in a single go. Everything within him screamed for him to decline, get up, and go home now. Instead, he nodded.
Trewlove fanned the cards out over the table. “We’re playing a simplified version. You select a card, I select a card. The higher card wins.”
