The Widow Wager (18 page)

Marcus cleared his throat as he finally brought over a glass of port for both Rafe and Crispin. Crispin eyed it greedily. It wouldn’t make the world soft like harder spirits, but it would help the itch in the back of his throat that kept reminding him of his thirst.

“I assume you must have discovered the true story about the accusations around her and that it was not as bad as rumor made it sound,” Marcus said.

Crispin took a sip of his drink. “I did. I won’t get into the details, but she didn’t kill anyone. He died of natural causes. And he was a bit of an ass.” His eyes narrowed. “Wait, why did you assume I uncovered the story and it was in her favor?”

“Because it seems her happiness is already important to you,” Marcus said, grasping his own glass and tipping it toward Crispin as if toast to this ridiculous notion.

He had been about to take another drink, but now Crispin paused. “What?”

“Well, I assume there is no ulterior motive for you to save this girl from her father,” Marcus said with a shrug.

Crispin tensed. His friend had hit upon a fact that made him very uncomfortable. He
was
very interested in Gemma’s happiness and well-being. But that was because of guilt. Yes, only guilt drove him to this. After all, if he hadn’t been so drunk, she wouldn’t be in this awkward position.

“It’s all right if you like her,” Rafe said softly. “There is nothing about her not to like.”

“And she’s certainly easy on the eyes,” Marcus added.

Crispin glared at his very handsome brother-in-law. “I think the only woman whose looks you should be commenting on is my sister.”

Marcus chuckled. “Trust me, I only have eyes for Annabelle. But it would be a blind man who didn’t recognize how pretty she was. And red hair. Exactly your type.”

Now Crispin set the glass down. “Wait, I don’t have a type.”

Rafe snorted. “Oh, yes you do! I’ve never seen you pass a redheaded lass that you didn’t turn around to take a second glimpse. It’s been that way since you were in short pants. Annabelle and I have had a running bet about how red the hair of the girl who tamed you would be.”

“Who won?”

“I said carrots,” Rafe admitted with a sigh. “And Annabelle waxed poetic about auburn locks. So I paid her ten pounds after you and Gemma left yesterday.”

“Well, take it back,” Crispin snapped. This ridiculous conversation was putting him out of sorts.

“Why?” Marcus asked. “I would say Annabelle was spot on.”

“No one has bloody well tamed me,” Crispin said, downing the rest of his wine in one swig. “And I assure you that as lovely as Gemma is, as desirable as she may be, she will
not
tame me. We will only find a way to survive.”

The room was quiet for a moment and Crispin set his empty glass down with the realization that he had been shouting. Both his brother and Marcus were now staring at him, but slowly their gazes slipped to each other. Marcus grinned.

“It’s already starting.”

Rafe nodded. “I recognize the signs. Anger is the first one. Denial is usually combined with it, and here we are with both.”

Marcus chuckled. “Do you want to place a wager with
me
about when he’ll come here wailing and confessing he loves the girl?”

“I’ll think about my timeline, but we
should
wager. Let’s include Annabelle on the action. And why not Serafina and Mama as well?”

Crispin turned his back. “You two are idiots. And I’m not listening to you anymore.”

With that, he stormed out of the room with their laughter echoing behind them. But as he walked away, his chest began to hurt. What the two men in that room didn’t understand—
couldn’t
understand, because he’d kept his heart a secret—was that he had no room to love anyone ever again. And if Rafe or Marcus or God forbid Gemma thought he would, that would be a wager none of them would win.

Gemma stood outside her husband’s office door, staring at the barrier that separated them and trying to summon her nerve. It wasn’t that she was afraid of him. The past few days since their supper with his family had all but erased any lingering worries she might have had about a penchant for violence. It was more that she never knew what she would find when she intruded upon him.

He could be warm and welcoming, sensual, and they had made love several times since that night. But he could also be distant, cool, and she had found him drinking once where his eyes had looked so…
sad
.

He was a man with his secrets and she was beginning to think they were secrets she would never ferret out after all. And since they had agreed this would not be a marriage of the heart, but of acceptance of the facts, she had to let that go and also accept what Crispin Flynn was.

An enigma.

With another long sigh, she pushed the door open and breezed in with what she hoped was a bright smile. “Good afternoon.”

She broke off when she realized her husband was not alone. He stood at the picture window looking off into the distance while a man she didn’t know rose from the desk at her entry.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had a guest,” she said, her cheeks flushing.

Crispin turned and smiled, but the expression was brittle, indeed. “No need to apologize. Mrs. Flynn, may I present Mr. Paul Abbot.”

The tall, wiry blond man held out a hand to her. “Mrs. Flynn, a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Gemma blinked as she shook his hand and looked to Crispin for an explanation.

“Mr. Abbot is Marcus’s man of affairs. He helps manage my brother-in-law’s club and he kindly agreed to come here to look at the mess I call my books,” Crispin explained.

Gemma nodded as Mr. Abbot released her hand. “Very nice to meet you. Any friend of Marcus is a friend of ours, I know.”

Abbot shot Crispin a look. “A very good friend.” His tone was dry as he gathered up ledgers and receipts in a box. “I shall continue going over these and come back to you in a few days, Flynn. I’m certain we’ll work it all out. I already have a few ideas about investments.”

Crispin nodded, but his gaze flickered toward the liquor along the wall behind his desk.

“I’ll show myself out,” Abbot said with another nod toward her. “Good day, Mrs. Flynn.”

“Mr. Abbot,” she said, still watching Crispin. Once the door had closed behind their unexpected guest, she moved forward. “I am very sorry to intrude.”

Crispin shrugged. “You didn’t. Abbot was almost finished anyway. And honestly, I could only take so much of his clucking tongue.”

Gemma wrinkled her brow. “Why would he cluck his tongue at you?”

Crispin cleared his throat and took the few long steps toward the liquor he had been ogling since her entry. He splashed one of the amber liquids into a tumbler and took a sip. She saw the bliss on his face, the utter surrender, but once that passed, she also saw the guilt. The shame.

He needed to drink, but in some way he didn’t want to. He didn’t like the loss of control that had seemingly defined his life, at least lately…
and she thought perhaps even longer.

He didn’t meet her eyes as he said, “Your father hurtled you into a marriage with me for a great many reasons, I think. The fact that I was…
am
out of control enough that I made a good mark for the fraud was likely firstmost. But there was also my connection with the Duke of Hartholm and my…my purported wealth.”

Gemma stiffened. They had touched on this subject before, with Crispin growing angry with her when she questioned if he had money. Now she chose to tread carefully.

“Yes, my father had his reasons, I suppose.”

Crispin took another drink, nearly downing the entire glass in one swig. “Well, in this, at least, I have deceived him. Gotten the upper hand, I suppose.”

She took a long breath. “How?”

He shook his head. “If you are to run this household, you will find out. Gemma, I have lost over half my fortune in the last year. Perhaps even closer to sixty-five percent of it. It amounts to tens of thousands of pounds down the drain in bets, pay-offs and other foolishness.”

Gemma staggered. Tens of thousands of pounds lost? She had never thought of living with a man who had tens of thousands of pounds all together at all. She had, however, lived with a man who knew how to gamble away his life without thought to anyone else. Her father had been excellent at it, and seeing Crispin this way, hearing his confession…

It was slightly terrifying.

“Crispin,” she said softly.

He turned his face away, the embarrassment clear on every line. “I knew it was bad,” he mused and she thought it was almost more to himself. “But I didn’t know it was this bad.”

She straightened her shoulders. “Crispin, I don’t know what my father’s intentions were, but I can tell you I don’t give a damn about the money. I can live on far less than tens of thousands of pounds, that is for certain. I don’t need new gowns or fancy things.”

His lips pursed. “You’ll have your allowance, Gemma. And you do need gowns—I saw that sad little case that carried all you had in the world.”

She smiled at the gentle teasing in his tone, his attempt to console her. “Well, I appreciate your looking out for my fashionable well-being. I suppose what worries me more is that you would allow yourself to be in a mindset where you lost so much in the first place.”

He turned his back to pour another drink and she let her breath out in frustration. Slowly, she came around the desk and placed her hand over his, lowering the now-full glass back to the table.

“Perhaps I could be of some help, Crispin. I could be a partner in your troubles.
Our
troubles.”

He released the glass and stared down at her. She saw a world of struggle in his dark blue eyes, and for a moment she thought he might tell her what he kept bottled inside. But then he put a false smile on his face.

“You never told me why you came to see me this afternoon.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then stepped back, removing her hands from his. He didn’t want her comfort. As seductive as he could be, as warm as he could be, he would always put a wall between her and anything real in his soul.

But then, why wouldn’t he? She had been forced into confession by circumstance but that didn’t mean he would practice a quid pro quo. She could never forget this wasn’t a marriage either of them had wanted and it would never be a union of two people who cared for each other. The best they could hope for was some kind of mutual respect.

Perhaps his reticence was best.

“Gemma?” he asked, his tone gentler.

She stepped away and returned to the other side of the desk. “I received a letter from my sister just after lunch,” she began, digging the folded missive from her pelisse pocket. “Mary says that our father was thrilled to get a message from the Duchess of Hartholm.”

Now Crispin’s smile became true. “Serafina is good to her word. Not that I ever expected differently.”

Gemma nodded. “Yes, and apparently it was quite a note, because she says he told her he will be coming here to meet with us tomorrow on the subject of her future. Of course, he hasn’t sent any indication of that himself, but my father was never much for being polite when it came to me. He will likely simply show up unannounced and demand our time.”

“And we will certainly make it available to him,” Crispin said. “I’ll be certain my calendar is clear all day for just that purpose.”

She had been trying to harden herself to the man across from her, but those words ruined the attempt. He was so very confusing, locking her out of his secrets but then doing everything in his power to save her sister, merely because it meant something to
her
.

She inched to the edge of his desk and leaned in. “Thank you for your kindness toward her. Toward me.”

He shrugged, but there was a tinge of color in his cheeks at her acknowledgment of what he’d done. “It’s nothing. I’m simply trying to ensure her future. I think she deserves that and you deserve not to have to live in terror about her.”

“The future is wide open,” she said softly. “Unlike the past, which you cannot change.”

He stiffened, and it was clear they were both aware they were no longer talking about Mary. “I suppose that is true.”

“The future is
yours
,” she continued, watching every reaction he was trying so hard to hide. “You can be…
one
could be…whatever one liked. Notorious or respectable. Rich or poor. Drunk or sober. It’s all in your hands.”

His face twisted a fraction, and for a moment she thought he might throw her out of his office for overstepping the boundary he had so purposefully put between them. He straightened up and slowly stepped around the desk. His expression was unreadable as he stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel his heat, close enough that she could smell his skin.

He said nothing, but slid his fingers into her hair and tilted her head. His mouth captured hers in an unexpected and utterly passionate kiss. She melted immediately, despite her lingering misgivings about this man and where she stood with him.