with, provided he shared the information Nash wanted to know.
“What is the wager?” he asked his peer, attempting to appear mildly amused rather than genuinely interested.
Fitzgerald took a sip of the tawny liquid in the glass he held and sent Nash a bored look. “The Duke of Hapsborough has just put one thousand pounds on marrying Lady Leticia Blake before the end of the Season.”
Nash blinked slowly, once then twice. The answer came as no surprise, yet fury blurred his vision.
Hapsborough no more deserved Leticia Blake’s hand—or body—in marriage than he deserved to be named Chancellor of the Exchequer. Not only was the man a notorious spendthrift, but he’d acquired a reputation among the demimondaine as a one-stroke wonder. “His grace comes as quickly as he goes,” they tittered when he wasn’t about to overhear. But if the typically cash-strapped duke was willing to place a wager of a thousand pounds on the prospects for their union, he must be damned sure of them. That meant Nash’s prospects had been correspondingly weakened.
Damn it, he’d been so sure he was making headway with her. That she felt the same current of desire between them as he did. Aware of her penchant for refusing marriage proposals, he’d moved slowly and deliberately to reassure her that he wasn’t like the others. That he wanted her not for her dowry or her bloodlines, but for herself. Perhaps that had been a tactical error. Maybe instead he should have dragged her into a darkened alcove, pressed her up against the wall and demonstrated his interest in the most unmistakable way possible.
What if Hapsborough had already signed a betrothal contract? Nash clenched and unclenched his fists. Leticia deserved better.
And better meant Nash.
Just as he was on the verge of acting on his instinct to fight through the crowd and plant the duke a facer, the unmistakable figure of the Earl of Randley—unmistakable because he was second only to Brummel in fashion and elegance, from the height of his collar to the intricate folds of his cravat to the length of his tails—pushed through the throng, a fistful of notes in his hand. “I’ll see Hapsborough’s thousand and raise him a thousand that I will be the one to marry the lady in question by the end of Season.”
A collective whoosh of surprise escaped the crowd, and Nash’s hands went lax. If Hapsborough’s wager was remarkable due to his customary insolvency, Randley’s was extraordinary for precisely the opposite reason—the earl was as fastidious about money as he was about his wardrobe, and he never spent a farthing unless he knew exactly what he was getting. If Randley was willing to gamble the outrageous sum of two thousand pounds, he must be supremely confident in the outcome.
But why? How could they both be so certain of marrying the same woman? Especially when she’d rejected proposals from so many gentlemen before them. Each must have received some indication that the lady favored his suit, yet both could not be right.
Which, he realized with a glimmer of triumph, could only mean that both might well be wrong.
Despite this rather obvious conclusion, the gentlemen surrounding the book clamored to place their own wagers, some on the duke, others on the earl, and a few on both. A wry smile tugged the edges of Nash’s lips as it occurred to him that every one of them would lose their shirts if he was the one who succeeded in marrying her.
And why the hell not? Randley’s wager had just leveled the playing field.
“You have a horse in this race?” Fitzgerald asked mildly as he set his now-empty glass on the table behind him.
Nash gave the man next to him an appraising glance and decided, for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain, to like him. “Yes, I do,” he admitted.
Viscount Fitzgerald raised an eyebrow. “Really? Who?”
Nash grinned. “Me.”
Chapter Two
When Nash returned to his town house in Marylebone several hours later, fortified by several tumblers of whiskey and the unexpectedly engaging company of Lord Fitzgerald, he was bearded at the door by the family’s ancient butler. Toole, despite being well-versed in the etiquette of assisting one’s master in the disposition of his hat and coat upon his arrival, instead handed Nash a folded slip of parchment, addressed in a bold yet feminine script, and said without preamble, “An immediate response is required, my lord.”
“Required?” That seemed rather impolitic.
“Yes, my lord. The footman who delivered it refused to leave until he received your response.” Toole’s sharp gray eyes rolled in the direction of the kitchen, and his ever-present frown deepened.
Nash chuckled. “Eating us out of house and home, is he?” Mrs. Hargreaves, the cook, considered it her sworn duty to fatten up anyone who crossed her threshold. Toole thought she was rather too diligent in the application of her mission, to the point of shortchanging the rest of the household. It was pointless to remind the butler that the Langston coffers could bear up under the assault of a few extra pasties, pies and puddings.
Toole drew himself up to his full though not particularly imposing height and sniffed. “The fellow has the appetite of a regiment. One wonders if the Avingdons bother feeding their staff or simply send them off—”
“The Avingdons?” Nash nearly crumpled the note in his haste to unfold it. The scent of roses tinged with cinnamon wafted from the parchment.
Her scent. His reaction was swift and frank; his cock jerked, his balls grew heavy and he pictured Tish Blake laid out on a red silk coverlet, her copious saffron-tinged curls fanned out around her, her moonlight pale skin bare and velvet to the touch. His touch.
Toole droned on about the footman, apparently unconcerned that his master was neither interested in nor attending to what he was saying. Nash ignored him and scanned the missive in his hand.
Lady Leticia Blake cordially invites Viscount Langston to a private picnic luncheon at Albemarle House in Ealing this coming Wednesday afternoon at two o’clock. The courtesy of an immediate response is requested.
In an instant, everything fell into place. This must be why Hapsborough and Randley were so confident of their prospects. Each of them had received a similar invitation and mistakenly believed himself to have been singled out for the honor. Little did they know, the ever-resourceful and notoriously skittish Lady Leticia was still shopping. But just how many oranges did she intend to squeeze before she picked one?
That was a question to which Nash required an immediate answer.
He cut Toole off midsentence. “Fetch the footman to me.”
The butler didn’t quite manage to conceal his offence at having been interrupted in the heart of a perfectly good rant. “Yes, my lord.” He pivoted on his heel for the kitchen, leaving Nash in the entry hall.
Only after he left did Nash realize he was still in possession of his hat and overcoat. Fine, he wasn’t helpless. He stashed them himself in the interval, returning to the entry hall to find the aggrieved Toole in the company of a tall, young footman outfitted in the Avingdon’s white and royal blue livery. The faint red stains at the corners of his mouth suggested he had been rather deeply into one of Hargreaves’s famous berry pies when interrupted. He snapped his heels together and executed a deep bow upon seeing Nash.
“My lord,” he murmured politely
