“What’s your pleasure?” Newt asked Caroline.
“My pleasure is dancing, but first I must lose my money. The roulette wheel for me. I don’t know how to play faro or macao, and whist takes too long.”
“You don’t know how to play whist either,” Newt told her. “As to faro, nothing to it. You just bet on what order the cards will turn up in. You see, the banker
—
”
“You go ahead, Newt. I know you like faro. But mind you don’t win!”
“It is a rare night when I win at cards. Lose my shirt is more like it.”
Caro bought her counters, choosing the hundred pound denomination to hasten her losses. She eased her way through the throng, smiling and greeting friends as she progressed toward an open place at the end of the table. The croupier announced,
“Faites vos jeux,”
and Caro put one counter on seven, her lucky number. The wheel was spun round and round, with other bettors placing their counters. As the wheel slowed, the racket around the table subsided to tense silence. The croupier called,
“Rien ne va plus.”
No more bets were allowed as the wheel slowed, finally stopping at number seven. The croupier called,
“Sept, rouge, passe, impair.
Seven, red, high, odd.” He raked in the losing bets and paid out counters to the winners.
“Oh dear, I have won!” Caro exclaimed, as he shoved a pile of chips at her.
“En plein,
madam, thirty-five to one. Congratulations.”
She was the largest winner at the table, and with a bet of one hundred pounds, she had won three thousand five hundred pounds.
“Let it ride,” she said, hoping to lose it all so that she might proceed to the ballroom soon.
“Oh, madam!
Ça n’est pas possible!
If you win again, you would break the bank,” the croupier explained. “Over one hundred thousand pounds. There is a limit of one hundred on
en plein
bets.”
“What are
en plein
bets?” she asked.
“Bets placed on an individual number, that pay thirty-five to one.”
“Oh. Could I put one counter on each of the numbers?”
The more experienced bettors in the throng moaned. “In that manner, madam, you are hardly betting at all,” the croupier explained. “One of the numbers must win; the other thirty-four will lose. You will win back your thirty-five counters, and lose thirty-four.”
“At this rate, I shall be here all night,” she grumbled, and placed one counter on each of the first five numbers. The wheel turned, stopping at number five. She won again, thirty-five more counters.
A little stir began to move around the table. “Caro is winning,” was whispered from ear to ear. Others in the room who had not yet chosen their method of losing their money were drawn to the roulette table.
The excitement lent a sparkle to Caro’s eyes and a rosy flush to her cheeks. It was fun to win so much money, even if she couldn’t in good conscience keep it. She clapped her hands and laughed, “I am rich!” while pushing counters quite at random onto various numbers.
A distinguished gentleman advanced to the table, drawn by the chattering. He found a place across the table from Caro and observed her with interest. He was familiar with the flushed face and fevered eye of the inveterate gambler, and assumed Caroline’s excitement was due to gambling fever. A pity, but then, from what he had heard of Countess Winbourne, it was no better than he expected.
A bit of a wild filly
—
but deuced pretty. His eyes roamed slowly, appreciatively, over her eager face and jet black hair, then down the column of her throat to her creamy shoulders, then lower to the swell of incipient bosoms. Very pretty indeed! Not one of those full-blown, voluptuous women, yet more than a pocket Venus. Not aging and worldly-wise, yet not a dewy-eyed deb. In a word
—
perfect.
He observed her for a few minutes while she placed her bets quite at random, sometimes betting on both black and red, at other times placing a hundred-pound counter on five or ten individual numbers. A scatterbrained creature! Her luck had turned; instead of raking in counters, she watched them being raked away by the croupier.
When she had lost over two thousand pounds, the newly arrived gentleman worked his way to her side to try to talk her away from the table. He knew she was a widow, and assumed she could ill afford such heavy losses.
“Lady Winbourne,” he said with a bow more businesslike than graceful. “Determined to lose your fortune, are you?”
At the sound of his deep voice, she glanced up to see a pair of cool gray eyes, set in a swarthy face, topped with straight black hair. A slash of dark eyebrows and a strongly chiseled nose lent a proud air to his face. The full, sensuous lips seemed at odds with the rest of him. His broad shoulders were sheathed in a jacket of exquisite tailoring. In his intricately arranged cravat sat a large cabochon ruby.
The Marquess of Dolmain! Now, what the devil was he doing here? Quite a feather in the committee’s cap to have got him to come. He seldom festooned these social events with his presence. He was extremely eligible. A bachelor
—
well, widower
—
of a certain age, good character, excellent fortune. She felt her interest quicken. She lifted her lustrous violet eyes and smiled demurely. Lord Dolmain returned the smile, with a slight inclination of his head.
Caroline found his stern face was greatly improved by a smile. Although she had known him to speak to for a decade, he had never been one of Julian’s set. It had seemed odd that, while Julian spoke of him as a “youngster,” he was a decade older than herself. Dolmain was a more serious sort of gentleman than her husband. She knew he was a political animal, holding some prestigious post in the government. Horse Guards, was it?
“As you see, I am rapidly running through my fortune,” she replied nonchalantly. “It is all for a good cause. Are you not betting, milord?”
“Certainly I am. That is why I am here.”
“Then place your bet, sir.”
He placed a ten-pound counter on 16-17, à
cheval,
and lost. Caro placed one counter on each of the last five numbers, and also lost. They repeated the procedure, using different combinations and numbers, and lost again. Her pile of counters was rapidly diminishing.
“Why do you not switch to ten-pound counters?” he suggested.
“Because it is ten times more exciting this way,” she replied.
He saw the glitter in her violet eyes, and felt a stab of anger. “And ten times more risky,” he said curtly.
She tossed her head in dismissal of such caviling. “That is what gambling is all about,
n’est-ce pas?
I like a risk. Are you afraid to play more deeply?” she taunted. “It is all for a good cause.”
It had been Dolmain’s experience that a gambler could always find a reason
—
or an excuse. Their luck was running tonight, or if it was not, then obviously their luck was about to turn. Marie had been the same. Lady Winbourne reminded him somewhat of his late wife. She had the same beautiful, impertinent shoulders, and that same lively manner, cavalier, not taking life too seriously.
He felt a strong interest, and hardly knew whether it was attraction or repulsion. In any case, the lady was certainly losing more than she could afford. It would be a kindness to remove her from the table. It did not occur to Dolmain that he could always find an excuse to throw himself in the path of a charming lady.
“Come, let us dance,” he said.
“I should love it of all things!” She scooped the few remaining counters up and handed them to Dolmain to put in his pocket. “I shall play again later,” she said, and they walked away to the ballroom.
This was the really enjoyable part of the evening for her, and her eyes skimmed the room for eligible gentlemen. She was astonished to realize how many of them she had already tried to fall in love with, and failed. Lord Neville, too stodgy; Sir James Pyke, too rakish; Lord Anscombe, a wickedly engaging fortune hunter.
The Season was amazingly thin of
partis
—
and there would be so many pretty young debs in competition for them. As her eyes darted from dark head to brown to blond, she felt her enthusiasm dwindle. Really it was all becoming rather a bore. She remembered her first ball
—
it seemed aeons ago
—
when she had been so nervous. Now she was one of the blasé
matrons. But Dolmain, at least, was interesting.
She turned to him and said, “I am a little surprised you came here tonight, Dolmain.”
As he replied, his eyes raked her slowly from head to toe in the age-old way of a gentleman when he has found a lady who interests him. “I am mighty glad I did,” he said.
She did not lower her eyes in maidenly modesty or blush at his bold assessment. She lifted her head and said flirtatiously, “And so am I, milord. Your pockets are deep. I hope you plan to dip into them for me.” Now, why was he looking at her like that? “For my orphans, I mean,” she added.
“Shame on you, Lord Dolmain,” she teased. “What were you thinking?” Had she imagined that glint of interest? Was it even remotely possible that Dolmain was on the lookout for a mistress?
“I was thinking you are a brass-faced minx, Lady Winbourne,” he replied flirtatiously. “I had not realized you considered the orphans your own personal charge.”
“I have long been interested in them.”
Dolmain studied her every move. Despite his seldom running into Lady Winbourne, he was by no means unaware of her existence. He had envied Julian his prize the first day he saw her and had followed her career with some interest. One marriage had been enough to satisfy him. Of course, a lord did require a son and heir. He must marry some worthy lady one day.
In the meanwhile, there was nothing unusual in seeking the company of an obliging young widow to ease the pangs of lonesomeness. Whether Caro was obliging in that respect, he had yet to discover. Certainly no aroma of sanctity surrounded her. She was young; she was beautiful; presumably she missed her husband and was taking her pleasure where she found it
—
until she nabbed another husband. The trick would be to make sure he didn’t end up in that role.
“Oh, good! A waltz!” she exclaimed, when the music began.
Dolmain welcomed the waltz, too. This new fad was the only thing that enabled a gentleman to publicly hold a lady in his arms without censure. Once the music began, he gathered her into his arms; they ceased talking and swirled about the floor in perfect harmony. She moved with the ease and grace of a fairy. Caroline was known as a marvelous dancer; she was surprised to see all her skills were required to keep pace with Dolmain.
She tilted her head back and gazed at him until he felt he was drowning in the depths of her long-lashed eyes. “Where did you learn to waltz like this?” she asked dreamily.
“At Whitehall,” he replied soberly, but a lambent flicker of amusement flashed in his eyes as he said it. “Now that I have made my debut, however, I look forward to performing in public again soon
—
with you.”
She drew her head back and cast a coquettish smile at him. “How nice. I expect we shall meet here and there.”
“Very likely, but I prefer less happenstance in my dealings. Shall we say, tomorrow at four?”
“You have been out of it longer than you realize, Dolmain. Waltzes do not begin at four, unless you are suggesting we attend some deb’s waltzing lessons.”
“Nothing of the sort. You and I are well past the age where we require lessons, I meant we might go for a drive. It is difficult to hold any rational conversation at a place like this.”
“I am not much good at rational discourse,” she warned. “I leave that to you politicians. My forte is nonsense.”
He lowered his head and whispered in her ear, “I shall let you in on all the naughty on-dits at Whitehall.”
His lips tickled her ear, as he breathed into it. She gave an impish grin. “Is it true there is a war going on with some Frenchie
—
what is his name, now? Ah, Napoleon Bonaparte. That’s it.”
“And you told me your forte was nonsense. You are up to all the rigs. But seriously, Lady Winbourne, may I call tomorrow?”
“I would be honored,” she said graciously. A spurt of triumph thrilled through her. Lord Dolmain would add a touch of class to her court of escorts. Yet she could not quite envisage him being content to be one of a throng.
When the waltzes were over, he accompanied her to the refreshment parlor. Due to the crowd, he walked a pace behind her. Warmed by the waltz, she let her shawl slip low over her shoulders, revealing the daring cut of her gown. Dolmain’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Don’t say it,” she warned, with a saucy look tossed over her shoulder, for she suspected he would be shocked at her gown.
“I was not going to disparage it. How else could you show off that charming beauty mark? The gown is very nice, too.”
“Thank you. Champagne for me, if you please. It is an extravagance to serve it at a charity do, but it draws the better class. Orgeat is so old-fashioned,” she said, with a
tsk
of disapproval.
“I assume, then, that you are a thoroughly modern lady?” he asked, and listened closely for her reply.
“I try to keep in the vanguard. I approve of all modern innovations
—
waltzing and Byron’s poems and damped gowns.”
“We think alike, you and I,” he said approvingly.
“Then you, too, are ready to return to the roulette table,” she said, when her glass was empty.
“Have another glass of wine first,” he said, hoping to minimize her losses.
“Why, Dolmain, are you trying to get me intoxicated?”
“No, to keep you to myself a little longer.”
She was flattered that he was enjoying her company, and had another glass. They flirted outrageously, each pleased with the other. The evening was not going as she expected, but it was enjoyable. After the second glass of wine, she insisted on returning to the gaming room, and Dolmain had no option but to return the counters he held for her.
He suggested she change her hundred-pound chips for ten-pound ones. “You gamble your way, I’ll stick to my own. You must not try to change me, Lord Dolmain.”