Her father had been having a rough morning, and more than once Lexie had caught him regarding her with sad, glassy eyes. She had assumed he was sick with drink—he was sick more mornings than not these days—but something in his demeanor told her it was more than that. Long ago, she’d learned never to trust surprises.
Even ones as pleasant as finding a man like Nicholas Wetherby at her door.
Her father had done something and it was becoming clear she wasn’t going to like it.
Markland raised his head and regarded Nicholas with blood-shot eyes. “I have come to collect,” Nicholas said by way of greeting.
“You can’t mean that!” Markland exclaimed. With a groan, he buried his face in his hands and closed his eyes. She wordlessly placed a glass of water in front of him, which, other than a bottle of cheap bourbon, was the only thing she had to offer him. The water sloshed from the glass, and Markland’s eyes shifted from the small pools of water in front of him back to Lexie. She folded her arms against her chest and scowled at him—she was done cleaning up his messes. It was all she ever did anymore. Shrinking under her withering glare, he turned his eyes back to Nicholas.
“It’s completely unfair. Everyone knows you can’t collect on such a wager,” her father protested dully, and Lexie was possessed by the sudden urge to give Nicholas Wetherby anything he wanted, just so long as she didn’t have to listen to her father’s wheedling anymore. Saturday mornings, like clockwork, her father would whine about the latest “unfairness,” as if his actions hadn’t been the cause of all their problems.
“As you would not have collected had I lost?” Nicholas countered, turning those glittering turquoise eyes over to Lexie. His gaze was so intense she had to look away, and she studied the tabletop as if it were the most interesting thing she’d ever seen. “You were salivating over my money last night, and yet, once you’ve lost, you refuse to honor your debt to me?”
Dismayed, she watched the drama play out between the two men. She had heard her father’s protests far too often. She had begged him to stop, but nothing was more important to him—there were always fortunes to be won. For the last five years, her job had been to pick up the pieces. She had taken on some work as a seamstress, but her father, worried about his image among the elite of the city, refused to let her take on too much. She had offered to search for a position as a governess or a schoolteacher, but her father opposed that option too: how would it look if his daughter had to work? Keeping up the appearance of having money seemed to be the only thing concerning John Markland.
If only they could eat appearances.
Lexie put a hand to her forehead, trying to rub away the ache beginning to form just behind her brows. Wearily, she asked, “What did you promise him, Father?”
“Nothing! It was a jest!”
“I have a contract, signed by you. That’s not a jest.”
Lexie found herself intrigued by the masculine timber of his voice. He had the voice of a preacher, deep and melodic, and she turned her gaze to him. He caught her eye and a smile lit his features, and she fought the urge to faint again as her heart danced wildly in her chest. When he smiled, it was as if it were meant just for her, so dazzling she felt temporarily blinded to everything else but the desire to have his lips on her skin again.
Lexie placed a hand on the back of a chair to steady herself as she pushed away the idea. She was no fool. One look at Nicholas Wetherby told her he wasn’t the man for her. A man like him wouldn’t be caught dead courting the destitute daughter of a drunk, even if she were available. Too rich, too good-looking, too self-assured, he could have any woman he wanted. He’d probably marry some pale, blond goddess who would bear him a whole passel of pale, blond children.
Strange, how that thought made her sad. Steeling herself, she said, “I assure you, Mr. Wetherby, whatever my father owes you, I will make every effort to repay you.”
Nicholas nodded. “Your father has already generously provided me with his preferred method of payment.”
Startled, her eyes flew to his face. Trying to cover her surprise, she said, “What did he promise?”
Nicholas glanced over at Markland. “Did you not tell her?”
Markland put his head down on the table. “You can’t do this, Wetherby,” he said miserably.
“Oh, but I can,” he said, his lips curving into a wolfish smile, and her heart lurched painfully in her chest. “Having come here, I intend to collect my marker.”
Markland moaned into the table, refused to look up. Temper flaring, Lexie demanded, “Oh, for God’s sake, Father, what did you lose this time? What is this marker?”
Nicholas turned his bright, glittering eyes to her, his lips curling in the ghost of a smile. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Would I be asking you if he had?” she retorted.
He visibly suppressed a smile, as if he found her amusing. “No, I suppose not.”
“So what’s he lost? What did he bet this time?”
Nicholas ran his eyes over her in a way that sent shivers up her spine, and she felt naked under his gaze, as if he saw through her and into her soul. Silent for what seemed like a long time, he handed her the contract and in a low voice said, “You.”
Wide-eyed and in shock, Alexandra stared at Nicholas while she absorbed his words. As the silence stretched between them, he took in the pale face, the huge, dark eyes, and worried his pronouncement had been too much for her. After the space of about ten heartbeats, the girl’s wits returned to her, and when they did, she was
furious
.
“What?” she demanded, her color returning as anger wreathed her features. Lifting her chin, she scowled and narrowed her eyes before turning her back on him. She rounded on her father. “What did you do?” she hissed from between clenched teeth.
From the tone of her voice and the rage in her eyes, Nicholas was quite sure if she had a weapon, she would kill them both. He found he rather liked her spirit—just another in a long line of things he liked about her. From the moment she opened the door, he had been stunned to find Markland had been right about one thing the night before: his daughter was a rare beauty. Had she been out on the circuit, she would have been married by now. Her hair was black as night with eyes to match, obsidian gems shining in a face so fair it stole the words from his mouth. She wore a dress which had probably been a dark red once but had long since faded to an indiscriminate rust color, and he noticed the way it hung from her body despite her efforts to tailor it to fit. The image of her bedecked in rubies and dressed in scarlet silk swam behind his eyes—she would be an absolute vision. Her full lips were untouched yet a deep, rich red that immediately turned his thoughts carnal. He wondered what it would be like to taste them, to take her full lower lip into his mouth and kiss her until she begged for more.
But she was more than just her pretty face—there was her spirit to consider. He wasn’t oblivious to the fact she had guided him to the kitchen rather than the sitting room. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw an empty room containing nothing but a well-worn rug even the mice scurrying behind the walls would abandon. The kitchen was bare, save for the table and two rickety chairs, and Nicholas would wager his entire fortune the larder was as empty as the rest of the house. Yet she didn’t use their poverty to plead for clemency—in fact, she didn’t seem to want his pity. Though the top of her head barely reached his chest, he didn’t intimidate her. He wondered if anyone would.
“The terms are in the contract,” Nicholas began.
“Oh, I haven’t even gotten to you yet,” she snapped, holding up her hand, and Nicholas bit back his words. She opened the contract, the fire leaping in her dark eyes as she read the terms of their agreement. Throwing the papers down, she glared at her father, who kept his eyes locked on the table. “Look at me, Father!” He refused to comply, and she slammed her hands against the tabletop so hard the man cringed. It must have hurt, but she didn’t even flinch. “You lost me in a card game, the least you can do is look at me!”
He turned his miserable, blood-shot eyes to her. “I never thought he’d collect, honey.”
“Don’t you ‘honey’ me!” she shot back. Turning to Nicholas, she grabbed the contract and, waving it at him, said, “This can’t be legal! You can’t bet a person!”
Nicholas shrugged and kept his features neutral, but his pulse pounded like it did when he was on the verge of winning a big hand on a bluff. Hung over and feeling belligerent, he had come strictly to witness Markland’s shame and leave his daughter with a warning, but once here, he found he wanted what had been offered to him. He intended to collect his due. “Well, if either you or your father have the money to pay the debt, I would be happy to take it,” he said.
She gestured angrily to the bare kitchen. Her mouth set into a frown, she notched her chin and squared her shoulders, her stance emphasizing the curve her breasts. “Clearly, Mr. Wetherby, we do not,” she said in a voice tight with anger.
He acknowledged her admission with a nod, suspecting this was as close to begging as she would get. “I can think of no other way, unless your father here would care to change places with you.”
Lexie turned her dark eyes to her father. Nicholas found himself pitying her for the hope he saw in them—and hoping for himself Markland wouldn’t surprise him by turning honorable and offering to take her place. He’d be forced to relieve Markland of his debt then and leave the girl here with her father.
Nicholas was not above admitting he had no intention of leaving without her.
“Father?” she asked. It surprised Nicholas that, after months of decadent, hedonistic living, just the sound of the hope in her voice made him feel like a cad. His honor, long since silent, quietly hissed he should write off the debt and return to court her, but her father had already bet her once, and what would prevent him from doing so again? If he didn’t claim her as his prize, what would happen to her the next time her father had a run of luck?
He pushed the thought aside. He didn’t need to court her—he’d won her, fair and square.
Markland folded his arms against his chest, his mouth a thin, hard line, an expression mirroring his daughter’s. “I can think of no other way. You’d be cast out of the house if I went to work for him, and where would you be then?”
The relief surging through Nicholas at Markland’s words thoroughly disconcerted him.
Gesturing to the empty kitchen, she cried, “I’ve already been cast out! You sold me like you’ve sold all our things! I’ve already agreed to so much, Father! I’ve got so little for you to take, and yet you somehow manage to do it, selling me because you can’t stop gambling, because you haven’t figured out that when you gamble, you don’t win!”
The chair crashed to the floor as Markland stood up abruptly and raised his hand to her, ready to strike. Lexie scrambled behind the table, putting herself out of his reach. “You don’t get to talk to me like that!” he bellowed, lurching toward her. But before Markland had a chance to follow through with his threat, Nicholas stepped between the two of them, shielding her with his body.
“If you need to hit someone, hit me,” he said calmly, though he wanted nothing more than to get into a scrape with Markland. Nicholas had thought the man vile before, but he would not allow the man to lay a hand on his daughter ever again. If anyone were going to lay a hand on her, it would be him, though certainly not in anger. He could think of a multitude of things he would like to do to her with his hands, but hitting her was not one of them. And from her immediate reaction, he knew she was accustomed to Markland’s rage—this was not the first time she’d had to dodge a blow from her father. That Markland would attempt to do such a thing in front of Nicholas made him wonder what he was capable of when he didn’t have company.
Nicholas wanted to tear his throat out.
Hell, if he took her with him, he would actually be
rescuing
her.
Nice try,
his honor hissed in response.
Lexie’s gaze slid between the two men. At least twenty years younger, a good six inches taller and far stronger than her father, Nicholas would kill him if they came to blows. She touched Nicholas’s shoulder and the furious expression on his face startled her.
“It’s all right,” she said, her voice flat. Glaring at her father, she squared her shoulders. She was practical enough to know she couldn’t escape this. After all, her father wouldn’t trade places with her, and they had nothing left to barter. She had seen the sum of money her father had gambled and lost. They didn’t have that kind of money, unless they sold the house, and doing so didn’t improve her situation—but it would leave her homeless.
And now she knew precisely how much she was worth.
But one last attempt. “And there’s no way to get the money to pay the debt?” she asked her father, raising her brows meaningfully.
“Not unless you want to change the arrangement, but you made it quite clear you didn’t the last time I asked,” her father said with a sigh. He stood up and put a hand on her shoulder. Lexie flinched away, unwilling to abide his touch, and Nicholas bristled beside her, as though ready to intervene. She didn’t know what to make of him.
“It’s only a year, Lexie,” Markland continued with a gentleness that belied his earlier attempt to hit her. So typical of her father: rage one moment and gentleness the next. It wasn’t the poverty or the debt collectors that bothered her the most about her situation, but rather how she could never be sure which version of her father she was going to get. “Think of it as an adventure.”