When
the was Mine by Caroline Linden
On
Sale: September 24, 2019
ISBN: 9780062913593
E-ISBN: 9780062913609
Digital
Audio ISBN: 9780062963123
Summary-
In the game of love…
Georgiana Lucas despises the arrogant and cruel Marquess of
Westmorland even before learning that he’s won the deed to her friend Kitty’s
home in a card game. Still, Georgiana assures Kitty the marquess wouldn’t
possibly come all the way to Derbyshire to throw them out—until he shows up,
bloody and unconscious. Fearing that Kitty would rather see him die, Georgiana
blurts out that he’s her fiancé. She’ll nurse the hateful man back to health
and make him vow to leave and never return. The man who wakes up, though, is
nothing like the heartless rogue Georgiana thought she knew…
You have to risk it all
He wakes up with no memory of being assaulted—or of who he is. The
bewitching beauty tending him so devotedly calls him Rob and claims she’s his
fiancée even as she avoids his touch. Though he can’t remember how he won her
hand, he’s now determined to win her heart. But as his memory returns and the
truth is revealed, Rob must decide if the game is up—or if he’ll take a chance
on a love that defies all odds.
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Excerpt:
Chapter One
1819
It was to be a bacchanal for the ages.
As Heathercote remarked, a man only turned twenty-nine
once. Marlow pointed out that a man also only turned twenty-eight, or thirty,
once as well, but they were well used to ignoring Marlow’s odd points of
reason, and this one was promptly forgotten.
Heathercote planned the entire affair, inviting the
most dashing, daring rogues and scoundrels in London. He declared it to be the
invitation of the month, and that he’d turned away several fellows for lacking
wit, style, or both. “You mean they aren’t up to your standard of mayhem,” said
Westmorland, whose birthday it was, to which Heathercote mimed tipping his hat
in acknowledgment.
After a raucous dinner at White’s, they decamped for
the theater. The production was well under way when they invaded the pit in
search of amusement. By the time the show ended, they had drunk a great deal of
brandy, thrown oranges at the stage, and lost Clifton to the company of a
prostitute.
Everyone’s memories ran a bit ragged after that, with
vague recollections of singing in the streets and Marlow casting up his
accounts somewhere in Westminster, but eventually they settled at the Vega
Club. It was so late, the manager tried to dissuade them from play. Mr. Forbes
knew every one of them could wager for hours, and the Vega Club closed its doors
at dawn.
But Heathercote persuaded him to let them in and to
give them the whist salon all to themselves. “We’ll leave by noon,” he
promised, patting Forbes on the chest as he slid a handful of notes into the
man’s hand. His words were remarkably steady for a man who’d been drinking for
eight hours. Grim-faced, Forbes let them in, where they commandeered the main
table and called for yet more wine.
A few intrepid souls followed them from the club
proper. Forbes tried to stop them at the door, but Forester recognized one and
waved them in. “We don’t mind winning their money,” he said with a hiccup.
They played whist, then switched to loo. One loser was
dared to drink off the contents of his full flask in one go, which he did. The
room filled with cigar smoke and ribald language, and the wagers grew
extravagant. Marlow won a prize colt off Forester. Heathercote wagered his new
phaeton and ended up with someone’s barouche. Sackville won the largest pot of
the night, and everyone pelted him with markers.
And then one of the hangers-on spoiled it. He had the
look of a country fellow new to London, with an arrogant bluster that was
initially amusing but eventually turned annoying. He’d played well enough,
winning a bit and losing with colorful curses that made the rest of them roar
with laughter. But it became abruptly clear that Sir Charles Winston was in
over his head when he wagered his house.
Marlow laughed. Heathercote picked up the scribbled
note Winston had put forth and read it with one brow arched. “Can’t wager
property, Winslow.”
The man was already ruddy from drink, and now he
turned scarlet. “Can so! Your fellow wagered a horse.”
“Horses are portable,” said Forester, his Liverpool
accent bleeding through. “Houses are not.”
“Houses are worth more!”
“Aye, too much more.” Heathercote flicked the note
back across the table. “Markers.”
“I haven’t got any more markers,” muttered the younger
man. For a moment everyone focused in surprised silence on the empty space in
front of him. None of them had run out.
“Then fold your hand,” Forester told him. “You’re
out!”
Winston’s chin set stubbornly. His mate tried to slide
some markers toward him, but he angrily shoved them back. “Give me a chance to
win it back.”
“All the more reason to walk away, if you’ve lost ‘em
all.” Marlow waved one hand, nearly toppling out of his seat. Mr. Forbes,
watching grimly from the corner, came forward. “Forbes, Windermere is done.”
“Sir Charles,” murmured the manager. “Perhaps it’s
time to go.”
“Not yet!” Winston scowled at them all, shaking off
his friend’s quiet attempts to get him to fold. “Not now, Farley! They got a
chance to turn their luck. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Luck is like the wind,” said a new voice. Nicholas
Dashwood, the owner of the Vega Club, stepped out of the shadows. “It rarely
turns propitiously.”
Winston stubbornly sank lower in his seat. “I deserve
‘nother chance.”
Heathercote slung his arms over the back of his chair.
“Well, West? What say you? Shall we let him stay and wager away everything he’s
got?”
Lounging in his seat, the Marquess of Westmorland
looked up in irritation. “Really ought to go, Winsmore.”
“Wins-less, more like,” snickered Marlow.
Winston sat up straighter in his seat. “Please, my
lord.”
“Oh, let him ruin himself,” muttered Forester,
shuffling his cards restlessly.
The marquess lifted one shoulder. “Damned if I care.”
“Sir Charles,” said Dashwood evenly, “do not wager
what you cannot afford to lose.”
Winston scooped up the scribbled paper and added a
line, signing his name with a flourish. “I won’t, sir.”
But he did. Within four hands, he’d won a bit and then
lost it all—including the deed. Suddenly he did not look so belligerent or so
stubborn. He looked young and quite literally green, staring at the winning
hand, lying on the table.
“Should have listened,” said the unsympathetic
Heathercote. “Should have left.”
Winston puffed up furiously. “Should have known better
than to play with the likes of you!”
“Di’n’t y’know that before you sa’ down?” Marlow’s
words slurred together. “Stupid bloody fool!”
“That’s my home!”
“And you risked it at loo!” Heath made a derisive
noise. “Idiot.”
Winston was the color of beets. “Don’t call me that.”
Sackville
raised one brow. “No? ’S not your home
anymore.” He reached out and plucked the scrawled paper from the pile of markers
and examined it, although his eyes never quite managed to focus on it. “It
‘pears to be West’s.”
His friends howled with laughter. “He doesn’t need
it,” cried Winston. He made a convulsive grab for the paper before his lone
remaining friend caught his arm. “He’s got a dozen houses!”
“Set it up as a brothel, West,” suggested Forester.
“And give all your mates discounted fees.”
“Free!” yelped Marlow with a wheezing laugh.
Winston drew a furious breath, but instead of
continuing the fight he turned and rushed from the room, rather unsteadily; he
wrestled with the door, and then almost tripped on his way out, causing more
howls of laughter from the table. His friend helped him back onto his feet
before the door closed on them both.
“Who invited him?” asked Heathercote in disdain.
“Marlow.”
“Ballocks,” mumbled Marlow, putting his head down on
the table. “Never did. Was Forester.”
Forester made a rude gesture. “I vouched for the other
man, Farley.”
“Your
friends are all bad ton,” said
Sackville.
Forester’s face tightened. He rose and swung his
wineglass into the air in a toast, spilling some. “Thank you all for a most
exciting evening, gentlemen.” Pointedly he bowed only to Viscount Heathercote
and Lord Westmorland. Sackville repaid him with a rude gesture at Forester’s
back.
Heathercote protested, but Forester waved him off and
left. With Marlow asleep on the table and Sackville still giggling drunkenly to
himself, Westmorland placed his hands on the table, hesitated as if gathering
strength, then heaved himself to his feet. “The carriages, Dashwood.”
Stone-faced, the owner left. Westmorland surveyed the
table. “Did I win the last?”
“Aye,” said Heathercote with a wide yawn.
“Credit it all, Forbes,” said the marquess. “God
above, I’m tired.”
As expressionless as his employer, the manager stepped
forward. With an air of distaste, he picked up the deed promise and held it
out. “I cannot credit this, my lord.”
West stared at it. “Damn. Right.” He stuffed it into
the pocket of his jacket and staggered out into the morning sunlight with
Heathercote, never guessing the trouble that wagered deed was about to cause
him.
