Page 8 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

Chapter 3

Damon’s mind wandered as he leaned against the wall of the Ashford ballroom, his eyes trained on the servants working diligently at their duties. The preparations were always the same—tables, chairs, linens, and not much else. Refreshments nestled in the corner against the far wall, closest to the terrace doors, while the dais for the musicians was set up in the opposite corner. Unobtrusive and truly not necessary, but the musicians were a welcome distraction Damon was hesitant to do away with. They provided enough noise to keep his conversations to a minimum—the parties were not for his enjoyment, but a penance of sorts.

Not many hours after nightfall, the room would be filled to brimming with several dozen of London’s wealthiest men and women, each plying their hands at cards. Shillings and pounds would flow more freely than the sherry. His guests would partake of his food, wine, and gaming tables until near daybreak before departing into the early morning hours to find their beds.

Some with heavy pockets, and others empty-handed.

Debts were satisfied before anyone took their leave.

One thing Damon knew for certain was that they would return the following week, ready once again to wager their luck.

For him, the nights kept fresh in his mind how quickly life could change—like the mere flip of a card. With luck, a player could be granted a sizeable purse, or a stroke of bad fortune could strip a person of all they held dear.

Damon had found himself in the latter category.

Each week, Damon was prepared for a few brief hours in the company of the peerage, as he relived fate’s cruel hand without the endless condolences and pitying looks of his peers.

“My lord?” His valet, Everett, stood at his elbow, a mask in each hand. “Do you prefer the blue and silver, or the red and gold this eve?”

Every week, Everett asked for his opinion. And every week, he gave the valet the same answer.

“Whichever you prefer.” The domino disguises had been purchased at Mademoiselle Ottum’s shop in Pall Mall, each identical save for their color—at least a dozen resided in his dressing closet. The clock in the hall chimed, echoing seven times before falling silent. At that precise moment, Miss Samuels would be seeing the children fed and put to bed, bringing to mind his chaotic morning. “Not the blue, Everett.”

“Very well, my lord.” With a quick bow, the valet turned to leave.

“One last thing,” Damon called, stopping the servant. “Can you speak with Mrs. Brown regarding the governess’s dress?”

“Of course.”

He listened to his valet’s retreating footsteps as he went in search of the housekeeper.

It vexed him that he cared about Miss Samuels’ gown. If the frock were ruined, Damon would replace it. It was the right thing to do.

She was but a servant, and one he’d easily avoided up until that morning. Despite how beguiling she was with her dark, cascading hair and blue eyes that darkened when she was angry or annoyed. Her reproach after the children had ruined her gown had only drawn his notice—she’d been angry, and rightly so, but she hadn’t stormed away nor threatened to leave his employ as other governesses before her had. Miss Samuels had a stark, resolute streak about her that he envied. As far as first meetings went, Miss Samuels had caught his attention much more rapidly than any governess before her.

Damon shook his head. He shouldn’t be thinking of the woman, not her appearance or her character—at all. She was his governess—his children’s governess—a servant earning a wage. Beyond her aptitude for her duties, Damon should allow Mrs. Brown to manage the woman.

Bloody damnation.

She was insufferable, yet an unavoidable necessity in his home. He needed her. Likely, that was what made her presence so intolerable. She was unlike any woman he’d ever met.

His children’s governess, like Joy and Abram themselves, did not fit into the ideals Damon had for them and his life.

His children should be a delight to him—to his entire household—joyful, attentive, and bright; yet due to Sarah’s absence, nothing was as it had been meant to be. Nothing was as he and Sarah had planned.

His wife—a hollow ache seized his chest—had been a quiet, patient, and reserved woman and mother. She’d never fallen prey to any form of anger or annoyance, nor acted with contrary behavior. Not with their children, their servants, or him. However, Miss Samuels appeared peeved with his children’s mere presence. It did not bode well for the longevity of her employment.

Upon her arrival, he’d been told by Mrs. Brown that the new governess had determined the children were fed and abed too early for her liking, and so, it was seven in the evening now, and they were only just finishing their meal. He knew because the sound of their voices drifted through the house to greet him in the ballroom, much liked the unwanted call of a raven. Damon preferred they complete their school work, take their meal, and see themselves to their chambers for the evening much earlier. Yet, he was willing to admit, if only to himself, that he was the least knowledgeable about when children should be fed and put to sleep. That had been Sarah’s role in their family, and without her, he was adrift and overcome with uncertainty.

Perhaps it was best if Mrs. Brown oversaw the governess and her tasks with Damon remaining free to focus on other—more important—matters. Things that he was more familiar with.

Which did not include Miss Samuels’ soaked bodice clinging to her bosom as her chest rose and fell with barely restrained anger. Nor his suggestion that she disrobe and don a fresh, dry gown. For that…that simple musing brought to mind images worse—or better?—than a drenched, stained bosom.

Damon huffed, pushing away from the wall. His sudden movements halted the two footmen, who busily arranged tables as they glanced in his direction before returning to their tasks.

The uptick of his pulse at the thought of Miss Samuels disrobing was a spike of betrayal aimed directly at his heart—or the place where his heart had once been. It was alarming that a man could exist without such a vital part of his being. Despite that, here Damon remained, while his heart was buried with his lost love.

There was actually a day, around the time that Abram was born, when his dearest Sarah had patiently explained how all-encompassing love and matters of the heart were. How could Damon fracture his heart enough to afford a sliver of love for his babe that was to be born? Sarah possessed all of his heart; but indeed, she’d been correct. Damon’s heart had swollen to include Abram, and eventually Joy.