“I’m here for my family, as you know.” Especially for her younger sister. She could not allow her sister’s reputation to be harmed by her mistakes. She had to protect her at all costs. Any cost.
Happiness be damned.
“As it should be.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon inclined her head toward the tables below. “Now, watch closely. Whoever wins unknowingly gains your hand, except for one. One of them wagers for you. Knows he gains you. Plays foryou.”
Alyssia breath caught, her gaze flicking over the men at the table one by one. “One of them knows? How? Did someone catch wind of my plan? Or perhaps see me?”
“I believe this was by chance,” the widow said simply. “Or fate.”
That word again.
What a trap of rubbish. Likely invented by some poet eager to charm a lady into his bed. However, as if mocked by that very word, she’d scarcely finished the thought before her gaze snagged on one man seated slightly apart from the others. Almost as though they repulsed him. She’d spotted him earlier when he’d stood off to the side of the room but hadn’t paid him any attention, denying the inexplicable pull tempting her to glance back and let her eyes linger upon him.
She hadn’t given in to the urge then. Now, she could.
And she did.
The man was leaner than most, his dark coat cut impeccably, shoulders relaxed as if the noise didn’t touch him. Anyone would think him a man at ease in chaos, but Alyssia recognized the thin layer of danger that cloaked him. Gunpowder in a barrel, one ember from roaring into flame.
Something about him . . .
Enthralled her.
Not his countenance, though there was something compelling inthe strong lines of his face and the way a stray lock of brown hair fell across his brow. The man was certainly handsome from a distance. But his profound focus, more striking than any feature, set him apart. While everyone else messily caroused, he simplywatched, eyes hooded, his expression unreadable.
A predator in a den of predators.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon seemed to have followed Alyssia’s line of sight, for she said, “Ah. That’s the one, my dear.”
The one? The one who played for her? “You know him?”
“Of course.” There was a slight pause before the widow answered, “Giles Bishop.”
The name struck her squarely in her breast.
Giles Bishop.
The missing heir to the Duke of Winterbourne.
The more she looked at him, the more his face merged with that of a young boy. A boy she’d dreamed about night after night once upon a time.
So, hewasalive.
She’d heard the whispers that every so often spread through the gossip parlors. Whispers of him being long dead. Whispers of him living in hiding. Whispers of him one day returning.
Hopeless.
Useless.
Whispers.
What on earth were the odds? No wonder Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke of fate. Everyone had known about the engagement of the Duke of Winterbourne’s heir and the Duke of Ashdown’s daughter. That they both should be here at the same time...
Why would he play for her?
The man must have remained hidden for a reason, and if that were case, would he not be exposing himself by doing this? Lord have mercy, she didn’t know how to feel encountering him after twelveyears. The betrothal promise had long since dissolved between her and the boy she’d adored more than anything. She’d made peace with the past. And yet, there he held his place, as if the years between then and now had been nothing but a bad dream. That boy she’d held dear had vanished, replaced by this hard-edged stranger who looked carved from steel. And perhaps a bit of sin.
She couldneverallow herself to be drawn in again.
