Late the nextevening, Rand was still cursing himself whilst he playedvingt-et-unwith a small group of friends in an effort to while away both his time and his shame. He had made an utter arse of himself yesterday in the gardens with Grace. Not for the first time. Nor, he was certain, would it be the last time. His instinctive reaction had been to believe her false, and he knew the reason why.
The reason was an old one.
Started long ago.
With the woman who had shown him first that love could not be trusted, that passion was never meant to last, and that he must always guard his heart. Lady Georgina Duckworth, now the Duchess of Linden, had taught him a lesson he had never forgotten in all the years since.
Regardless of the reason for his assumptions, Grace had been giving him the cut all day long. He knew why.
“Aylesford,” prompted Lord Ashley Rawdon, who was acting as dealer. “It is your turn.”
He examined his cards, then flicked a casual glance over the cards of the players around him. The Earl of Hertford had already folded. The Duke of Warwick—Rand’s oldest and best friend—looked smug. The Duke of Coventry, a painfully shy fellow, appeared morose, the three cards he had face up on the table either the sign of a winning hand or the sign of a man who did not know how to playvingt-et-un.
Rand could not be certain which it was.
His own hand scored only twelve, which meant he needed to risk another card.
“Another,” he told Lord Ashley.
With a flourish, Lord Ashley turned up a card before Rand.
An eight.
Perfection.
If only his heart were in the game, one he ordinarily enjoyed playing. Another round, and Coventry folded. Warwick showed a nineteen. The initial stirrings of victory were sweet, precisely the distraction Rand needed. But when Lord Ashley at last flipped over his card to reveal he hadvingt-et-un, not even the perfection of twenty mattered. He had lost. He sighed.
How fitting. He could not seem to win for trying these days. He muddled everything. He was not meant to have kissed Grace Winter. Was not meant to take her lips beneath his, to slide his tongue against hers, to taste the sweet mulled cider on her tongue. Was not meant to know the tempting weight of her breast in his hand, or the knowledge that her nipples were responsive, hard little buds he longed to coax to attention.
Ah, bloody hell.His cock was twitching just thinking of her. Just remembering her sweet mouth moving against his. This would not do. He had to distract himself by some other means. Clearly the diversion of cards had not been sufficient.
“That is all for me for the evening, I am afraid,” he said, before taking a heartening sip of brandy.
“Congratulations are in order for your betrothal,” Lord Ashley said carefully, taking a sip from his own drink. “I must say, I never thought I would see the day you allowed yourself to get caught in the parson’s mousetrap.”
With good reason. Rand was convinced never to consign himself to such a miserable fate.
However, he was determined to keep up appearances. If his plan were to be a success, it was imperative that the truth never reached his dragon of a grandmother. Only Hertford and Warwick, aside from Grace herself, knew the truth of their feigned betrothal. Hertford because it had been his idea, and Warwick because he was Rand’s closest friend. Not to mention that Warwick was intending to marry Rand’s sister Lydia, which practically made him family.
“Thank you for the congratulations,” he said mildly. “Miss Winter persuaded me of the error of my previous ways.”
Lord Ashley raised a brow. “You were betrothed once before, were you not, Aylesford? Miss Winter must be persuasive indeed if she convinced you to have another go at that infernal institution.”
“Here now, there is nothing infernal about it,” Warwick defended.
“I will second that,” Hertford added, before casting a sly look in Rand’s direction. “Do you not agree, Aylesford, now that you have newly joined the ranks of gentlemen who have fallen in love at this house party?”
Blast Hertford, whose plan to gain himself a wealthy betrothed had led to him falling madly in love with Miss Eugie Winter. She seemed the least likely match for the man known as the Prince of Proper. But Hertford had taken to wearing his heart upon his sleeve.
Warwick was no better, mooning over Lydia like a puppy in love with his new master. All rather disquieting, given that Lyd was Rand’s sister and Warwick his friend. Even more disquieting since Rand himself had long since been cured of the belief in love.
He tossed the rest of his brandy down his gullet, searching for a suitable response. “True love finds us when we least expect it.”
There, that was noncommittal enough. Utter tripe. He reached for the decanter, needing to refill his glass. The day had been a long one, and the night was proving longer still.
“There seems to be something in the food,” Lord Ashley agreed then, his lip curling. “Do you suppose Deveraux Winter put some sort of poison in the dishes he is serving, to rot men’s minds and make them more susceptible to matchmaking?”
“Grim thought,” said the Duke of Coventry, who was far more soft-spoken than his outlandish rakehell of a brother. “Unlikely, however.”
