Alyssia straightened her spine and fixed her gaze on the game, which appeared to involve drinking something vile. Her pulse, on the other hand, the traitorous thing, refused to obey and settle down.
What if he won?
Her position didn’t allow for pickiness.
She cast a quick glance at Mrs. Dove-Lyon, suddenly aghast. “Are you sure he knows he’s playing formyhand?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “He joined the moment he pieced together the reason for your presence.”
Had all sense of order finally deserted the world?
One by one, each of the men at the table took turns rolling the dice. The game had begun.
Alyssia’s stomach knotted.
One of those men would be her husband.
It could behim.
Please, let it not be him.
Chapter Two
Bishop watched asthe table host lay out six identical glasses, each filled with a different shade of sluggish liquid, in two neat rows of three. Each man rolled to determine who would begin the game. The highest roll chose first, the lowest last. If you won, you could pick your first drink. The rounds stopped when only one man was left standing. All drinks were tainted with something. The goal? To survive every round without faltering, retching, or forfeiting.
They called the gameThe Widow’s Poison. Reportedly, it was a game only fools and the suicidally brave played. Well, by all accounts, he was both tonight.
I can’t believe I’m bloody doing this.
He glanced at his rivals.
Lord Silas Deverell, Captain Jonathan Blackwell, Mr. Felix Harcourt, Lord Quentin Vale, and Lord Edmund Price. All young and virile.
So was he.
Mercifully, none of them recognized him.
He could feel her eyes on the table. The burn of them swept over him like a slow touch, crawling beneath his collar, settling hot in hisblood. Blazing hell. How easily her presence seared like a flame.
Bishop forced his shoulders loose and dragged his focus back to the game. The order of this round had already been determined. He’d choose a drink fourth.
“Gentlemen.” The table host indicated the glasses as if presenting a tray of sugared cakes. “All prepared with the owner’s particular interest in your entertainment. You know the rules. First round starts now.”
A brief pause followed.
“Get on with it,” Blackwell growled, voice roughened by years of smoke.
Lord Edmund Price leaned forward without ceremony. His jaw tightened as he surveyed the colors, then he selected a glass darkened to the shade of spoiled wine. “To luck, gentlemen.” He tossed the contents back into this throat and after four swallows, slammed the glass back onto the table.
Vale, with his easy grin and bored eyes, chose a brownish drink. “Fortune remembers her favorites.” With that, he downed the glass in one go.
Judging from Vale’s face, he was no favorite of fortune.
What did these fools think were the stakes anyhow?
He hadn’t even asked.
Hadn’t cared.
