Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle Read Free Book Online

“This is lunacy.”
    â€œFirst hear what I offer, Rothewell,” the comte suggested, all business now. “You have eight thousand pounds on the table.”
    â€œYes? What of it?”
    â€œAnd Enders has what? Another eight?”
    â€œGive or take,” agreed Enders.
    â€œSo I wager the right to marry my daughter against all that is on the table,” said the comte. “If I win, très bien . You go home a little less well-off than you came in. But if I lose, then the winner can marry my daughter—but within the month, s’il vous plaît. Her grandfather’s will settles upon her the sum of fifty thousand pounds on her wedding day, which you will halve with me. Let us call it a finder’s fee.”
    â€œFifty thousand pounds, halved?” Enders drew back. “But you cannot lose!”
    â€œ Oui, but if you win, you win far more than eight thousand pounds,” countered the comte.
    â€œTrue enough,” said Enders. “But divided, that sum is nothing!”
    â€œCome now, Enders, it is enough to make a man comfortable if not truly rich,” the comte countered. “Certainly it is enough to meet your wagers.”
    â€œAnd her beauty aside, she’s hardly young,” Enders reminded him.
    Rothewell looked back and forth between Mademoiselle Marchand and her father. Something was amiss here. Or being hidden. He sensed it with a gambler’s instinct. The girl’s spine was rigid, her chin still high. But she was casting surreptitious glances at Lord Enders, and her bravado, he thought, was flagging.
    She reminded him of someone, he suddenly realized. It was the French accent. That warm, honey-colored skin. Those dark eyes, alight with fury and passion. Good God.
    He set his brandy glass away, afraid he might crush it in his fist. “I can think of nothing I want less than a wife,” he gritted. “And plainly, Enders doesn’t want one, either.”
    â€œNonetheless, it is an intriguing offer.” Enders leaned across the table, leering. “Her age aside, she’s a pretty little piece. Bring her over here, Valigny. Into the good light.”
    The comte led the girl by the elbow into the pool of lamplight near the gaming table, a lamb to the slaughter. It was pure hell to watch—and despite his dislike of Enders, Rothewell was no better. He could not tear his gaze from her. It was like an accident happening before his eyes—and he was helpless to stop it. Valigny’s fingers seemed to be almost digging into the flesh of her arm, as if he held her against her will. Without troubling himself to rise, Enders looked her up and down, his eyes openly lingering on her breasts.
    Dear God, what manner of man would put his daughter through this? It was just as she had said—she was no more than horseflesh to Valigny. And now Enders was motioning with his finger for her to turn around.
    â€œVery slowly, my sweet,” he rasped. “Yes, very, very slowly.”
    When her back was toward him, he watched her hips lewdly as they moved beneath her dark silk gown, an unholy light in his eyes. Perhaps Enders ought simply to ask Valigny to hike up the girl’s skirts so that he might fondle the wares firsthand? At that thought, a strange, disgusting wave of lust and nausea washed over him.
    This was not right.
    It was also none of his business. He could walk out. Go home this instant and tell Valigny and Enders to go bugger themselves. However desirable Mademoiselle Marchand might be, the woman could obviously fend for herself. He didn’t give a two-penny damn about the money on the table and, he reminded himself, he had no morals to be troubled by.
    And yet he was not leaving, was he?
    Because she reminded him of someone. Because he had felt fleetingly drawn into the swirling black pools of her eyes. Fool . Oh, what a bloody damned fool he was.
    To shut out the wild notion edging nearer, Rothewell squeezed his