Page 19 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

Even if Marce hadn’t been away from London, Payton wouldn’t have had the nerve to ask her for twenty pounds to repay her gaming debt.

Joy mumbled in her sleep, rolling to her other side and curling into a tight ball with her knees close to her chest. Did Lord Ashford realize how thankful he should be to have his two children—hellions that they were? If not for them, he would have been left utterly alone after his wife’s passing; his melancholy and heartbreak easily taking him down. She’d heard the servants’ whispers around the townhouse as they spoke of the baron’s crushing despair after his wife’s death. Though she knew nothing firsthand, it was not a secret.

She eased out the door and quietly closed it behind her.

It was long past time she retired to her own chambers.

Yet, she was not tired after her day of rest.

Perhaps a warm glass of milk, another extravagance not commonly found at Craven House, would help soothe her to sleep.

Pausing at the head of the main stairs, Payton listened for any sounds from below to signal that someone was still awake, but nothing could be heard.

Her half boots made no sound as she hurried down the stairs, her footfalls silenced by the rug covering the hardwood. Making her way through the darkened hallway toward the kitchen at the back of the house, she paused before the open library door. If she had more free time during her day, she’d likely slip into the shelf-lined, cavernous room and search the rows of books until she found the perfect story to lose herself in. It would be one of adventure—or mystery. Instead, her days were filled with geography, arithmetic, and history. Joy applied herself to learning her letters, while Abram enjoyed reading about the bloody battles in England’s past. Thankfully, Lord Ashford had not required her to tutor the pair in Latin or Greek or chemistry, for her shortcomings in languages and the sciences would have been apparent, even to a person unfamiliar with the subjects.

Before she realized it, Payton had stepped into the room and wandered toward the row of books closest to the waning light given off by the hearth. On a table near the fire, rested an unlit candelabra with three tall candles—and a cup of spills at its side. Deftly, she retrieved a spill and leaned close to the hot embers in the hearth. Once burning brightly, she lit the three candles and tossed the spill into the hearth.

The added light illuminated the dark, glossy wood shelves and reflected off the gold leaf-embossed titles of the leather-bound books. Craven House had an adequate collection of books, but Ashford Hall’s library housed too many to count. She ran her fingers down the length of a spine, relishing the texture of the aged binding. If she leaned close, would she breathe in the scent of leather, ink, and parchment?

Careful to hold the flaming candelabra away from the volumes, Payton walked along the shelf, reading titles as she passed.

History.

Philosophy.

Architecture.

The library was bursting with every subject imaginable.

Still, she kept moving around the room, nothing catching her notice and holding it for any length of time. Perhaps it wasn’t sleep she longed for but distraction. Great tomes detailing the history of rock formations in the Swiss Alps would not do.

A shelf filled with small, thin novels, close to the large bank of windows on the far wall drew Payton’s attention. Titles including Gulliver’s Travels, Robinson Crusoe, The Monk, and Moll Flanders, but her stare landed firmly on Love in Excess. Marce had a copy on her own personal shelf in her private chambers—a book she allowed no one to borrow.

Payton slipped the novel from its place and held the candle close for a clear look at the small book. The binding was well worn as if it had been read a thousand times over.

A throat cleared behind her, and she nearly dropped the novel as she spun around toward the door. The sudden movement extinguished two of the three candles in the candelabra, shrouding her in a murky, dim glow. The wall sconce lit the figure in the doorway but kept his face in shadows.

“Miss Samuels.” The baron stepped into the room. “I had not been told you’d returned. I hope your time away was…pleasant.”

“Lord Ashford,” she breathed.

“May I help you locate something?” The tread of his boots was muffled by the ornate rugs covering the library floor.

“I—I—was going to see about getting a drink from the kitchen,” she said in a rush, her face heating as she tucked the book under her arm.

The baron glanced about the room, suddenly feeling far smaller than it had felt a few moments before. “This does not appear to be the kitchen, though I have been known to be wrong.”

Her throat tightened as he walked closer to her, stopping to light another candlestick on a table, flooding the area around him in a muted glow.

Lord Ashford wore only his breeches with a loose, linen shirt—no jacket or neckcloth. His sleeves were rolled up above his elbows, exposing his forearms. Never had she seen him in such casual attire, despite her having lived in his household for over a month. When outside his chambers, he was always properly attired as he’d been the other morning. Even his sandy brown hair hadn’t seen a comb in recent hours, as it spiked in every direction much like Abram’s when he first awoke in the morning.

Her stare lingered on him far longer than she should allow. Something about him, especially surrounded by the dim candlelight, made him appear exposed. Vulnerable. He wasn’t hidden in his study behind mounds of paperwork and a locked door. He wasn’t hurrying out of the townhouse for an evening of…oddly, Payton didn’t know what the lord did when he was outside Ashford Hall. Besides his gaming parties, she had witnessed no friends or business acquaintances coming or going from the townhouse. He sulked, unseen, around the townhouse most days.

The baron spent little to no time with his children, yet he’d claimed to be busy the prior day.

“I decided to borrow a book to read before bed. I hope that is acceptable,” she said, breaking the silence between them.

He ran his fingers through his hair before tucking them into his trouser pockets, as if uncertain what to do with his hands. It was a boyish gesture she hadn’t expected of a lord such as him. “It is a library, the books are for reading, and I fear since Sar—my wife’s passing the room is most often forgotten. What have you chosen?”