The Bride Price (25 page)

A graceful hand attached to a curvy little blonde piece touched his shoulder. She had followed him around the club for the last hour, and he had let her. The lights caught her hair in just the right way
every few minutes. For a second it would shine a rich gold, but then any movement would turn it back to straw. Wrong. Irritatingly wrong.

Ever since she had attached herself to him he had played poorly. He’d gone from écarté to speculation to vingt-et-un and left a trail of money behind. And yet he hadn’t turned her out. He kept seeing blue-gray eyes shining in betrayal and a bloody necklace in a boxed cage in his bedroom.

If he couldn’t have the real thing…

A three flipped to the top of his facedown card. Lovely.

“That sweet little property from the documentation. I went by to see it during the break,” Everly said.

His shoulders tightened, and the blonde’s hands immediately tried to loosen them.

Benedict froze across from him at Everly’s words, then continued counting his pot. “Interesting.”

“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Parley said. “I think I’ll put up a lovely little plaque with my name on it, should I win.”

“Lord Benedict said he’d tear it down at the beginning of the competition.” Everly looked to Benedict, who pretended not to hear, concentrating on his cards. Everly’s brows creased before he turned back. “That would be a shame though. I’d like to inhabit the current structure. Make it
mine
.”

Sebastien let his fingers curl around his cards, letting his rage show in a way that he usually didn’t when playing. Everly smirked in a satisfied manner.

“What about you, Deville?”

He hadn’t been planning on doing anything rash with his hand, apathy having swirled too far down his throat, though the destructive element within whispered to keep asking for cards until he reached the limit. A hot breath of emotion swept up his spine at Everly touching Roseford, at any of them trying to take something else from him. Sebastien shoved his remaining money forward. “Five hundred pounds.”

The crease between Everly’s brows deepened, then smoothed. “Gaming suicide, Deville? Didn’t think you’d kick it in so early. So melancholy and defeated.” His hand hovered over his pot for a moment, but he was looking at a king and a high card hidden underneath—his face said as much. He pushed the matched bet in. “But I’ll happily finish you off.”

Parley looked as if he was about to fold his cards, but a sharp glance from Everly had him reluctantly pushing in five hundred as well.

Benedict threw his cards in. “I’m out.”

Everly examined him, displeased. “I’m surprised at you, Benedict. You’ve always wanted a chance to beat him. Here it is.” Benedict didn’t look up. He just lifted his money and pushed away from the table and through the crowd. There was a moment of silence before Everly turned back to him.

“Well, I suppose it will just be Parley, me, and this lovely little crowd to enjoy your defeat, Deville.” He tossed his king and a ten onto the table, about what Sebastien had guessed he’d have.

Parley made a little moue of disappointment. A
pair of nines. Idiot. He should have known Everly would beat him if he’d made him play the hand.

Sebastien allowed his hate to fully show and Everly’s smirk increased, interpreting the look exactly as he’d intended. Everly reached forward to scoop the pot.

“Getting a little ahead of yourself, Everly?”

He motioned to the dealer, who flipped a card. The queen of hearts landed on top of his other two cards to form a jagged fence.

He leaned back and looked at Everly. “Your bet. Do you wish to continue?”

Everly’s face had lost most of its color, as he must have started to guess what Sebastien’s hidden card contained. Sebastien flipped it and the eight landed on top of the queen, suffocating her below.

The crowd immediately started exclaiming. Sebastien leaned forward so that only Everly could hear him. “Best hope we don’t meet outside of the crowds tonight, Everly.
Best hope
.”

He pulled the winnings back and lifted them from the table. The blonde chattered something in his ear. He headed toward the faro table with fifteen hundred pounds. He had a game to win.

Caroline directed the last servant under her watch. She had to admit that Lady Tevon was very capable at running an estate. She had helped with all the domestic concerns of the penultimate and final games. Sarah had a pod of servants too, and they were running like an efficient machine. They had another day left before the men and the influx of guests, old and new, descended.

She idly scanned the servants running to and fro, the crofters, villagers, and hired hands. No one was paying particular mind to her position. She dropped her handkerchief near the constructed bench. Crouching, she pulled the rope she had secured in her skirts. She knotted and arranged the twining fibers into a noose. She’d attach the other part later, but this would do the trick for now.

She stood with her handkerchief, putting it conspicuously in her pocket in case anyone was watching. She had realized how deceptively simple sabotaging the last game would be weeks ago when she’d begun the sketches. A minor thing that would affect everyone, yet really only affect those she especially wanted. She could end Sebastien Deville’s victory with one stroke, if she chose.

She looked at the army of servants, the droves of minions constructing the theater around her in which the final acts of the tournament would take place in front of the eyes of society. Power came in many forms. The ability to create, the ability to lead, the ability to destroy.

People so often underestimated the last.

He was up five thousand pounds two hours later. A wise man knew when it was time to stop. A destructive man didn’t. He grappled the destruction in hand for a second, stood, and waved his handler over, letting the person count the money and make a note. He also recorded it with another handler, Valpage, and with the duke, just in case.

The blonde who had been pursuing him the
entire time followed him into the hall, perhaps hoping to make use of one of the rooms farther back. He let the destruction free.

“Mr. Deville, I have a proposition for—”

He turned and swiftly swung her against the wall. Not harshly, but enough to make one of the paintings hanging farther down fall to the floor with a thwack. The quick intake of breath and arch against his body let him know she was completely willing to play rough.

He connected their hips and she arched back farther, her eyes smoky and green. Wrong, wrong. Fingers wrapped around his neck and lips came toward his. He turned his head at the last second and moved into her throat instead.

She smelled of rosewater and lavender. Wrong, all wrong. Her skin was soft, but there was just something incredibly wrong about it. One of her hands traveled down his chest. An oily, strange feeling trickled down his spine at the same speed. He caught her wrist at his stomach, the unpleasant feeling coiling there, waiting. She panted in his ear, straining to connect them. He stared at the wall an inch from his nose. The paint and putty not able to hide all the cracks beneath.

He released her wrist and pushed away from her, striding down the hall, not caring that he left her standing there, ready and willing to do anything he desired.

“Come back!”

He didn’t so much as look behind him.

When one asks for forgiveness—does one seek it from another or from oneself? Sometimes it seems that the asker doesn’t even know what he seeks forgiveness from.

M
ost of the guests would be back in a few hours. She had exhausted herself speaking with Sarah again. They’d had so many conversations in the last few days, especially concerning the seductive thought of running mixed with the practical aspects of such an undertaking. Two women on the run with barely a useful nonsocial skill between them? They had decided to see what happened over the next few days, the last of the games. To put off the decision as long as possible, for neither could see a perfect outcome, or an easy choice.

She thought of the rope under the stands. One on which to hang herself or someone else.

She made another stitch in her embroidery. It usually allowed her to free her mind, but she just kept making mistakes and then having to undo them. Her elbow knocked into her bed stand, and
the locket clanged to the floor. She looked at it for a few seconds before setting her embroidery aside and kneeling to pick it up. There was a whisper of sound, and she froze in her crouch. Slowly she looked up, a part of her knowing who was there before she saw him.

He stood just inside the door, in the shadows, hunched against the wall with his arms crossed and his features shuttered. She clutched the locket and set it on the coverlet, her hand resting on the soft fabric to keep it from shaking. “Sebastien.”

He didn’t move for a second, but then he stepped farther into the light, his features heavy and hard to read. “Caroline.”

She fiddled with the heavy gold without looking away from him. “You are back early.”

“I left London before the other guests.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to ask him why he was here, why he had made the bet, why he had left without a word. She simply watched him and waited instead.

“I won. Both London games.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Because one involved gambling?” His voice held an aggressive note.

“Yes, and because both involved you.”

Where normally she would have expected him to prowl toward her, closing the door to trap her inside, instead he fell back against the wall, leaving the door open. She had never seen this Sebastien, less than completely certain and capable.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.

“No?”

“No. Are you going to come inside, or just stand there brooding?”

He took a half a step before freezing. His posture was defensive, like that of a feral animal caught in a poacher’s trap tentatively reaching out to someone seeking to free him.

She pushed the locket between her hands, and pushed up to kneel with the bed between them, a safer position than standing. A penitent woman who didn’t know for what she was asking. “Why did you make the bet?”

His shoulders tightened; she could see by the shift in his coat. “Benedict made the bet at the first party. After we danced. It was stupid.”

“And did you win?”

He watched her, blue-green eyes heavy. “I don’t know.”

She half expected him to ask her if she loved him, but then realized that this Sebastien, this serious, half-feral incarnation, wouldn’t ask. He’d be afraid of the answer, possibly either answer she might give. The previous Sebastien would have demanded the answer, seduced it from her, never truly believing in the question. That thought gave her pause and a spot of courage.

Her knees creaked as she shifted. She rose and walked around the bed. He stiffened as she neared him. “Sebastien, I’m still angry with you.”

“Yes.”

“You should have told me about the bet instead of letting the duke make the announcement.”

“I know.”

She looked away. “I know it doesn’t matter in
the scheme of things. You will likely win this tournament or go on to great acclaim in society, but it did hurt.”

“I know.”

She thought of her conversation with Cheevers. That even in the unlikely event that Sebastien didn’t win, he wouldn’t marry her. To secure a position in society and continue his aspirations, he would need to marry someone for power. She had none.

She touched his sleeve, and his entire body shuddered.

“You sent me the necklace,” he said.

“A fit of pique on my part. I told you I was still angry.”

“I tried to explain in my note.”

She frowned. “What note?”

“The one I left on your pillow with the rose.”

She cast a glance to her bed. “There was nothing there. I even checked my—” She cleared her throat, cheeks heating as she nearly gave away that she had looked everywhere in a desperate attempt to find something that did not exist.

A shadow swirled in his eyes. “That damn—” He closed his eyes and reopened them a moment later. “It doesn’t matter.”

He reached out a hand, and when she didn’t move he curved fingers around her forearm slowly, as if afraid she’d dart away.

He drew her toward him, and his eyes slid shut as he inhaled. “Cinnamon and wild spice.” One hand reached up and curled into her hair. “There
was a woman last night, at the game.” She froze in his arms. “Blonde hair, lithe, willing.”

Eyes caressed her face. “But the eyes were wrong, the color, the shape. Her scent.”

“Did you—” She swallowed. “Did you kiss her?” She couldn’t ask if he’d done more.

“No, I couldn’t.” His thumb ran over her bottom lip. “Her lips were completely wrong. How could I?”

Her breath caught as his eyes held hers. “Oh.” And something inside her, some devil, prompted her to add, “And mine?”

“Perfect.”

He pulled her the rest of the way toward him and her lips met his. Like a spark of flint, his hands lit a path of fire as they trailed gently downward, curving around her waist. As he pulled her against him, locking them together in a perfect fit.

There was a languid reconnection of lovers reunited, combined with the urgency that this might be the last time they would be together. Fierce, wild, lovely, caring touches. Untamed passion vying with forbidden love.

Oh to be a guest at Meadowbrook today! Would there be any finer privilege? Every contestant knows what is at stake, and the stakes grow ever higher with the most Special Guest in attendance.

S
ebastien walked away from the cottage, warm and cozy. The morning air contained a chill as he strode toward the towering manor, stately and cold.

He passed the perfect manor gardens, constricted and constrained. The stones of the house gleamed, the one strand of ivy near the bottom, viselike in its grip, trying to keep a tenacious hold under the master gardener’s ever watchful pruning eye.

Servants moved out of his way, already up and polishing glittering gold accents. Heavy, dripping, slithering gold. A dark, heavy style after seeing the warm tones of Caroline and her bedroom.

If he won the next two games, he would win the tournament. With the points the way they were, it was a given. If he placed second in the next two
games, he would likely win also, depending on who won each. If he did poorly in one of them, it was anyone’s game at the top. Benedict had done well in London. And had remained surprisingly quiet. Even with Everly and Parley spurring him on, trying to get him to taunt Timtree, who hadn’t done as well, and Sloane, who was still doing well, but had been beaten by Benedict, Benedict had simply completed his tasks and retired. It was altogether unsettling. Something about Benedict had changed.

As he neared his room, a flurry of servants flew down the hall, nearly flattening him.

“Can’t believe it!”

“—King—”

“—here!”

Further cries were swallowed as they sprinted around the bend in the hall. He stood where he was, the walls pressing in. The King was coming. Hardly a surprise, and yet it was as if any last hope was extinguished. Of what, he hardly wanted to consider.

The remaining ten contestants gathered in the “arena” that had been constructed for the final two games. Astonishing that they had constructed the set in the few days the contestants had been gone. In reality it was little more than raised benches, chairs, and a track, but the design was creatively executed in that it looked like so much more. Made you believe in it.

He could see Caroline’s hand in the design, in the streaming banners. He even recognized them
from pieces she had sewed or brought back from the village. She had never told him what they were, even when coaxed with strong incentive.

This work wasn’t by the hand of the woman whom he had first met at Roseford, but by the skillful design of a woman who had grown into her own passion.

The King loved pageants and medieval lore, and the area looked like a strange cross between a medieval tourney and something straight out of ancient Rome. Earlier he had wondered why they had decided to hold games in London, but obviously it had been to get the men and guests off the estate.

Guests flooded the area, winding into the stands. Society’s best, waiting for a chance to herald the winner who would grace their halls with a sparkling new title, wealth, and power. To get a firsthand peek at the games they had been rabidly reading about in the papers the past seven weeks.

Harriet Noke sashayed toward the stands, casting glances at the competitors, a smoky but rote one his way, a more considering one at Benedict. Interesting. That is, if he was interested in caring about such a thing at this point.

King George the Fourth made his entrance with much fanfare, pomp, and circumstance. Trumpets blew, and he smiled hugely, in obvious delight. The King wound his way through the contestants, shaking hands and exchanging words, a small contingent of men, women, and children following behind.

The King greeted him heartily. “I have heard you have been dominating the competition. Your father is quite pleased. Quite pleased.”

Sebastien bowed and inclined his head. “He seems to take it in stride, yes.”

The King leaned forward. “Going to be writing your name down on those letters-patent before the week is out?”

“Perhaps.”

He chortled and patted Sebastien on the back. “Should be interesting to see what you do in Parliament. Shake them up a bit. Change things for the better maybe. Lot of people counting on you.”

Sebastien knew exactly what he meant. The illegitimate children in the land would all be watching this tournament’s final days. A victory for them if he were to win.

“Good luck to you, Mr. Deville.”

The King and his entourage set off for the large box decorated with streaming banners that proclaimed the coat of arms of the royal house and George.

Sebastien concentrated on Herakles as the horse was brought to him by the stable hand.

It was a blur of colors and cheering, flags waving and wild screams as they positioned themselves at the start. The pistol sounded, and every piece of the track pulled into detailed view, crystalline and clear, as Herakles’s muscles bunched beneath his.

Two sharp turns, then three. Horseflesh jostled and riders fell behind or surged ahead. He kept a tight grip on Herakles, not letting him have his head, not yet. One more turn…

They took the turn, and energy rushed through him as they pulled ahead and he let Herakles loose. He was out in front with the best horseflesh and a steady hand, the finish line near enough to taste. He couldn’t lose. The metallic ting of his victory was already proclaimed and absolute.

A bright blue ball rolled out onto the track ahead, right into his narrowed crystal view, and a tiny figure of pink and gold rushed after it. Time slowed. The figure reminded him of Polly, a little Caroline angel.

The tiny Caroline reached the center of the track before she caught the ball. She picked it up, then seeming to realize where she was—from either the stomping of the hooves beating on the dirt, or the wild sounds of the crowd—she looked straight up. He couldn’t see her eyes, but all he could picture was wide blue-gray.

She’d never make it off the track. He glanced over his shoulder. The riders on his right veered, causing them to lose a stride of ground, but the ones in the middle didn’t so much as pull the reins. It was only a split second, but it was enough.

He jerked the reins right and Herakles responded instantly. As if she were a big gold ring, he leaned over and snatched her from the track by the back of her dress. He swung her wide as Herakles continued the tight arc. The blue ball shot out. Air whipped him as the other riders passed, snatching his coat and sending it in an arc swirling around him as well. The riders in the middle never broke stride.

Herakles stopped at the end of the circle,
chest heaving. Sebastien’s heartbeat echoed his mount’s.

He stared at the pack of riders as they crossed the finish line without him, then to the pink-clothed miniature hanging from his fist. A small girl of indeterminate age—he never could tell how old the little toe rags were—stared wide-eyed back, her eyes starting to fill.

“Don’t cry,” he said uncertainly, as he pulled her into a more comfortable position against him and dismounted.

The little girl’s arms wrapped around his neck as the crowd pushed in from the emptying stands, each person clamoring for attention. He couldn’t pick out the distraught face of a woman or man to indicate parents.

“Who is your father?” he asked the poppet.

“Just Mama.” She stared up at him solemnly, finger twirling a curl. “She said I would meet Papa someday.”

He returned her stare. Time ticked the years back. His fingers tightened around her.

“My baby!” A blonde woman pushed through the crowd and came rushing forward, a terrified look on her face. He held the girl out and the woman snatched her to her chest, burying her face in golden curls.

He stood there awkwardly for a second, before turning to push through the onlookers. He could see the contestants by the finish line circling and looking back. He remounted Herakles in a maneuver that was occasionally difficult, but at the moment was effortless; he was so filled with rage.
Herakles cantered past the finish line, and Sebastien patted the horse and dismounted, throwing the reins to a groom.

He stalked toward his prey.

“Deville, what the devil, man, are you hurt?” Sloane asked. He had been in the twosome with Benedict on the left, well away from the girl.

“I’m fine.” He found the man who had been at the head of the middle pack and pushed him against the wall. “You weren’t going to stop, were you, Everly?” He pushed him again, holding him against the wall. “I saw you and Parley; you didn’t give it a second thought. Didn’t even veer.”

“You’re cracked, Deville. As if you would have stopped had you been in your right mind. What’s gotten into you?”

“What’s gotten into me?” He shoved him again. “A child, Everly. You were going to trample some woman’s daughter.”

“Some woman’s? Some little bastard no one would miss?”

Blood seeped from Everly’s mouth before Sebastien even realized he’d hit him.

“You’ll pay for that, Deville.” He wiped his mouth and narrowed eyes on him. “When I win this tournament, you will pay for that in spades.”

“I’m shaking in my linens, Everly. You disgust me.”

“I disgust you? There was a time not so long ago where you would have done the same thing. You didn’t care a thing about anyone but yourself; it was the one strength you possessed. And now you suddenly have a care for women and chil
dren?” He laughed unpleasantly. “Have at your disgust. I feel the same way about you. Weak. You don’t deserve to win.”

Everly turned to walk away and Sebastien couldn’t help himself; he swept his leg out and Everly tumbled facedown into the dirt.

Sebastien pivoted and pushed through the gathered crowd, every ear and wide eye focused on the spectacle.

Timtree and Bateman were farther down the line. Bateman gave him a mocking look and slipped off. Good thing for him too, as he’d been right there with Everly and Parley.

Sebastien narrowed eyes upon Timtree.

Timtree looked back coolly. “I wouldn’t have hit her, so you can stop looking at me that way.”

“You didn’t stop.”

Narrowed eyes looked back. “And you did, though you didn’t need to. It wouldn’t have been you hitting her. Everly’s right. Where has this whinging selflessness come from?”

Strange emotions filtered through a surprisingly clear head for once. “You are all completely despicable,” he said with a small bit of wonder.

“There was a time not too long ago you were exactly the same,
friend
. And now you might have cost yourself,
us
, the win. You’ll have no points for the race.” Timtree’s lips pressed together.

“Fine.

“Fine?” Mottled red worked up Timtree’s neck, then into his face. “You’re going to let Benedict or Everly win?” Timtree shoved him. “Fine.”

He looked like he was going to shove Sebas
tien again, but Timtree simply stomped forward, knocking his shoulder into Sebastien’s as he passed.

Sloane gave him an apologetic look and opened his mouth. He shut it abruptly as the hair on the back of Sebastien’s neck lifted.

“Mr. Sloane, leave us.”

For a moment Sloane looked as if he might defy the duke and stay, and Sebastien felt a warmth for the man that he rarely had for any of the members of his acquaintance. He inclined his head, and Sloane returned the gesture before walking away.

“Sebastien. Lovely little stunt with the waif.”

He turned toward the duke, who was resplendent in his London finery, gilded walking stick ticking an irritated beat against the grass.

“I thought you might admire my finesse.”

“I didn’t.” The duke’s tones were clipped. “You’re a fool. You don’t know that anyone would have run her over. You hardly needed to hurt your own standing for someone who could do nothing for you.”

“I didn’t realize someone had to do something for me in order to be saved.” But that wasn’t entirely true either. He knew how society worked and had long played the same.

“The cloying country air has done you little good, has it? I start to think that perhaps Benedict might be worth something after all.”

And you not at all
. It didn’t even need to be said in order to accomplish the same thing as a shout.

The cold yaw of darkness opened up inside
him. It was so like the duke to remind him of a part of him he hadn’t missed. The cold pool had been there at the edges waiting, but warm gold mist had been keeping it at bay.

“I’ve started to think that as well, Your Grace. Especially the further and further I see him falling from the tree. Lord Benedict has been a credit to the line of Grandien in the last week. Can you say the same?”

He pushed past the duke, who had gone stock-still at the grave insult.

He saw Benedict standing to the side, watching, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar.

“Close your mouth,” he said beneath his breath as he passed. “Or I shall take back every word.”

Benedict’s mouth snapped shut, but Sebastien didn’t turn to see any further reaction.

All he wanted to do was go upstairs and have Grousett draw him a bath. Soak his tight muscles away. Perhaps he’d drown himself while he was at it.

A scarlet-robed figure stepped into his path. He readied a scathing curse before swallowing it when he realized who was blocking his retreat.

“Your Majesty.”

“Mr. Deville. I must say that you didn’t leave us without entertainment today.”

“My apologies, Your Majesty.”

“On the contrary. Though I don’t think you much helped your standing, you made quite the spectacle.”

It took everything in Sebastien to swallow the retort that leaped to his lips. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And I’m sure the child’s parents are pleased and would see you rewarded.” A number of people crowded around, trying to hear the monarch’s every word. A reporter hovered near the edge.

“There is no such need.” He just wanted to hide in his room. Was that too much to ask?

“Ah. But there is one more day, is there not? Perhaps you will delight us tomorrow as well?”

“Perhaps.” Usually he watched for every expression and nonverbal sign from the King or from those of high stature. He thrived on knowing when to hold his cards and when to toss them in a flurry of showmanship. But at the moment he couldn’t read a thing, not because it wasn’t there to be read, George obviously wanted something, but Sebastien was just too worn out to read it. The King was likely disappointed as well. Wasn’t everyone?