“I know where he’s been.” Viscount Harding, one of Dylan’s old schoolmates, winked before he sank a ball in the far pocket. “I saw him with Cassandra Lockhart this afternoon.”
Basingstoke chuckled and quaffed his drink. “He’s a master, gentlemen. I’ve yet to see a woman who didn’t succumb to his charms.”
Jonathan gave a derisive laugh. “I’m not impressed. Miss Lockhart is an actress. What sport is there in that?”
Quite a lot, actually, since Cassandra was the actress in question. The fiery redhead had taken London’s theater set by storm. Every man in this room had tried to seduce her, but she’d refused all suitors until Dylan had charmed his way into her bed earlier this evening.
Dylan gave Jonathan a measuring look. “Do you have a more challenging target in mind? Your sister, perhaps?” He knew he was being obnoxious, but Jonathan’s last taunt had hit a nerve. The endless couplings with actresses and high-priced courtesans left him empty.
Jonathan’s homely, sharp-featured face flushed with anger. His older sister resembled a horse and had been on the shelf for years, despite her distinguished family name. “Take it back, Blake, or I swear Iwillcall you out this time.”
Dylan shrugged. “Name your second.”
“Now, gentlemen,” Basingstoke interceded, ever the mediator. Jonathan had challenged Dylan to at least a dozen duels in the past. “We’re all friends here. I don’t think it needs to come to that.”
Viscount Harding drifted near enough to hear the gist of the conversation and clapped his hand on Jonathan’s thin shoulder. “Think about what you’re saying, old chap. Blake is a bloody national hero. He’s killed dozens of men. Do you really want to be added to that number?”
With seething impatience, Dylan waited for Jonathan to make up his mind. He wouldn’t kill the little fop. Harding was right—enough blood stained his hands.
At last, Jonathan seemed to realize the odds were against him. He glared at Dylan with unconcealed hatred. “Perhaps you’d like to make a wager, instead? Your somewhat dubious charms against a woman of my choosing?”
Dylan ignored the low rumble of excited whispers their little scene had provoked. He didn’t understand why Jonathan took Dylan’s every victory as a personal defeat. “I don’t gamble on women. Besides, Cassandra and I have barely begun our liaison.”
But he thought of the emptiness he’d felt even in Cassandra’s most intimate embrace and knew he wouldn’t bother to see her again.
“Afraid you’ll lose?” Jonathan mocked. “Afraid no decent woman will have you?”
At this little bit of absurdity, Dylan laughed outright. “Why on earth would I want a respectable woman? If I go sniffing around one of them, I’ll end up married to the chit.”
Basingstoke raised a brow and gave Dylan a wry smile. “And what would be the harm in that? A big fat dowry is exactly what you need.”
Unfortunately, Basingstoke knew the way of it. Nine months of high living had depleted the funds Dylan had received for selling his commission. Actresses might be easy, but they weren’t cheap.
Soon, he’d be forced to ask his father for an increase of his pitiful quarterly stipend. Anything would be better than that, even marriage.
Perhaps this foolish bet could stave off that necessity for a little while longer.
“All right,” Dylan murmured. “Who is it to be, then? I’ve always wanted to make a good girl go bad.”
Jonathan stepped a little closer and lowered his voice, so only Dylan, Basingstoke, and Harding could hear. “How about Lady Natalia Sinclair?”
“Out of the question!” Basingstoke shook his head and flashed Dylan a warning glance. “Don’t even think about it, Blake.”
Unnecessary advice. Even Dylan had heard of the fair Lady Natalia.
The Duke of Clayton’s daughter had an enormous dowry, perhaps half a million pounds. But she’d cut through the men who tried to court her like a knife through butter.
Given Jonathan’s simmering anger, Dylan guessed he’d felt the sting of her rejection. The bet suddenly made sense. Jonathan wanted to see Dylan fail.
Although Lady Natalia might be a worthy adversary, Dylan wasn’t foolish enough to trifle with the duke’s daughter. Clayton was one of the most powerful men in Britain and would never allow his daughter anywhere near a penniless younger son.
“Have you seen her?” Jonathan persisted.
Dylan shook his head. He’d tried to steer clear of this kind of social event since his return. Besides, he had no interest in the marriage-minded young women who populated London’s exclusive drawing rooms.
Not that a woman like Lady Natalia Sinclair would have been within reach, even if he had been looking.
“Give it a try,” Jonathan urged. “I’ll make it easy on you. All you need to do is get her to agree to a second dance, a boon she has yet to grant anyone. One hundred pounds if you succeed.”
