The Problem with Seduction

Epilogue

LORD DARIUS ALEXANDER’S hand shook as he reached for the crisp vellum card lying conspicuously in the middle of the hazard table. His whole body trembled as he turned it over and read the tight scrawl across the cardstock. He could hardly credit his luck tonight. Tockwith Hall. An estate in York, if he remembered it right.

With his left hand, he scooped up his initial stake along with the crumpled bank notes piled atop it. Nine thousand quid. He rattled so violently, he could barely collect the two halves of his winnings together into a single stack.

That was the problem with owing every rotter in the city. Just holding a bit of blunt made him rapturous.

He managed to cram the whole of it into his coat. Dear Lord, it was almost enough to buy back all of his IOUs. He could return home a free man…if he walked out of this gaming hell without a backward glance.

That was it; turn and leave. But the elation pulsing in his veins gave him pause. Nine thousand was almost enough. One thousand more and he’d be truly liberated. Just one more turn as the caster and all of his problems would disappear.

No, not all of them. One of them would always be with him.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” He was surprised his voice sounded normal. His cravat was mimicking the sausagelike fingers of the ruffian who’d promised to break his knees tomorrow if he didn’t return with ten thousand pounds and a smile. After what had been done to Con, he didn’t doubt the thug’s ability to follow through. “That will be all for tonight.”

His good friend Lord de Winter caught his forearm in a tense grip as he made to leave. The earl flashed a boyish grin with just enough edge to hint at his aversion to losing a bet. “Surely, you don’t mean to pocket the estate and walk away. Give Lord Marston a chance to win his property back. Come now, be a friend. One last game before we all find our beds.”

Dare slid his palm down the front of his coat. The wad of papers balled inside bulged beneath his hand. He hadn’t lost them—yet. Then he searched higher, until he found the handle of the old pistol tucked into his waistband. He was walking out of here with his winnings. He only prayed no one tried to stop him with more than an invitation back to the tables.

“Another time.”

“Just one last game, Dare,” de Winter cajoled. “I’ve got five hundred that says you’ll roll the main.”

A bead of sweat formed on Dare’s brow. Violence he could handle. The lure of the tables…

He didn’t even want the property. He could put it up, just as Lord Marston had, and try to win the thousand he still needed. In another toss of the dice, it could all be decided. All could be forgiven. Just one last game…

Or he could lose everything. Because there was one thing he knew about himself.

There was no such thing as one last game.