Taking Liberties. Jackie Barbosa
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he asked his peer, attempting to appear mildly amused rather than genuinely interested.
Fitzgerald took a sip of the tawny liquid in the glass he held and sent Nash a bored look. “The Duke of Hapsborough has just put one thousand pounds on marrying Lady Leticia Blake before the end of the Season.”
Nash blinked slowly, once then twice. The answer came as no surprise, yet fury blurred his vision.
Hapsborough no more deserved Leticia Blake’s hand—or body—in marriage than he deserved to be named Chancellor of the Exchequer. Not only was the man a notorious spendthrift, but he’d acquired a reputation among the demimondaine as a one-stroke wonder. “His grace comes as quickly as he goes,” they tittered when he wasn’t about to overhear. But if the typically cash-strapped duke was willing to place a wager of a thousand pounds on the prospects for their union, he must be damned sure of them. That meant Nash’s prospects had been correspondingly weakened.
Damn it, he’d been so sure he was making headway with her. That she felt the same current of desire between them as he did. Aware of her penchant for refusing marriage proposals, he’d moved slowly and deliberately to reassure her that he wasn’t like the others. That he wanted her not for her dowry or her bloodlines, but for herself. Perhaps that had been a tactical error. Maybe instead he should have dragged her into a darkened alcove, pressed her up against the wall and demonstrated his interest in the most unmistakable way possible.
What if Hapsborough had already signed a betrothal contract? Nash clenched and unclenched his fists. Leticia deserved better.
And better meant Nash.
Just as he was on the verge of acting on his instinct to fight through the crowd and plant the duke a facer, the unmistakable figure of the Earl of Randley—unmistakable because he was second only to Brummel in fashion and elegance, from the height of his collar to the intricate folds of his cravat to the length of his tails—pushed through the throng, a fistful of notes in his hand. “I’ll see Hapsborough’s thousand and raise him a thousand that I will be the one to marry the lady in question by the end of Season.”
A collective whoosh of surprise escaped the crowd, and Nash’s hands went lax. If Hapsborough’s wager was remarkable due to his customary insolvency, Randley’s was extraordinary for precisely the opposite reason—the earl was as fastidious about money as he was about his wardrobe, and he never spent a farthing unless he knew exactly what he was getting. If Randley was willing to gamble the outrageous sum of two thousand pounds, he must be supremely confident in the outcome.
But why? How could they both be so certain of marrying the same woman? Especially when she’d rejected proposals from so many gentlemen before them. Each must have received some indication that the lady favored his suit, yet both could not be right.
Which, he realized with a glimmer of triumph, could only mean that both might well be wrong.
Despite this rather obvious conclusion, the gentlemen surrounding the book clamored to place their own wagers, some on the duke, others on the earl, and a few on both. A wry smile tugged the edges of Nash’s lips as it occurred to him that every one of them would lose their shirts if he was the one who succeeded in marrying her.
And why the hell not? Randley’s wager had just leveled the playing field.
“You have a horse in this race?” Fitzgerald asked mildly as he set his now-empty glass on the table behind him.
Nash gave the man next to him an appraising glance and decided, for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, to like him. “Yes, I do,” he admitted.
Viscount Fitzgerald raised an eyebrow. “Really? Who?”
Nash grinned. “Me.”
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