It might as well have been her twelfth birthday again when her father had told her she should wish to grow up to be at least half as pretty and clever as his Margaret.
She held fast to the inner strength she’d had to cultivate over the years so that her father’s lack of love would not destroy her. But Callum’s words hurt. Of course they did. Were she alone, she might sink to the floor, pull her knees to her chest, wrap her arms around them, and cry. But she was not alone. She pulled herself up to her full height. She was tall, all long limbs, not petite and dainty like Margaret was. Yet Callum was a great deal taller so her gaze only met his chin. She flicked her eyes up, hoping nothing of her pain was displayed. “I see,” she said, very relieved when she sounded cool and unaffected. At least it didn’t hurt as much as it had the first time he’d crushed her. A part of her heart had never unthawed. “It makes sense now. You took me up on my offer of marriageafteryou ensured I would, indeed, keep my fortune.”
“Yes,” he panted. “You are wed to a rogue. Unlucky for you—” he sucked in a shuddering breath “—I’ve returned. Lucky for you—” he paused again and gripped his head “—I’ve no intention of keeping my part of our bargain.” With that pronouncement, his eyes shut, and he fell backward, the lad catching him neatly, as if he’d been expecting Callum to fall all along.
Chapter Three
1833
Six years earlier
London, England
He’d lost it all on a pair of queens. The little bit of money he’d had remaining was gone. Noise erupted around thevingt-et-untable. Exclamations of disbelief mostly. He was too stunned to even make a sound. He was too stunned to do anything but sit there and stare at the two cards in his hands.
Chairs scraped, an elbow brushed him to his right, a hand clasped his shoulder from his left, and then a familiar voice floated down to him. “Kilgore, the game is over.”
He couldn’t form words to answer his closest friend, the Marquess of Valentine.
“I believe, Valentine, that Kilgore is well aware it’s over,” came the smug voice of Pierce Talbot from across the table.
That arrogant tone did the trick. The threads of disbelief tying up Callum snapped one by one, and reality crashed over him. He dragged his gaze from his losing hand to the man who had just won all his unentailed land and the little bit of money he’d inherited from his father after a string of horrible investments the man had made prior to his death.
Frosty, blue-gray eyes met Callum’s, and dark eyebrows rose into a sardonic arch. “I neglected to mention,” Talbot said, leaning back in his chair and that smug smile growing, “I’m a much bettervingt-et-unplayer now than I was when we used to play at Cambridge.”
Callum swallowed past the hard, throbbing knot in the middle of his throat. “So it would seem,” he said, pleased he didn’t sound nearly as desperate as he was feeling.
“On my recent trip to Castle Stratmore to visit your cousin, Ross mentioned that you had long ago quit playingvingt-et-unbecause your father caught you filching money from him after you lost a rather large hand.”
That was not exactly what had occurred, but it was close enough. He’d played with the servants, had put up his father’s favorite gun in the game, and had lost it. Rage scorched Callum’s veins. Had Ross told Talbot that story on purpose in some perverse hope that the man would use the knowledge to strike at Callum? Enmity had defined his relationship with his cousin for so long, but Callum had recently given Ross the duty of running Castle Stratmore in Scotland when Callum’s father had surprisingly left Ross nothing. It had been a gesture that Callum had hoped might make their relationship less contentious. Of course, Callum hated that castle, because it held bad memories of Ross beating him senseless, when Ross was still faster and stronger, so giving his cousin the crumbling pile of rocks to run was not all that magnanimous. But still… He had previously wanted to plant Ross a facer, so the castle had been an improvement.
“Did my cousin put you up to this?” Callum asked, forcing his mind to focus as best it could considering the copious amount of liquor imbibed earlier. This game had started because this smug arse had claimed he was going to seduce some lady named Constantine, whom Talbot had dubbed the “Ice Queen.” Callum had simply wanted to shut him up and trounce him, too. Damn his pride. But had Talbot even been telling the truth about the seduction, or had he intentionally tried to provoke Callum?
Talbot tapped the cards against the table as the last of the other players scattered into various other parts of White’s. Only Valentine remained. His friend was loyal through and through and had been since the first day the two of them had met at the Rogue’s Pugilist Club.
“I’m no man’s puppet, Kilgore,” Talbot said, sounding outraged. “It was quite easy to know how you’d react, given your history at Cambridge.”
Callum gritted his teeth. He was a fool. He knew the history to which Talbot referred. Callum had dueled his cousin in the courtyard at Cambridge, nearly getting them both expelled, over his cousin’s ill treatment of a woman. She’d been Callum’s friend, and Ross had humiliated her. Callum had been dubbed “Lancelot” after that—defender of women, the men had teased him. Of course, Talbot had known that and used it. The man had led Callum into this game like a hound on a leash, knowing Callum could not stand the ill-treatment of women. If only he’d not consumed so much damn brandy in an effort to dull the incessant voice that said he was every bit the failure his father had once told him he was, Callum might have realized that Talbot was goading him. That liquor had also dulled his good sense, which he apparently possessed precious little of anymore.
“What is it you want?” Callum asked, sounding calm but feeling like a trapped lion. It could not merely be the money Talbot had won. It was a pittance, so it had to be the unentailed land of Callum’s that Talbot now possessed that interested the weasel. How the devil was he going to fix this mess? He didn’t give a damn about the money he’d lost. It was a trifling amount, though it was the last trifling amount he possessed. He would survive. He’d done so on far less in Paris after his father had given him the ultimatum to quit his ridiculous idea of wanting to be a painter or be cut off from his pockets. Callum had chosen to be cut off. So money was not, and never would be, a driving factor for him.
“You mean besides your land, which is mine now,” Talbot said, his lips curling back over his teeth.
Hearing the stark truth made Callum flinch.Good Christ.The land had been Callum’s father’s pride and joy. He’d worked for years to accumulate all the unentailed land to perfectly complement his other property. Callum’s gut ached. Losing it was unthinkable. This was his ultimate failure in an endless sea of failures. His father had likely just risen from the grave and was on his way to London to haunt him.
“Yes,” Callum said slowly, “besides the land.”
Talbot’s gaze flicked to where Valentine still stood. “If you’ll excuse us?”
“Kilgore?” Valentine asked.
“Go ahead, Val. I’ll find you later.”
“As you wish,” Valentine offered before departing.
“Well?” Callum demanded, impatience gnawing on the thin thread of self-control he had left.
“Quite eager, aren’t you?” Talbot mocked.
