Damsel in Distress Read Free Page A

on 16-17, à cheval, and lost. Caro placed one counter on each of the last five numbers, and also lost. They repeated the procedure, using different combinations and numbers, and lost again. Her pile of counters was rapidly diminishing.
    “Why do you not switch to ten-pound counters?” he suggested.
    “Because it is ten times more exciting this way,” she replied.
    He saw the glitter in her violet eyes, and felt a stab of anger. “And ten times more risky,” he said curtly.
    She tossed her head in dismissal of such caviling. “That is what gambling is all about, n’est-ce pas? I like a risk. Are you afraid to play more deeply?” she taunted. “It is all for a good cause.”
    It had been Dolmain’s experience that a gambler could always find a reason — or an excuse. Their luck was running tonight, or if it was not, then obviously their luck was about to turn. Marie had been the same. Lady Winbourne reminded him somewhat of his late wife. She had the same beautiful, impertinent shoulders, and that same lively manner, cavalier, not taking life too seriously.
    He felt a strong interest, and hardly knew whether it was attraction or repulsion. In any case, the lady was certainly losing more than she could afford. It would be a kindness to remove her from the table. It did not occur to Dolmain that he could always find an excuse to throw himself in the path of a charming lady.
    “Come, let us dance,” he said.
    “I should love it of all things!” She scooped the few remaining counters up and handed them to Dolmain to put in his pocket. “I shall play again later,” she said, and they walked away to the ballroom.
    This was the really enjoyable part of the evening for her, and her eyes skimmed the room for eligible gentlemen. She was astonished to realize how many of them she had already tried to fall in love with, and failed. Lord Neville, too stodgy; Sir James Pyke, too rakish; Lord Anscombe, a wickedly engaging fortune hunter.
    The Season was amazingly thin of partis — and there would be so many pretty young debs in competition for them. As her eyes darted from dark head to brown to blond, she felt her enthusiasm dwindle. Really it was all becoming rather a bore. She remembered her first ball — it seemed aeons ago — when she had been so nervous. Now she was one of the blasématrons. But Dolmain, at least, was interesting.
    She turned to him and said, “I am a little surprised you came here tonight, Dolmain.”
    As he replied, his eyes raked her slowly from head to toe in the age-old way of a gentleman when he has found a lady who interests him. “I am mighty glad I did,” he said.
    She did not lower her eyes in maidenly modesty or blush at his bold assessment. She lifted her head and said flirtatiously, “And so am I, milord. Your pockets are deep. I hope you plan to dip into them for me.” Now, why was he looking at her like that? “For my orphans, I mean,” she added.
    “Shame on you, Lord Dolmain,” she teased. “What were you thinking?” Had she imagined that glint of interest? Was it even remotely possible that Dolmain was on the lookout for a mistress?
    “I was thinking you are a brass-faced minx, Lady Winbourne,” he replied flirtatiously. “I had not realized you considered the orphans your own personal charge.”
    “I have long been interested in them.”
    Dolmain studied her every move. Despite his seldom running into Lady Winbourne, he was by no means unaware of her existence. He had envied Julian his prize the first day he saw her and had followed her career with some interest. One marriage had been enough to satisfy him. Of course, a lord did require a son and heir. He must marry some worthy lady one day.
    In the meanwhile, there was nothing unusual in seeking the company of an obliging young widow to ease the pangs of lonesomeness. Whether Caro was obliging in that respect, he had yet to discover. Certainly no aroma of sanctity surrounded her. She was young; she was beautiful;