Chapter Two

Silas Winters, Duke of Combe, was trying very hard to quell the rising apprehension he felt at his core. Damn it. He shouldn't have come tonight. His nerves were raw simply from accepting the Earl of Trembley's invitation, and while he had convinced himself that he wouldn't let his foolish anxieties ruin yet another evening, he was finding it difficult to follow through. He was so preoccupied with his troubles that he had nearly run over a lady.

Silas fought the urge to peer over his shoulder, wondering if the blonde woman in the overly beaded jade color gown who he had knocked over was staring after him. A miserable reminder bubbled up in his mind. Of course she was. Every guest in attendance tonight would stare at him. He could see the shocked glances and hand-covered mouths as he walked deeper into the house. Could practically hear the disdain in their whispered voices. Curious stares from the men and frightened glares from the matron attendees made him second-guess his coming here tonight.

The Divorced Duke had finally emerged from his hiding, and everyone was eager to see how broken he was.

He gritted his teeth as he made his way to the library, where the card game was being held. It grated him to know that once upon a time, he hadn't cared a bit what everyone believed of him. He wished he still felt that way, but an awful, paralyzing feeling had slowly crept into his bones since his divorce. Silas had become accustomed to a crippling, debilitating sensation that suffocated him every time he tried to leave the house. Thankfully, it hadn't hindered him from venturing to his gentlemen's club, White's, but he often kept his head down and hardly spoke to anyone when he was there.

This infernal handicap was more than embarrassing. It was devastating. His doctor hadn't been able to help. He had likened Silas's feeling to panophobia, a discovery by French physician Boissier de Sauvages, but it wasn't brought on by darkness. Terror only seemed to encroach on him when he was in large groups.

Like tonight.

But Trembley had found a way to work past Silas's crushing issue. The earl was notorious throughout the ton for holding not-so-secret card games, where any and all bets were viable if everyone agreed. Though Silas always played with money, he had taken a horse and, in one instance, a trunk full of silk during the games. His mother and younger sister Violet had profited the most from that wager as he had sent the fabric directly to their modiste.

When he reached the private library, he felt his jagged breathing even out. It wasn't nearly as crowded as the ballroom. And thankfully, none of the gentlemen here seemed to notice his discomposure at all. They were utterly focused on what they hoped to win. As Silas moved between the tables, he found a small card with his name. Reading the placement card to the left, he saw Lord Fishbourne sitting next to him. Silas was pleased enough with that. Fishbourne was a direct, quiet man. He moved around the table, reading the names on the cards. As he reached the opposite side of the table, he frowned.

He was in no mood to be seated across the pharos table from Hubert Jenkins, Viscount Dilworth. The man was widely recognized as one of the worst gambling addicts in all of London, typically spending much of his yearly income within the first few months of the year. The young man had shifting eyes and though he appeared far more confident than the last time Silas had seen him, Silas understood what addiction looked like. It wouldn't matter if the viscount won every hand all night. He would eventually lose, as did everyone who had no control over their compulsion to gamble.

Silas scanned the room and saw Derek, the Earl of Trembley, conversing with his brothers. While Trembley was Silas's oldest friend, he knew that he took his gaming tables seriously and Silas being paired with the viscount was just bad luck. But he needed to try. It was Derek's first time hosting a ball since the family came out of mourning, and he had specifically requested that Silas attend. The inheritance of Derek's title had been a bitter experience, as all the Trembley brothers had been quite devoted to their father and had believed he was in fine health.

Moving around the tables, Silas made his way toward the brothers. All three were tall, with broad shoulders, but that was where their similarities ended. Derek's reddish-brown hair and dark eyes set him apart from his younger siblings. He was quick with a smile to those he was acquainted with and was grinning widely as Silas approached.

"Combe," he said, patting the duke on the shoulder in a friendly, familiar gesture. "I'm happy you came."

"Yes, it's nice to see you out at an actual ball as opposed to some dark corner of White's," Trembley's middle brother, Fredrick, said with a grin that matched his brother's.

"Yes, well, here I am," Silas said.

"Excuse me. I think I see someone," the youngest brother, Alfred, said before skirting away.

Silas watched him leave before turning back to Derek.

"I'm assuming it was his doing that I'm seated with Dilworth?" Silas said, becoming annoyed at how visibly amused the other Trembley brothers were.

"Come now," Fredrick said. "Dilworth's not that bad. I heard him telling Lord Bromley that it isn't gambling if it's a sure thing."

Fredrick winked, and Derek chuckled at the foolhardy statement.

"Bloody idiot," Silas said under his breath. "What was Alfred thinking?"

"He didn't do it on purpose, Combe. It was the luck of the draw," Derek said. "Besides, Dilworth won't be able to play long. He doesn't have the copper."

"Which makes me curious as to why he was invited at all," Silas replied.

"Ah, that was my fault," Fredrick admitted. "I had overheard him talking to Lord Hampton at the races. He told the old codger that he was good for something because he was set to marry an heiress."

"How fortunate for Dilworth," Silas said. "And how miserable for his fiancée."

"Come now. Just because your marriage didn't turn out well doesn't mean the institution is without merit."

Silas made an expression of disgust.

"Spoken by someone who was never married."

"Well, that's true, but I'm not against it. It is the way of the world, as you know." He paused then, and a flicker in Derek's gaze to his brother told Silas they were being cautious around him.

He sighed, trying to beat down the growing feeling of agitation. He shouldn't have come here tonight. He wasn't ready. But all the same, he couldn't ignore the request of a friend.

Silas turned back to Fredrick, eager to distract himself from his thoughts.

"Did you say Dilworth was set to marry an heiress?" he asked. "What foolhardy family would tie themselves to Dilworth?"

"New money," Fredrick said. "Some inventor. Woodvine, I believe, is the name."

Silas had heard the name before. He had been wrapped up in a three-way investing situation with a business associate some years ago. He had been allowed to invest and had very nearly committed himself before he changed his mind. It wasn't that he didn't believe in the product. A chaff cutter was an important invention for the agricultural community, particularly horses. It cut hay into smaller pieces to be mixed with forage, leading to healthier and better animals. But he had been unsure when he was new to making investments. He had come to regret it. The Woodvine investment had returned five-fold for its investors. Silas had learned the lesson that if he believed in a product, he should put his weight behind it.

"I've heard of Woodvine," Silas said. "He has a daughter?"

"He does," Derek said. "And Fredrick invited him and his fiancée here tonight as a congratulatory gesture." Derek gave his brother a pointed glance. "Without thinking."

"He's not a bad man," Fredrick tried, eager to defend himself. "He's quite good company, and he's always up for a fencing match at the club."

"He's an addict," Silas said. "He shouldn't be here."

"He's his own man," Derek said. "If he chooses to put himself in this situation, then it's hardly our place to stop him. To toss him out would be an insult at this point."

Silas exhaled, conceding the point. Dilworth was his own man, and even if Silas was aware of the signs of addiction, he could not and would not intervene. The viscount would hardly welcome a stranger telling him how to conduct himself. Besides, Dilworth was not his concern.

"Very well," Silas said. "But he should have to prove his coin. He's been denied entry at White's several times due to unpaid bets."

"He eventually pays," Fredrick tried.

"I've little interest in being paid several months from now," Silas countered.

Fredrick appeared irritated but nodded.

"Very well," he said, going over to Dilworth.

Derek poured Silas a glass of scotch and handed it to him. Silas took it and sipped the amber liquid slowly as he looked over the gentlemen taking their seats.

"Thank you for coming tonight," Derek said after downing his drink.

Silas only nodded.

"I understand it's difficult for you to attend these sorts of things these days. Balls and soirées, I mean."

"It's of little consequence," Silas said, shaking his head, uncomfortable with the entire conversation.

He took another sip of his scotch, put down the crystal glass, and headed back to his table without another word. Silas had become a recluse since his divorce, and while Derek was one of the few people in the world to understand his anxiety, Silas still didn't like to talk about it. Just as he didn't like to discuss the divorce that had triggered his anxiety—or the woman who had been his wife.

The image of Cynthia's lithe body and cold brown eyes sent his body on edge. As if thinking of her name could conjure her, Silas dug his fingernails into his palms to distract himself from his memories.

Though he had been convinced they had been a love match, three years of marriage had proven to him that no such thing existed. He and Cynthia had a tumultuous relationship, one revolved around arguments, jealousy, and power over the other person. It had been an exhausting marriage. They had been hostile towards one another, like oil and water, yet had always reconciled passionately, making the riotous angst of their arguments seem almost worth it. That was, until Cynthia had gone too far.

Silas clenched his jaw as he took his seat. The game was set to begin with Dilworth, Lord Fishburne, Mr. Grant, and the dealer.

"Combe," Dilworth said, an eager smile on his face. "It's good to see you out and about."

"Dilworth."

"Have you come to lose your coin?" Dilworth tried to tease.

"I doubt it will be you whom I lose to."

"Come now, I have a good luck charm, now."

"Is that so?"

"It is," Dilworth pulled out a velvet box and opened it to reveal a large, oval amethyst stone on a gold band, surrounded by tiny opals. "Here it is."

Silas glanced up from the ring. He was only six years older than the viscount; Silas felt an eternity older.

"Is that it?"

"Brilliant, isn't it?" Dilworth said, closing the tiny velvet box. "I bought it for my fiancée. Miss Clara Woodvine. Do you know her?"

"I do not," Silas said.

"Remarkable woman. Well, rather unrefined and a bit old, but remarkable nonetheless."

"What lavish praise," Silas said sarcastically. "Can we play?"

"Of course, I'm just making small talk," Dilworth said, smirking as he laid down his cards. "Dealer, I'll take two."

Silas, Fishburne, Grant, and Dilworth played for the next hour, and Silas had to admit that Dilworth had played soundly for the first half hour. The viscount was talkative, chatting away with Grant, who was close to folding for good. Fishburne had already bowed out, having little care to lose more than a couple hundred pounds. Dilworth, on the other hand, seemed determined to win. Unfortunately for him, Silas wasn't one for losing. At least, not at cards.

After Grant dropped his cards, Silas and Dilworth played another twenty minutes before Dilworth's obvious tells started to annoy Silas. He would chew at his thumbnail whenever he drew a high card, or he would click his tongue when he got a three of a kind or lower. His eyes were constantly darting from his cards to Silas's face, as if trying to gauge his opponent's reaction. But Silas stayed perfectly motionless, like a jungle cat waiting to pounce until finally, they showed their hands for the last hand, the one on which Dilworth had staked all his remaining cash.

"His Grace wins," the dealer said as Derek came up behind Silas, patting him on the back in a congratulatory way.

"Good game, Dilworth," Silas said as he went to stand up, glad that the game was finally over.

"Wait," Dilworth said desperately. "Let me use this," he pulled out his ring. "As collateral."

A few heads turned to watch as a small group came around their table.

"Dilworth, you don't want to do this," Silas said quietly.

"Why?" he asked abrasively. "Afraid?"

So much for being a good sport. Silas was well aware that the young man was trying to bait him, but he couldn't help but want to teach him a lesson. Deep down, he knew that it had something to do with his baser urges to control and dominate. Instead, he told himself he was doing it for Dilworth's unlucky fiancée. If Silas won, Dilworth wouldn't have anything to propose with, and she might break free from her unfortunate engagement.

"Very well," Silas said, sitting back down. "Play."

Of course, Dilworth lost the ring in three rounds while becoming increasingly sweaty and frantic. Soon, all Dilworth had come with belonged to Silas. He stood up at the end of the hand and motioned for one of the footmen to collect his things. Ignoring Dilworth's pleas, he moved around his chair.

Only then did he hear something that froze him in his tracks. He shook his head, wanting to believe that he must have imagined it, but from the stillness of the room around him, Silas hadn't been the only one to hear it. Turning around slowly, he glared at the viscount.

"What did you just say?"

"Let me bet my fiancée's dowry," he begged, sweat trickling down his temple, his expression pleading.

Silas stared blankly at the man. A mixture of pity and disgust bubbled beneath the surface, but he felt no desire to accept the man's vile offer. Dilworth was desperate, and Silas did not engage with his sort.

"Absolutely not."

"Please, Combe!"

"It's not your money, Dilworth," Silas bit out. "She's not even married to you."

"Then I bet her."

The words fell from the man's lips like coins on a table. The room became deadly silent. Everyone had heard Dilworth's wager. There could be no denying what he had just said, even though it was entirely unbelievable. That Dilworth would bet his soon-to-be wife was beyond ghastly, beyond inhumane. It was the act of a frantic man. A sick man, which was precisely what Dilworth was.

Dilworth brought his fingers to his temple, wiping away the sweat droplets that beaded down his face.

"You'd bet your fiancée as collateral?" Silas asked. "Have you no concept of propriety? Or pride? What right do you even have to make that offer? You don't actually have any claim to the poor girl."

"This from a man who let his wife leave him?" Dilworth baited.

Though Silas didn't make a move, Derek's hand flew up to his chest to hold him back as the crowd of men collectively held their breaths. Dilworth was beyond the ability to think clearly, and Silas was aware of it. Still, he could not allow him any leeway. Not when he'd insulted Silas in front of so many people. It was an offense, a challenge that needed to be answered immediately. The others in the room likely expected him to challenge Dilworth to a duel.

But Silas had another idea.

"Very well," he said, sitting back down. "One hand. If you win, you take everything I've won tonight." Dilworth's eyes flashed with greed and want. "If I win, I get your fiancée."

"Done."

Silas had hoped the man would at least pause and think about what he meant to do—that the words would shock some sense into him. But that hadn't happened. At this point, Silas knew there was nothing he could do.

It seemed the other men were holding their breath as the croupier shuffled and cut the deck before dealing out the cards. Silas picked up the edge of his hand, seeing that he only had a pair of threes. It wasn't a good draw, but then it wasn't terrible either. He'd managed to win before from a worse starting position—and if he lost, it would hardly be a tragedy. He would only lose money, of which he had plenty.

His eyes landed on Dilworth, who sat a little straighter with his shoulders pressed back as if he were pleased with his hand, even as the light from the oil lamps made the perspiration on his forehead glisten, betraying his anxiety. He handed in two cards and received his new ones, while Silas threw his three spare cards on the table for the dealer to retrieve and was handed three more. Silas pulled the edges of his cards up and was somewhat surprised to see that he had recovered the other two threes. A four-of-a-kind was a good hand, but was it good enough? The viscount puffed out his chest like a preening peacock, blatantly satisfied with his cards. Dilworth tapped the table to signify that he would bet.

"Let's not go round and round then," Silas said. "You've only one thing to bet. Or rather, one person," he said pointedly. "Show your hand."

Dilworth smirked as he laid down his cards. Five cards, all clubs, gave Silas a moment's pause until he realized that being the same suit was the only organization they had. It was a flush, but not in any order, which meant his four-of-a-kind was the superior hand.

Silas laid down his cards and watched the man before him shatter. Dilworth's eyes bulged out of his head, staring at the hand. He seemed frozen, unable to comprehend that he had lost. As the others came up to pat him on the back and say poor luck, Dilworth did not acknowledge anyone. Silas nearly felt pity for the man, but in the end, there was no room for it. Dilworth had done this to himself.

Silas had just begun to stand, with intentions to leave the table and partake in a cigar, when Dilworth finally spoke.

"Again," he said desperately. "Please. You must let me try again."

Silas's jaw clenched as he attempted to swallow down his growing anger. After betting and losing everything, including his fiancée, had the man truly not had enough? He turned on the young lord and was about to dress him down when he spoke.

"I'm begging you, Combe, please. You must play me again."

"You've nothing left to bet with, Dilworth," Silas said, his tone rough, his patience coming to an end. He wasn't sure if it was his anxiety or this man's audacity, but Silas was losing his calm fa?ade. "Go home and lick your wounds."

"I have money. It's coming, I just have to—"

"You've already lost a dowry and a wife, Dilworth. Now I'm losing my patience, and unless you want to witness the full extent of my temper, I suggest you leave now."

Dilworth seemed to snap out of his trance when he heard the word "wife." He shook his head slightly in disbelief.

"Surely you don't mean to take Miss Woodvine from me? She's nothing to you."

"Nor you, apparently."

"But if I don't marry her, I can't pay you her dowry."

"A dowry I can collect myself now that you've lost her," Silas said.

The intention of his words was clear, much to the surprise of several gentlemen in attendance. Dilworth gawked incredulously. A murmur broke out among the men around them, and Silas made the mistake of turning around.

The familiar thread of panic threatened to take hold of him as his eyes took in the scene around him. These were men he had known all his life, friends, and acquaintances but with all of their attention focused on him—many of them pressing in close so as not to miss a word of the exchange between him and the viscount—their presence unnerved him. The hot hands of dread seemed to reach over his shoulders and wrap its fingers around his neck, constricting his airway. He swallowed uncomfortably as he shifted, turning back to face Dilworth.

Not now, for God's sake. He couldn't have an attack here, in front of all these people.

"You don't mean to marry the girl," Dilworth said in disbelief. "She's practically an old maid."

"Combe," Derek said, coming towards him as his voice dropped. "You can't want the girl. Let Dilworth keep her and take what he has offered."

Silas squinted at his friend, close to telling him that Dilworth didn't own the girl and therefore had no right to keep her, when a strained, feminine voice suddenly sounded from above.

"I'm afraid that won't work," the voice said, loud and clear from the second story.

All the men in the room's heads snapped up, startled. Silas felt hostile at the idea of being spied on. Still, when the same frizzy-haired, curvaceous woman he had bumped into earlier that night came down the secret spiral staircase that led to the main floor, he felt something else stir within him, beneath the crippling panic that had tried to settle around him.

Was this Miss Woodvine?