Damsel in Distress Read Free

more experienced bettors in the throng moaned. “In that manner, madam, you are hardly betting at all,” the croupier explained. “One of the numbers must win; the other thirty-four will lose. You will win back your thirty-five counters, and lose thirty-four.”
    “At this rate, I shall be here all night,” she grumbled, and placed one counter on each of the first five numbers. The wheel turned, stopping at number five. She won again, thirty-five more counters.
    A little stir began to move around the table. “Caro is winning,” was whispered from ear to ear. Others in the room who had not yet chosen their method of losing their money were drawn to the roulette table.
    The excitement lent a sparkle to Caro’s eyes and a rosy flush to her cheeks. It was fun to win so much money, even if she couldn’t in good conscience keep it. She clapped her hands and laughed, “I am rich!” while pushing counters quite at random onto various numbers.
    A distinguished gentleman advanced to the table, drawn by the chattering. He found a place across the table from Caro and observed her with interest. He was familiar with the flushed face and fevered eye of the inveterate gambler, and assumed Caroline’s excitement was due to gambling fever. A pity, but then, from what he had heard of Countess Winbourne, it was no better than he expected.
    A bit of a wild filly — but deuced pretty. His eyes roamed slowly, appreciatively, over her eager face and jet black hair, then down the column of her throat to her creamy shoulders, then lower to the swell of incipient bosoms. Very pretty indeed! Not one of those full-blown, voluptuous women, yet more than a pocket Venus. Not aging and worldly-wise, yet not a dewy-eyed deb. In a word — perfect.
    He observed her for a few minutes while she placed her bets quite at random, sometimes betting on both black and red, at other times placing a hundred-pound counter on five or ten individual numbers. A scatterbrained creature! Her luck had turned; instead of raking in counters, she watched them being raked away by the croupier.
    When she had lost over two thousand pounds, the newly arrived gentleman worked his way to her side to try to talk her away from the table. He knew she was a widow, and assumed she could ill afford such heavy losses.
    “Lady Winbourne,” he said with a bow more businesslike than graceful. “Determined to lose your fortune, are you?”
    At the sound of his deep voice, she glanced up to see a pair of cool gray eyes, set in a swarthy face, topped with straight black hair. A slash of dark eyebrows and a strongly chiseled nose lent a proud air to his face. The full, sensuous lips seemed at odds with the rest of him. His broad shoulders were sheathed in a jacket of exquisite tailoring. In his intricately arranged cravat sat a large cabochon ruby.
    The Marquess of Dolmain! Now, what the devil was he doing here? Quite a feather in the committee’s cap to have got him to come. He seldom festooned these social events with his presence. He was extremely eligible. A bachelor — well, widower — of a certain age, good character, excellent fortune. She felt her interest quicken. She lifted her lustrous violet eyes and smiled demurely. Lord Dolmain returned the smile, with a slight inclination of his head.
    Caroline found his stern face was greatly improved by a smile. Although she had known him to speak to for a decade, he had never been one of Julian’s set. It had seemed odd that, while Julian spoke of him as a “youngster,” he was a decade older than herself. Dolmain was a more serious sort of gentleman than her husband. She knew he was a political animal, holding some prestigious post in the government. Horse Guards, was it?
    “As you see, I am rapidly running through my fortune,” she replied nonchalantly. “It is all for a good cause. Are you not betting, milord?”
    “Certainly I am. That is why I am here.”
    “Then place your bet, sir.”
    He placed a ten-pound counter