The Wagered Bride

The

Wagered Bride

-Book 2-

The Clearbrook Series

by

Teresa McCarthy

THE WAGERED BRIDE

Copyright © Teresa
McCarthy, 2004

All rights reserved

First published in
print by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin
Group (USA) Inc., December 2004

Ebook, April 2012, Teresa McCarthy

Cover Art, LFD Designs For Authors

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored,
copied, or transmitted without the prior written permission of the copyright
owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

L
ord Stephen Clearbrook leaned back in
his chair, studying the cards on the leather-topped table before him, when
suddenly the hint of rich tobacco teased his nostrils. Irritation spurted
through his veins at the pungent odor.

The
smell had never bothered him before, but the Spanish cigar habit had gained
momentum in London Society ever since the war with Napoleon, and blast it all,
the wartime vice resurrected memories Stephen would rather forget.

With the
grace of a gentleman about to win a good deal of money, Stephen casually
gathered his hand and raised his wineglass to his lips. He tipped the drink
back, letting the sweet red liquid trickle down his throat as if he had not a
care in the world. And if that were the cursed truth, Napoleon was the sainted
king of England.

As
Stephen dared another glance at his cards, his hand tightened on his empty
glass.

"More
wine, my lord?" the cheerful voice uttered from across the table that was
tucked in a darkened corner at Baxley's Gaming Hell.

Lifting
a cool brown gaze, Stephen eyed William Shelby's fat white hands tapping
against the table while a neatly rolled cigar hung carelessly between the man's
stubby fingers.

"I
am immune to wine, Shelby. Two bottles or three, I am as sane as when I walked
in here."

Two
shaggy white brows drew together in thought. "Certainly, my lord.
Certainly. Ain't wanting you to lose on account of a few drinks, now, would
we?"

 Ignoring
the comment, Stephen followed through with his discards, playing out his hand.

The
ticking of the mantel clock was barely heard over the murmur of the gaming
tables spread throughout the room. Faro, piquet, whist, vingt-et-un, and a
variety of other amusements hovered in the distance, but every bit of Stephen's
concentration was on the two-man game being played at his table.

When the
last of the cards were laid to rest, Stephen showed no outward sign of disgust.

Across
from him, Shelby shook his head regretfully and sighed. "Ain't one to take
things from a lord, don't you know, but the game was as fair as any gentleman
could want."

Stephen calmly
slipped the deed from his coat pocket and handed it to the man without a word.
Earlier this week, Stephen's solicitor had thought to take a look at the deed
to make certain all was in order, and now, it seemed Stephen would no longer be
depositing the papers in the family vault as planned.

It
surprised Stephen the way Shelby seemed to relish the win, as if the man had
secured his entire fortune in one sweep of his hand. But the cit was as rich as
Croesus. He didn't need a pound of Stephen's money or his land.

"Hear
tell Creighton Hall is a prime estate." Shelby's eyes gleamed with
appreciation as he pressed the papers to his protruding stomach. "Good
hunting, they say."

The
man's fleshy lips suddenly took a downward turn. "See here, the duke ain't
going to come after me, now, will he?"

Stephen's
eyes narrowed dangerously. "My brother is not the owner of my life or
Creighton Hall, Shelby. The property is not entailed. It belonged to me through
my maternal grandmother, if that is what you fear."

Shelby clapped
his hands together and patted his prominent belly. "Then, I daresay it
will make a nice addition to my holdings, now, won't it?"

It was
all Stephen could do to hold his tongue. How the man knew Stephen was carrying
the papers to the family property he would never know. Had he made mention of
it at the club, or perhaps Newmarket? He had no idea, but somehow Shelby had
already been informed of the fact when they sat down to play. But it was
Stephen who had made the stupid wager and lost, not Shelby.

"Your
lordship ain't going to call me out or something like that, are you?"

Stephen
cracked his knuckles and leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs
beneath the table. It was amusing that Shelby harbored thoughts of a duel
between the two of them. It was absurd, really.

At four
and twenty, Stephen was known to be the most carefree of all the Clearbrook
males. It could almost be said that his easygoing nature was epitomized by the
casual manner in which he wore his cravat. Nothing mathematical about it. Even
his wavy chestnut hair fell over one eye, suggesting his approach to life.
Simple and relaxed.

But his
handsome profile boasted of an inner strength and power not to be ignored by
the most confident of men. Moreover, a willful stubbornness lay in the square
cut of his chin and the firm set of his lips. His nose was what most Englishmen
would call perfect—a Roman nose, many called it. His eyes were dark with
touches of humor lines fanning about the surrounding skin, making him appear
fetching, his sister would say.

He knew
most women found his charm appealing, but some men perceived that beneath his
easygoing exterior lay a cunning intelligence that was not to be dismissed.
Even Wellington himself had found the youngest of the Clearbrook brothers prodigiously
useful during Napoleon's fall at Waterloo.

Though
nothing seemed amiss with Stephen's appearance, upon closer scrutiny, one could
detect a cold logic in his brown gaze, a sign to the more discriminating that
said Lord Stephen Clearbrook stood acutely aware of his surroundings.

In fact,
Stephen had always been good at hiding his innermost turmoil, and it seemed
that precise trait was working for him now. He would have to buy the place back
as soon as his business venture with Lord Brule came through.

"Exactly
what kind of man do you think I am, Shelby?"

The
older man drummed his fingers against the table, the dying cigar all but
forgotten. "Ain't one to meddle with the fourth son of a duke. You know, I
ain't looking for trouble."

Stephen
quirked a brow and waved his hand for a servant to pour him a glass of brandy.
"My birth has nothing to do with this. The cards were what talked tonight,
not my peerage."

After
letting the fiery liquid slide down his throat, Stephen peered over the rim of
his drink, giving Shelby his most brilliant smile. "Men lose at cards all
the time, my good man."

Surprise,
along with a hint of confusion, seemed to flicker in the older man's eyes at
Stephen's response. Shelby bared his yellow teeth and pushed away from the
table to stand. "You ain't one to shrivel from a loss, are you, my
lord?"

Stephen
said nothing, his discerning gaze intently studying the man. After serving with
Wellington during the war, Stephen recognized the gleam in Shelby's eyes for
what it was, pure, unadulterated greed. Yet, there seemed to be something
more....

"
'Course, if you're hoping to retrieve this"—Shelby patted the papers
tucked beside his tight-fitting waistcoat—"I will be attending Lord
Harmstead's ball next week. Always a game to be had there." A flash of
hunger appeared in the man's gray eyes that sent a twist of warning to
Stephen's gut. "Perhaps you might want to wager, hmmm, something else, my
lord?"

Stephen
knew he should cut his losses and buy the place back later, but the more he
thought about it, the more he realized that his mother would never forgive him
for losing Creighton Hall in such a manner, and he would never forgive himself.
After his father's death, his mother had remarried and was much happier now. He
wouldn't puncture that bubble of happiness for the world. Although he might not
be able to wait for his money to come in before his mother found out about the
matter.

"Another
high-stakes game?" he asked Shelby, considering it as a possibility.

The fat
man's gaze glittered expectantly. "Indeed. But cash on the barrel, mind
you. No notes accepted."

Stephen's
brow rose in surprise. "No debts taken at the table? How very
unconventional. An easy mark for a thief, I would venture."

"The
footmen will be armed. Of course, I don't take you for a coward, my lord. I do
have contacts at Whitehall. Heard you saved Wellington's life at
Waterloo."

Stephen
stiffened. "You have eyes everywhere, Shelby."

No one
in Stephen's family had a notion of the extent to which he knew Wellington. His
eldest brother might have had an inkling, but as to the other two, they
probably had no idea. Once at a ball, his own mother had introduced him to
Wellington as if the two had never met. Stephen had never batted an eye.

"Indeed,
but that don't change the fact that you are a brave man, your lordship. Not
many men would put themselves between Wellington and a Frenchman's rifle, no
matter what the cost."

"A
ball nicking one's thigh was small payment for the freedom of our country,
Shelby, and I would consider it a favor if you kept the incident to
yourself."

Shelby
heaved an appreciative sigh. "A war hero you are, and humble, too. Heard
the ball went clean through you. But never fear, my lips are shut, always have
been. There are those at Whitehall who would have my head. But you'll do."

Do for
what? Stephen was stunned to know the man knew about secrets he would rather
keep quiet. Playing the war hero was something Stephen had never felt
comfortable with. And a hero he was not, even if he had saved Wellington's life
and sent the attacker to prison.

He spun
his brandy glass between his fingers. "As for Harmstead's ball, I fear
next week I go to Brighton. Regent's party and all that, you know."

"Suit
yourself, my lord."

Stephen
saw the flash of disappointment that crossed the elder man's face and wondered
what else was hidden behind the dangerous glint in those intelligent eyes.

He
regarded Shelby as the man lit another cigar from one of the flickering candles
resting on the table. It had been a bad night for cards, that was all. At the
Harmstead ball, he would repossess Creighton Hall within an hour of playing
with this rich cit. Just a little more baiting, and the pot would be his.

"Of
course, Lord Harmstead is a longtime friend of the family," Stephen added,
as if an afterthought. "I have not replied to the invitation yet."

Shelby
placed his hands on the table, leaning forward, the smoke of his cigar swirling
toward the high ceilings like the remnants of a dragon's breath. "I would
give you a chance to regain Creighton Hall. That I can promise you. Heard your
mother is quite fond of the place."

Stephen's
jaw hardened. What else did this man know? Waterloo was one thing, his family
quite another. It seemed money bought many things in this world. "I should
make a point of it, then, shouldn't I?" His lips fell into a twisted
smile.

Shelby's
eyes twinkled with satisfaction. "Good. Good. See you then, my lord."

Stephen
saluted the man with his glass and watched him depart. Now what the deuce was
the old man up to? Creighton Hall was no great estate, and the man had enough
money to line Prinny's pockets. It wasn't as if Stephen had anything more to
lose to the man. Or had he?

Stephen
unfolded his body from his chair and stared at the door, pausing. Shelby was
known to be a shrewd businessman, having made his money by using his brain and
his wit, marching over anyone and anything in his path. A bit like old Boney,
Stephen thought with a bitter tightening in his chest.

He
grabbed the brandy decanter and poured himself another drink. Waterloo. He
would never forget. The blood. The screams. The death. The killing. He had been
on his way to warn Wellington of a spy in the trenches when it happened. The
Frenchie had come out of nowhere.

Stephen
tried to shake the disturbing thoughts from his mind, but they would not let
go. Taking a man's life was something he would never forget. Saving
Wellington's life minutes after the killing had not even lifted his spirits.
Snuffing out a man's life was not something he was proud of.

He
downed his drink in one long swallow and slapped the snifter back onto the
table. No. It wasn't just one man's life snuffed out, it was two—the Frenchie
at Waterloo and his very own father, the duke, at Elbourne Hall.

"Papa,
you cannot mean this."

Elizabeth
Shelby paced the floor of the family's London hotel apartment, not able to
believe her father's words. Wisps of wheat-colored hair, highlighted with
strands of honey blonde, fell about her face as she stopped and looked at her
father's frowning gaze in the gilded mirror across the room.

Tears of
frustration pooled in her intelligent blue eyes, but she refused to let them
fall. Her father had hurt her deeply, and whether he thought he was doing this
in her best interest or not, she could not agree to his plan.

"Papa,
please don't do this to me."

"Now,
Lizzie, be a good girl and don't argue with me. It ain't seemly."

Elizabeth's
gaze began to blur, and she turned toward the window, glaring past the
carriages clattering along the street. She could not let this happen. She would
not marry some lord for the sake of his name and title. She could not.