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“No. They’re tokens that indicate membership in an elite gentlemen’s society known as the Stud Club. Possession of one of those coins gives a man breeding rights to Osiris, England’s most valuable stallion. The club rules state the tokens can’t be bought or sold or given away. They can only be won or lost in a game of chance. There are only ten of them in the world, and at the moment I own two. Do you know how I came by them?”
She shook her head.
“Fate, pure and simple. Through no merit of my own, I was spared while other men—better men—fell.” He propped an elbow on the table and cast a glance through the window. The bright morning sun made him squint, wrinkling the scar tissue on his temple.
Taking one of the coins in his hand, he said, “This one belonged to an officer in my battalion. Major Frank Brentley, from York. He was a good man. His wife traveled with the company, and she mended my shirts for me. He never drank, but he was a gambler through and through, always dicing or playing cards. Story was, he’d won this token drawing blind at vingt-et-un. Said he was blessed with good luck all his life.”
He tapped the coin on the table. “Well, his good luck ended at Waterloo. We had the left flank of the line, and avoltigeurcame out of nowhere. One moment Brentley was next to me, the next he was flattened by a rifle shot at close range, his gut ripped open at the seams.”
Swallowing with great care, Meredith put down the bit of bread she’d been holding.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s not proper breakfast conversation, I know. Anyhow, after I killed the French guardsman, I carried Brentley out of the action. Tried to make him comfortable. He pulled this token from his pocket. ‘Have to play me for it,’ he said. ‘That’s the rule. Heads or tails?’ Then he died, and the coin rolled out of his hand, and it was too smeared with blood to make out the stamp on either side. But I’d won the coin toss, hadn’t I? It’s the way my life goes. It’s like I’ve got a coin with ‘Life’ stamped on one side and ‘Death’ on the reverse, and no matter how many times I flip it into the air, it always comes up heads.”
He reached for the other token. “This one belonged to Leo Chatwick, the Marquess of Harcliffe, the Stud Club’s founder. Another good man. Had it all—youth, wealth, good looks. Universally admired. Murdered in cold blood almost two months ago now, while walking the wrong part of Whitechapel. Beaten and robbed by footpads. Or so most believe. His killers were never caught.”
Meredith winced. “How dreadful. Was he a very close friend of yours?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve learned that lesson. I don’t make close friends.”
The words made her ache with empathy, but they also twanged her pride. He’d take a wife, but not a friend? The compliment implied by his proposal grew fainter still. Whatever reason he had for wanting to marry, it seemed to have more to do with these queer brass coins than it had to do withher.
With his massive, scarred hand he picked up a boiled egg and tapped it with the edge of his spoon until a web of tiny cracks covered the brown speckled surface. The measured caution in his movements entranced her. She couldn’t look away.
“I’m barren,” she blurted out. “Most likely. I was married for four years and never conceived.”
He frowned, peeling the shell from the egg. “Maddox was ancient. Doesn’t mean—”
“It wasn’t just him.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve had lovers since.”
His face shuttered. “Oh.”
What would he make of her now? She lifted her chin, refusing to feel shamed. “Have I succeeded in changing your mind? Perhaps not so fated to be, after all.”
“That wasn’t my meaning. I’m just sorry you’ve been lonely. I’m a bastard for staying away so long. The fact that you’re barren is of no importance. The last thing I want is a child. And you have my word, I’ll not rush you into … consummation.”
“What?” The breath left her lungs. She picked at the tablecloth. “Well, there went my prime inducement for accepting you.”
He looked puzzled. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
“So when you offered a kiss last night … you weren’t just being generous?”
Her face heated as she nudged the saltcellar in his direction. “No, Rhys. Generosity had nothing to do with it. At all.”
He studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “If you say so.”
Why did he act so surprised? Surely he must be the recipient of a great deal of female attention, wherever he went. How could a woman not be attracted to him?
She watched as he picked up the naked, quivering egg he’d so painstakingly shelled. He halved it with a single snap of his jaws. The muscles in his cheek worked as he quickly downed the remainder. What an intriguing combination of tenderness and power he embodied. She imagined herself bared and white and trembling before him. So slowly, carefully revealed, and then … devoured. Just thinking of it made her a little bit afraid, and aroused beyond measure.
“If you don’t wish to … to get children,” she asked, “why on earth do you want to marry?” When men took an interest in her, bedding was usually foremost in their minds. And it wasn’t as though she had money or influence to offer. Not enough to sway a peer of the realm, at any rate.
“I’m going to take care of you.”
“I take care of myself. Quite capably.”
“Yes, you do. And you take care of your father, and this inn, and the whole blasted village too. Things that should be my responsibility, now that I’ve inherited. I can’t allow you to continue working so hard. I’m the lord of this place now, and I’m going to assume my role in the neighborhood.”
