Page 44 of Make Mine a Marquess

Willard licked his lips. His smile could only be described as calculating. “Shall we offer a wager?”

“Why not? First to win two out of three games gets the right to boast all evening.”

“That’s it?” Willard asked.

Roxborough chimed in. “If money is not involved, then how about the winner gets the first dance with the lovely Miss Dawson at the house party’s upcoming ball?”

Landon was aware a ball had been scheduled. The neighboring gentry were invited, along with any aristocracy in Hertfordshire for the summer.

“Done,” Willard said.

Willard agreed too easily. If Phoebe was his own betrothed, he’d never wager anything when it came to the lady—not even a dance. Did his cousin truly only value her dowry and not the woman who came with it?

“So easy to offer her, cousin?” Landon asked.

“I won’t lose.”

“And if you do?” Landon pressed.

“Then Miss Dawson will dance with you.”

A sudden anger caused Landon’s breath to burn in his throat. With great effort, he tempered his fury with mock amusement. His tone was relatively civil as he portrayed an ease he didn’t feel. “Let the best man win.”

A footman came forward carrying an engraved box with a large L carved upon the lid. The footman opened the box to reveal ivory billiard balls, two white and a single red object ball. One of the white balls was marked with a small black dot so the players could tell it apart from the other solid white ball.

They agreed to three games. Landon won one game and Willard the other. The winning game was next. Landon reached for a cube of white chalk and rubbed it on the tip of his cue stick. Willard did the same.

“Willard has skill. I’ve seen you play better,” Aram said.

Landon grinned. “I let him win the first game.”

“You play to win the third game, then?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would upset her to learn her fiancé agreed to wager her off, even if it is something as simple as a dance at a ball.”

Aram’s brown eyes sparkled. “You are starting to care for the lady’s tender feelings.”

Landon suppressed his annoyance. “You’re wrong. I want her trust.” His heart had been hardened long ago. It wasn’t just smoke he’d choked on from the ship’s fire, but hatred. For five years, he’d burned for vengeance. He wasn’t looking for a wife. He certainly wasn’t worthy of one like Phoebe. His resolve increased.

That was his goal, he told himself. To get the lady to desire him was one challenge. But if Phoebe broke the engagement on her own and walked away, then her dowry would follow. What better way to see Willard suffer?

…

Landon stood looking out the window when Phoebe entered the study the following afternoon. Standing tall, his hands were folded behind his back. His clothing was exquisitely tailored, a navy coat of superfine and buff trousers. His dark curling hair brushed his collar, and he appeared every inch the lord in his own home. Rather than have him escort her to their game as he had arranged, she’d sent a note saying she’d meet him.

He turned at the rustle of her skirts. “Welcome.” His handsome face creased in a smile.

Her nerves tingled with excitement and she felt a curious swooping pull at her innards. “I’m looking forward to learning the game.”

A table and chairs had been set up. He held one out for her. His fingers brushed her back—the slightest touch—enough to cause a tingle to rush to the spot he’d grazed. His cologne, bergamot and sandalwood, teased her senses and a quiver surged through her veins. She felt like a breathless girl of eighteen.

It was after luncheon and the ladies had retired to their chambers to rest before the evening meal and night’s activities. The door to the study was kept half open.

“Miss Stanwell is outside standing watch,” Phoebe said. “I don’t expect my mother to leave her chambers, but she offered, just in case.”