A Wager for Love Read Free

good now that I am become an Earl.”
    “Ready, cousin,” he mocked.
    Ordley checked him. “A moment, Saltaire. Not the dice. A wager, what say you? All I have here.” He gestured to the littered table.
    The Earl’s hand hovered over the baize, his eyes sharpening. “Cousin?”
    Ordley’s eyes shone with barely suppressed malice. “All these, including that young tool Arnedale’s notes, that you cannot marry within the week, but mind it has to be girl of good family, unblemished reputation and possessed of a fortune.” He sat back in triumph, enjoying the sensation caused by his words.
    The Earl uncurled his long frame and watched him thoughtfully. “Dear me, cousin, how very theatrical.”
    “You refuse?” asked Ordley eagerly.
    The Earl studied his cousin’s face mockingly. “Come, you know me better than that. A week you say,” he mused. “It will suffice.”
    Open-mouthed, Ordley stared at him. “But, Saltaire, you cannot … surely …”
    “You expected me to refuse the challenge?” asked the Earl sardonically. His mouth curled contemptuously. “That was most unwise of you. You are a fool, Ordley-stick to plucking pigeons.”
    Rigid with fury, Ordley stared at him. The room was awash with speculation. Saltaire might possess a fine old name, land aplenty, several fine houses and a title, but his reputation! A wealthy cit with a fortune from the Indies and a girl to marry off well, or perhaps some poverty-stricken Irish peer with his pockets to let and half a dozen daughters on his hands might-just might-consider an alliance with him, but the family of a girl of good breeding, unblemished reputation and a fortune-never.
    Ware placed a restraining hand on his friend’s arm.
    “Have a care, Gilles, I implore you,’, he murmured. “Surely even you won’t attempt this folly? It’s not too late,” he pleaded.
    He was wasting his time. The green eyes glittered dangerously. “You think I will not succeed?” He laughed gently. “Although he does not know it, my cousin has done me a favour. A rich bride, ‘tis just what I need.”
    “Where’s the book?” shouted March. “Come on, hurry I say.”
    A sleepy footman was sent post-haste to collect it.
    The Earl turned to Dashwood. “Well, Francis, and what is all this one hears about your, er, activities at Medmenham?”
    There was a short, tense pause, whilst several of the company affected not to hear, or became strangely absorbed in their footwear.
    “What, can it be that you wish to join us at our frolics perhaps, Saltaire?” responded Dashwood softly.
    There was just a suggestion of a fastidious shudder from the Earl. “Acquit me of that, Dashwood, I beg. I prefer to hunt my own quarry. not have it provided for me.”
    “A hunt which becomes increasingly difficult as your reputation spreads, eh, Saltaire?”
    The green eyes narrowed a little. “My reputation, Dashwood,” he drawled. “surely it is no blacker than your own? Besides a little difficulty always adds, shall I call it, excitement, to the chase. don’t you agree?”
    Dashwood looked a little annoyed. “Come, Saltaire, since you returned from Paris minus the charming Isabella, the tongues have never stopped wagging, and by all accounts when you were over there …”
    The Earl appeared to be lost in rapt contemplation of an extremely fine brocade coat, marvellously embroidered with humming birds, worn by a tottering exquisite. He raised his glass for a second. Dashwood’s question hung on the air. At last, apparently satisfied, he allowed the glass to swing free on its ribbon. “That, my dear Dashwood, was six years ago. Since then I have lived a life of, if not irreproachable morality, well certainly …”
    He was not allowed to finish.
    “Moral, you,” jeered Dashwood. “Lud, Saltaire, that’s rich, and what about the lady’s brother?”
    “Yes, I agree. A trifle maladroit of me, I fear I had overestimated his skill with the sword. However, he is dead and no amount