Seven

SEVEN

Still in the corridor

Hell’s clanging bells.

Jack stiffened and, with reluctance in every bone and muscle, turned toward Francine Willoughby, lingering near a corner alcove.

Had the wench been lying in wait for him?

Eager to sink her claws into the man she hoped would be her husband?

Not if purple unicorns danced in hell with bells on their painted hooves.

She raked a condescending glance over Aubriella, her cat-like eyes narrowing in poorly hidden jealousy.

“Have you spoken to my father?” Miss Willoughby asked without a hint of chagrin.

Miss Willoughby had gall. Jack would give her that. If she hoped to cause a public scene, she’d better think again.

“I shall allow you a moment.” Face pale, Aubriella moved to withdraw her hand from Jack’s arm, but he pulled it close to his ribs, preventing her escape.

She should never feel as if she must flee the likes of unremarkable and wholly forgettable Francine Willoughby.

“No need for you to leave.” Jack pinned Francine Willoughby with a contemptuous glare, pointedly lowering his focus to her still-flat belly before meeting her uncertain eyes.

Laughter stretched into the passageway from the cardroom, and someone ran their fingers over the pianoforte’s keys.

Speaking low, he said, “Your vile ploy did not work. Your father is taking you back to London. Tonight.”

She gasped, flinging a hand to her throat.

“ London ? Tonight? No. That’s not—” Eyes blazing with madness, she shook her head, the dark brown ringlets framing her face bouncing from her vehemence. “Papa said… He promised me that you?—”

As if realizing she’d let slip a secret, she cleared her throat and looked around frantically.

“I don’t care what he promised,” Jack snapped, barely keeping his frayed emotional tether in check. “I shall not be coerced, blackmailed, or manipulated into doing anything I do not want to do and assuredly not for something I am not responsible for.”

Francine’s complexion went waxen, but desperate and perhaps slightly dicked in the knob, she persisted. “I’ll make a scene. Cause a ruckus the likes of which the haut ton has never seen before.”

Not likely. She wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last chit to find herself with child outside wedlock.

“No, I don’t think you will.” Aubriella stepped forward. “Several days ago, someone created a bet that you would wed within a month. People have wagered upon the outcome.”

Jack pinned her with a speculative glance.

They have?

Just how did she come to know about this bet?

Her tone kind but firm, Aubriella dropped her attention to Francine’s middle before raising her eyes to meet the other woman’s. “I am certain you do not want the reason for that wager to become public. For your sake, go back to London with your father. Better yet, retire to the country or go abroad for several months or a year.”

Francine’s mouth worked, but no sound emerged. Posture defiant and murder spewing from her eyes, she spun on her satin heels and stomped down the corridor.

“Somehow, I doubt we’ve seen the last of her,” Aubriella murmured, her eyebrows pulled into a vee across her nose. “She’s quite desperate and unwilling to give up easily. Or else she wouldn’t be here. I’d guess prospective husbands have been hard to find. She might well have to leave the country for a year and pretend to be widowed when she returns.”

There was much truth to her honest, but not spiteful, observation.

“Tell me, Aubriella. Where did you come by the information regarding the wager about Miss Willoughby’s delicate condition?” Jack steered her into the alcove Francine had vacated and flicked one side of the drapery down, ensconcing them in muted half-light. “And I’ll have the truth, if you please.”

Canting her head, Aubriella narrowed her eyes, astute intelligence gleaming in their depths. “I’ll tell you after our game of hazard. If you win, that is.”

Sly minx.

“And if you win?” She wouldn’t because Jack was a master at probability and numbers and knew precisely when to quit.

She eyed him up and down with provocative intensity, and being the virile man he was, his body responded predictably. And that proved most unexpected and disturbing.

“Should I prevail, Jack, you’ll allow me to draw you, wearing only your pantaloons.”