Page 45 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

Climbing into the carriage, Damon found Abram reading a book as Joy rested her sleeping head on his shoulder. The only available seat was beside Miss Samuels.

Payton couldn’t be out of the carriage fast enough after Rigby had opened the door and set down the steps. Now in the fresh air of the park, with wide-open, rolling lawns in one direction, and a small pond in the other, Payton allowed herself the first deep breath she’d taken since they departed Ashford Hall that morning.

Anger still churned deep within her at the thought of him following her to Lord Galment’s and then waiting outside for her to depart as if she were a child in need of a nursemaid. It hadn’t mattered that she feared falling prey to a ruffian. It had only been Lord Ashford, not a cutpurse. She would have had no reason to feel uneasy had it not been for him trailing her on her walk home, despite his noble intentions.

The baron was being too nice, too accommodating, and nothing like his usual stoic self.

Today, he’d organized an entire morning and afternoon for his children: the menagerie, the dress shop for Joy, and the bookseller for Abram. And now the park.

And he’d had enough foresight to arrange a fitting for her, to commission a dress to replace the one ruined by the children. In her younger years, she would have expected the gown replaced—with a dress of superior quality.

Payton had matured in the time she’d lived at Ashford Hall. She was a grown woman in charge of herself. If her charges ruined her gown, she could very well purchase a new one without the baron’s help, despite her recent loss at the gaming tables. Very soon, if her luck at the tables held, she’d have the money to repay the duke and enough to start on a different future. On her next day off, she planned to preview a room for rent in St. James’s Square. It was farther from Craven House than she’d like, but the area was acceptable and wasn’t far from The Strand. The time to move on was approaching.

The simple fact was that she’d actually come to enjoy Abram’s and Joy’s company. The girl’s infectious delight in the modiste’s shop had reminded Payton of her own misguided youth when she’d thought the world—and her family—perfect.

The world was not perfect. Payton’s siblings were not close to perfect. The baron was not perfect.

And Payton, no matter how long she stayed at Ashford Hall, would never find her path if she chose to remain.

“Stay close, children,” Lord Ashford called from behind her.

Joy and Abram ran past her across the lawn and along the riding path toward the pond beyond.

Which left Payton to watch over the blanket that the Ashford footman had spread out on the grass, a basket with bread, cheese, and cold meats holding one edge down as the light wind played with the other corner.

She’d expected Lord Ashford to follow the children, but when she turned, he lay upon the blanket, his face turned upward, and his eyes closed. His chest rose and fell as if he’d dropped into quick slumber. Seemingly at peace. A serenity, despite his stoic demeanor, that she’d never witnessed before. The only thing that betrayed him was his eyes moving behind his lids.

Did he attempt to lull her into sitting with him?

Surprisingly, she realized she desired to lower herself down to the blanket beside him, to recline and close her eyes to find her own brief seconds of peace. Separate, yet together. Their individual burdens and concerns were far removed from one another. However, as people, they both had their own troubles.

Payton crossed her arms and paced toward the pond and back.

A never-ending slow precession of carriages and gentry on horseback passed close to where their picnic sat untouched. Ladies and gentlemen promenaded at the fashionable hour, showing off their new stallions or recently adorned coaches. Ladies wore elaborate gowns and outlandish hats, while men sat tall upon their horses or in their carriages, displaying their wealth in a manner no less reserved than pinning hundred-pound notes to their lapels.

The park was little different than parading livestock at Tattersalls.

She sniffed. Peculiar that no one but she saw it.

“A shilling for your thoughts, Miss Samuels?” Lord Ashford pushed from his reclined position, propping his chin on his fist and crossing one outstretched leg over the other.

He did strike an appealing pose with his relaxed demeanor, his hair ruffled by the breeze, and his face turned up as he watched her pace.

“The peerage baffles me, my lord.”

His brow furrowed, and for a brief moment, she realized her statement may very well have insulted him.

“And here I thought you belonged to the peerage,” he mused, glancing past her until his eyes focused on the children.

“What would make you think that?” She’d been careful not to expose her lineage when she met with the baron about the governess position.

“Your poise, your cultured tone, your education,” he paused, tapping his chin much as Joy did when she was pushed to make an important decision. “Also, the tilt of your chin.”

“The tilt of my chin? What has that to do with anything?” Her hand immediately came to her chin, and she tilted her face from side to side.

“You hold yourself like a woman who is used to moving about in society, and that means holding your chin a notch higher than those around you.”

“Is that a polite way of saying I am haughty?” She’d always kept her chin high because her eldest sister said it stopped the trembling caused by nerves. “Before you answer that, I will have you know my father was a blacksmith.”