distinctive about her. Winged black brows sat above cobalt-blue eyes fringed with long black lashes. There was a spark of intelligence there. A mouth wider than the fashionable rosebud, the bottom lip full. The long line of white throat swooping down to a luscious swell of bosom. The same flawless white skin on her arms, delicate wrists and long fingers. Slumbering sensuality combined with a haughty touch-me-not air. A challenging and enticing combination.
At the faro table Mrs Bradley, the banker, was declining the beauty’s bet, clearly afraid it would break the bank. Her many chins wobbled as she shook her head. “I’m sorry, madam, that is twice the maximum stake permitted.”
“But…” Isabella looked up, embarrassed to find all eyes upon her. Impatient. Speculative. Inquisitive. Leering. Under her rouge, she blushed. Not all the women here were ladies of the ton. Not all the gamblers were gentlemen. With a heavy heart she took back half her counters. At this rate, she would never win as much as she needed. She must have the full funds by the end of the week or all would be lost. She simply had to win enough tonight.
“With the bank’s permission I will cover the bet, and any others the young lady cares to make.” The deep voice had just the trace of a Scottish lilt.
Startled, Isabella looked up into the most striking pair of eyes she had ever seen. Amber tinged with liquid brown, the colour of autumn leaves. For a moment they clashed with her own, causing a flicker of excitement to shiver down her spine. A sculpted mouth curled in a half smile.
“Captain Dalgleish,” the banker exclaimed in surprise. “This is most unusual.”
He flashed her a smouldering, flirtatious smile. “Unusual, Mrs Bradley, but I’m sure you can find a way to accommodate me.”
The banker smiled coquettishly. “Captain Dalgleish, I’d wager there’s scarcely a woman in London who wouldn’t be willing to accommodate you in any way you saw fit. If I was twenty years younger I might even be tempted myself.”
A ripple of laughter spread through the onlookers.
Ewan’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Madam, that is a regret we will both have to live with.” The crowd roared its approval. “Perhaps this will ease the pain somewhat,” Ewan said, passing her a sweetener which she quickly palmed, indicating her acceptance with a coy fluttering of her lashes.
An air of heightened excitement eddied round the room at this new, unexpected development. Jaded gamesters tilted back their straw hats to stare. High class birds of paradise and raddled society grandes dames alike peered curiously from behind their painted and lace-trimmed fans. Into the brief silence blew a flurry of whispered asides.
“Rescued the climbing boy himself. They say he whipped the master.” “Apparently, he’s no stranger to the Roundhouse at St Giles. Locked up overnight with common thieves more than once.” “They say he found an escaped slave begging on the streets, set him up as an apothecary, no less.”
Captain Dalgleish drew the attention of the whole room inexorably towards him with all the natural and unconscious ease of a magnet pointing a compass northward.
In common with everyone else, Isabella stared. When she had first heard tell of him he had been new to town, as famed for his daring exploits on the battlefield as he was infamous for his public condemnation of the American war in which he had fought. Now he was just as notorious, but for his hell raising. Ewan Dalgleish was not a man who lived by society’s rules. A rebel in every sense, she thought enviously. Why on earth would he want to cover her bet? But unless he did—no, she would not allow herself to think of the consequences of failure.
She watched him covertly as he placed a roll of notes onto the table. He was tall, with his coat cut in the new fashion buttoned tight across his chest, showing off the breadth of his shoulders, the severity of the rich black velvet cloth lightened only by the glimpse of a dove-grey waistcoat, the fall of white linen with just a hint of lace at his throat. The deep copper of his hair glinted bright as a new-minted penny in the candlelight. It was a memorable face. High cheekbones with a small scar visible on the left one, a sabre cut no doubt. A strong, determined jaw. His colouring gave him an untamed look. The perfection of his tailoring somehow served to draw attention to the muscles hidden underneath. A mountain lion, Isabella thought with a shiver. Strength and power barely concealed under a veneer of sophistication. A fierce Highland warrior in the sober garb of a gentleman.
She smiled at herself for being so fanciful and then flushed as she caught the echo of her smile returned from across the table. For a second she met his glance haughtily, amber clashing with cobalt-blue. An almost tangible current of awareness crackled between them. She dropped her eyes.
“Madam?”
Mrs Bradley’s voice recalled her to her purpose. Isabella pushed all of her counters onto the table. The watching crowd craned ever closer for a better view.
The banker’s card was a six of diamonds. The carte anglaise, the winning card, was hers.
“The lady wins,” Ewan Dalgleish said softly in his husky Scottish burr, pushing her counters back towards her and adding the same amount again from his own supply. He had just lost a fabulous amount, yet it seemed he was content to do so. A quirk of his mouth, a quizzical eyebrow formed the unspoken question.
Isabella took a deep breath and returned the entire total to the table, raising an audible gasp from the audience. It took all her courage, such a fortune as she had before her, but it would not yet suffice. Coming up short was not an option. A life depended upon it. Heedless now of everything but the game Isabella clenched her hands together. One more turn of the cards. Just this one.
Ewan did not take his eyes from her. Her face was a mask of concentration, her eyes focused on Mrs Bradley’s hand, which rested on the dealing box. Whatever she was playing for, it was not the thrill of it. He was conscious that a part of him wanted her luck to hold, no matter that he would be the poorer by thousands.
The cards were dealt and the colour drained from Isabella’s face as they landed face up on the baize. A small sound, like steam escaping from a pot, hissed round the table.
She had not even a stake left with which to continue. Blindly, Isabella got to her feet. The gilded chair on which she had been seated fell backwards. The lace at her elbow had become entangled with her fan. Her gloves…where were her gloves?
Suddenly, he was there in front of her, handing her the gloves and her wrap. He took her arm firmly. “Come with me.”
“No, no, I…”
But it was to no avail. A strong hand guided her away from the curious faces of the onlookers. She was propelled out of the crowded room and into an unoccupied one across the passageway.
Ewan closed the door behind him and pressed her onto a chair by the fire. A glass of fiery spirit the same colour as his eyes was handed to her. “Drink this,” he said firmly.
Isabella drank. The brandy made her gasp, but it also revived her spirits. She took another gulp.
“Slowly, take your time.”
The amusement in his voice served to rile her. Defiantly, she drained the glass. “What does it matter if I’m drunk? You’ve already made me penniless.”
“It was your choice to play so high, not mine,” he said pointedly. “If you are now penniless, you have no-one but yourself to blame.”
The
