Page 80 of The Gambler Wagers Her Baron

Payton leapt from her seat, brushing the front of her dress with her napkin as Garrett chuckled.

“You beef-witted buffoon!” Her outrage matched the sound of her chair toppling over. “You’ve ruined my dress.”

“Do not whine,” he chuckled. “You were going to change anyways.”

“I do not discard my gowns every time I change, Garrett,” she seethed. “I am not one of your wealthy consorts.”

“Am I to act affronted by your words?” Garrett pressed his hand to his chest and rounded his eyes. “Miss Payton Samuels, I will have you know that the ladies who occupy my time have sparkling personalities and are superb conversationalists.”

Her anger diminished as she tried to suppress her smile.

She missed Garrett’s witty retorts almost as much as she longed to be a part of Joy and Abram’s sibling banter.

“You are lucky I conduct myself with the utmost decorum, or I’d make certain the entire tureen tipped into your lap.” Payton stomped her foot and turned, heading for the door.

“Ten o’clock sharp,” he called as she neared the threshold.

She held her chin high as she flipped around to pin Garrett with her narrowed glare. “I’ll be ready, don’t you fear.”

The deep rumbling of Garrett’s laughter echoed through the house, drowning out her heavy footfalls.

Payton would have turned down Garrett’s invitation to attend Lord Loughton’s soiree were it not the perfect opportunity to put Damon out of her mind—and don the new gown he’d so aptly purchased for her.

Payton stared at her reflection in the mirror as she held the string of pearls around her neck and clasped the latch. The satin with the lace overlay hugged her body, creating curves that would rival Samantha’s and enhancing the fitted bodice of the gown.

Her hair was fashioned in the only style she was able to achieve without the assistance of one of her sisters; the top pinned back with her long, dark locks twisted in a single curl that hung over her bare shoulder. She’d adopted the style two years ago when she saw a woman on a fashion plate with a similar face structure to hers. It highlighted her creamy skin and catlike eyes.

She’d even overheard a duke comment to his wife how rare and alluring she appeared.

Payton wasn’t certain if the comment was meant to be a compliment or if she should feel offended; however, Sam had envied the proclamation for an entire fortnight. Soon after, she’d met Elijah, the Marquis of Ridgefeld, and her sister’s jealousy had dissipated without another thought.

When Payton turned side to side, admiring the modiste’s fine work, she wondered what Damon would think of the gown—was the color to his liking, was the cut pleasing to his eye?

“Humpf.” His opinion didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. Not now. Not after everything. The tall clock in the hall below stairs chimed, echoing through the house, propelling Payton away from her looking glass and toward her dressing closet. She grabbed her ankle-length cloak and her matching beaded reticule before hurrying from her room.

She would not put it past Garrett to depart without her if she were not waiting in the foyer.

Grasping her skirts, Payton took the stairs two at a time before jumping down the final three steps, her slippers making no sound on the polished floor. Odd how old habits returned quickly when she was in her childhood home. How many times had Garrett chased her down these exact stairs? How many times had she raced up them to avoid being caught by Jude or Sam? How many times had she slunk into the shadows at the landing, eavesdropping on Marce below?

And now, her sister was so easily disposing of the house—their home—in favor of some property in the country.

What was Payton to do? Despite her small savings, it wasn’t enough to support herself without Marce’s assistance or finding another position. Moving to the country with her sister was an option, but it would not bring her any closer to the life she wanted. If she remained in London she would quickly find herself out of funds—and alone.

“Miss Payton?” Darla’s stern voice halted Payton, and she turned toward the hall leading to the kitchens. “Do ye be know’n these two troublemakers?”

She gasped when she spied their trusted housekeeper holding Abram’s collar and Joy’s arm. Both children’s eyes were downcast as if they’d received one of Darla’s infamous reprimands.

“What are you doing here?” Payton knelt before Joy, lifting the girl’s chin with her finger until her green eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, met hers.

“We—we—we,” Joy stammered, sucking in her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

“Caught ‘em sneaking ‘round the back and peep’n, I did.” Darla released her hold on both children and set her fisted hands on her ample hips.

“I will handle them, Darla,” Payton said, standing. “Thank you for bringing them to me and not Marce.”

“They be honest and say they be look’n for ye.” Darla’s eyes softened as she glanced between the children. “The two of ye could’a been kilt or stolen off the streets.”

“I am certain they are sorry for frightening you, Darla. Isn’t that correct, children?”