The Widow Wager Page 2

  Especially since her father’s guest hadn’t spoken a word in the few moments she had stood composing herself in the hall.

  With a gasp of breath, she pushed the door open and stepped into the parlor. Her father stood at the mantel, leaning there with a cat-in-the-birdcage grin that made her stomach turn. His eyes lit up as she entered and her knees almost buckled.

  What had he been up to?

  Immediately, she turned her gaze to the other man in the room. He sat half-slumped in a chaise, supporting his chin with a fist. The light from the fireplace hit him full on and she gasped.

  She knew this man, at least by reputation. He was Crispin Flynn, the youngest son of one of the most notorious families in all of London. A family only very recently elevated by the elder brother’s inheritance of a dukedom. But everyone knew that Crispin Flynn had not calmed with the boon as his brother had.

  He was wilder than ever, if gossip was to be believed. Though she knew from personal experience that gossip was often very much not true.

  She examined the man closer. He was just as handsome as others in her acquaintance had sometimes whispered about. At present, he was quite undone. His hair stuck up at odd angles, his eyes were bleary and his shirt was half-untucked.

  “There she is,” her father said, tearing her attention back to him and his smug tone. “My daughter.”

  “What is going on, Father?” she asked, tearing her gaze away from their guest. “It is the middle of the night. What could you possibly want from me?”

  She was shocked her voice could sound so calm when she trembled with anxiety. It was a means of coping she had developed of late and was very happy to possess.

  Her father flicked his head toward their visitor. “This is Crispin Flynn.”

  She glanced briefly at Flynn again. His eyes were unfocused, she doubted he was fully aware of anything happening at present.

  “I—hello,” she offered weakly. He only watched her without response.

  “Mr. Flynn and I were gaming tonight, over at Rickman’s.”

  Now Gemma’s knees began to shake. “Oh, Father,” she breathed. “That place is terrible. You are better than that.”

  His eyes narrowed at her admonishment. “You do not tell me what to do, girlie.”

  She pressed her lips together before she said, “What did you lose?”

  There was so little left for her father to barter that she shuddered to think what the next humiliation would be. He had been out of control for years, but it had come to a head when Gemma had been forced to return to her family home without a settlement after her husband’s death.

  So this was all just one more punishment.

  “You misunderstand,” Sir Oswald drawled, that smug expression darkening his face once more. God, how she hated and feared it. “I didn’t lose tonight, Gemma. I won.”

  Gemma blinked, confusion wiping her mind clean. “I—what do you mean? You won? Then why do you call me to you? You can gloat tomorrow at a decent hour.”

  She almost turned on her heel and left the room, but her father barked, “The wager was about you.”

  Gemma’s jaw dropped open and her gaze darted between the two men. Flynn was sitting up straighter now, still merely watching her without comment.

  “Me?” she repeated on the barest of breaths.

  “You will go with Mr. Flynn tonight, Gemma. This moment. You are to be his bride.”

  Gemma couldn’t breathe as she staggered away from her father, across the room, until her legs hit the edge of a table and she nearly toppled to the ground. She gripped the wooden surface, trying to think, trying to breathe, trying to wake up from this nightmare.

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” her father said, his voice soft and impassive, as if he were telling her an order he’d made for the household.

  “But—but you said you won the wager with Mr. Flynn,” she stammered. “You—you said that he lost.”

  “And by losing, he is forced to take you from my hands,” her father said, his voice dripping with the contempt he hadn’t hidden from her since her return to his home months ago.

  His words sunk in and Gemma choked on a sob that broke from her throat unbidden. Emotions bombarded her, nearly taking her to her knees. She felt shame for how low she had sunk, how low her family now was…she felt pain that this was to be her fate.

  But mostly she felt anger. Anger that her father would betray her in this manner, anger that Crispin Flynn was such a cad that he would accept such a horrifying, ungentlemanly wager. They were two of a kind, bastards who only cared for themselves.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Her father looked at her in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  She moved toward him, hands clenched. “I said no! You sold me once, Father, but I will never be sold again. I will not marry this man.”

  She thought she saw Flynn’s face light up a fraction at her words, the first expression that had come over him since her arrival in the room, but her father distracted her from that observation.

  “You dare defy me?”

  “Oh yes,” she breathed. “I will defy you, consequences be damned.”

  Her father moved on her in that moment, face red and fisted hand raised. To her surprise, the sleepy form of their visitor flashed with movement and suddenly Crispin Flynn stood between them, his hand pressed firmly into her father’s chest to keep him from whatever intent he had held in his angry heart.

  Gemma stared up at her…what was he, anyway? Her protector in this moment, her tormentor hours before when he agree to her father’s terms? Her intended, even against her will?

  He was bloody handsome.

  The door to the chamber opened behind them and all three pivoted to see the intruder. Gemma’s stomach turned. There in the doorway stood her younger sister. Mary clutched her robe tightly around herself as she stared at the group in surprise.

  “What is going on?” her sister asked, wide eyes finding Gemma behind the men.

  Flynn’s gaze flitted briefly to Mary, but then returned to Gemma. It was a surprise, really. Mary was so much prettier, with her delicate features and darker hair. Yet this man had dismissed her with a mere flick of his stare.

  “Go back to bed, Mary,” Gemma said, backing away from the distraction that was Crispin Flynn. “Everything is fine.”

  Her sister opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say something, their father moved on her. Gemma stared at his suddenly lit up eyes and the way he smiled.

  “No, no, Mary. Come in. Join us.” He slipped his arm around Mary’s slender shoulders and dragged her forward to stand beside Gemma. Without a word, Mary reached out to take her sister’s hand, trying to find comfort that Gemma wasn’t certain she could offer in the face of the surprising and upsetting events of the night.

  “I was just explaining to your ungrateful wretch of a sister how she is to wed this fine gentleman,” her father continued.

  Mary made a strangled sound in her throat and her grip on Gemma’s hand became tighter. “Wed!” she repeated. “No, Papa, you cannot mean that.”

  “But I most definitely do,” he drawled, his hard smile once again falling on Gemma. “It will happen, girl. Tonight. I have already arranged for a special license.”

  Gemma’s lips parted. “A special license?” She shook her head. “That means…that means you have had this planned for some time.”

  His eyebrows lifted and he inclined his head slightly. “Someone had to make you worthwhile.”

  “So you intended to wager with any man…no, you would have had to know your mark.” She spun on Flynn. “Did you know his intentions, Mr. Flynn?”

  Flynn blinked a few times, but the bleariness in his stare didn’t clear. “I didn’t know anything.” He hiccupped.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She tended to believe him. After all, aside from his intervention when he thought her father might commit violence, he wasn’t inter
acting in this situation in the slightest. It seemed he was a victim, perhaps not as much as she was since he had made his own choices, but a victim nonetheless.

  She returned her attention to her father, still piecing together his repugnant plan bit by bit. “So does Mr. Flynn lose regularly? Fall deep into his cups like this?”

  Her father shrugged and Mary let out another cry. “Oh, Papa!”

  Gemma ignored her sister’s outburst. Mary might be ashamed or saddened by this turn of events, but Gemma was far beyond that. She was enraged. She had never been so angry in her life.

  She gritted her teeth, hoping to maintain some dignity rather than screech at her father. “You planned to get him drunk and make a bet with him where you knew he would lose. Where you knew he would be forced to take me as his bride.” When her father said nothing, she shook her head. “Do you hate me so much?”

  He folded his arms. “I don’t think of you enough to hate you, Gemma.”

  She flinched despite all attempts to stay serene.

  “You don’t mean that,” Mary whispered, gripping Gemma’s hand with both of her own now. “You are both angry and—”

  “There is no need to make peace,” Gemma interrupted. She never took her eyes off her father. “We are beyond that now.”

  Mary shut her mouth.

  “You had a chance to elevate us,” her father growled. “And you failed. This is the only way to get rid of you, bring in an income to this household, and perhaps your sister will have better luck.”

  She felt Mary stiffen at her side and her stomach turned. Her father would barter with his youngest daughter just as he had with her.

  “You cannot be serious,” her sister cried. “Please Papa, reconsider. You cannot truly mean to sell Gemma off to this…this…drunken stranger.”

  Gemma watched as her father’s lips thinned in anger. He stepped closer. “You will shut your mouth, Mary Elizabeth, or you will not be pleased with the results.”

  Gemma pulled her closer. “Don’t threaten her.”

  “Please, we must all be calm,” Mary pleaded. “This isn’t happening.”

  Their father glared at them. “You two, thick as thieves. You want to save her, Mary?”

  Mary nodded swiftly. “Yes. Stop this, I beg of you.”

  “Then perhaps you should be the one to take the bargain,” their father snapped.

  “No!” Gemma cried, drawing her sister behind her, as if she could protect her. That was a joke. There was no protecting herself, let alone anyone else. She had lived in terror of what Mary’s future would hold for years.

  “One of you will marry Mr. Flynn tonight,” her father ground out through obviously clenched teeth. “The choice is up to you, Gemma.”

  Gemma bit the inside of her lip until she could taste blood. She stared at Crispin Flynn, still standing across the room, silent in the face of all that was happening around him. She stared over her shoulder at her sister. Mary was an innocent, still filled with the belief that things could work out, that she could marry happily and well, and live a joyful life.

  And finally she allowed her gaze to settle on her father. “I hate you,” she whispered, meaning every word.

  “Gemma,” Mary shook her hand away and moved to stand before her sister. She gripped Gemma’s arms, her fingers digging into the cloth of her gown. “Please, no. No, don’t do this.”

  “It’s all right,” Gemma said, even though they both knew that was wrong. A lie. She stiffened her spine. “I’ll do it.”

  Her father’s smirk made her want to slap him, but she ignored it instead and looked at Flynn again. His face was drawn, not with anger, but something else. He swayed slightly, his hand tightened on the chair nearby to settle himself.

  “Please, Gemma,” Mary whispered. “You have already given up so much.”

  Gemma squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before she cupped her sister’s face. “And that is why I will do this. You have never…you don’t know what a marriage would be like. I couldn’t do that to you.”

  Tears began to stream down her sister’s face and Mary wrapped her arms around her. Her slim body trembled as she wept into Gemma’s shoulder.

  “Hush,” Gemma soothed her, stroking a hand over her hair. “It will not be as bad as all that.”

  Of course she didn’t believe that. Flynn had a bit of a reputation, one of scandal and sin. She had to believe he was capable of using her body and soul. Her life could be one of fear and torment.

  She could only hope his being drunk would save her rather than put her in even more danger.

  “Mary, go to your room,” her father said behind them, his voice sharp. “That is enough of this foolishness.”

  The sisters parted and Mary stared at their father. “I cannot leave her.”

  “You will,” he snapped. “Go to your room.”

  Gemma squeezed her arm. “Just go, Mary.”

  Her sister shook her head and touched Gemma’s face once more. “Send me word as soon as you can. Please. Please. I love you.”

  Gemma bit back a sob. She didn’t want Mary’s last look to be of Gemma hysterical, even though that was exactly how she felt at the moment. She was controlling herself for the sake of Mary, of not letting her father or her now-future husband see her terror…but inside she was swiftly unraveling.

  Once her sister had departed the chamber, she gasped for breath, turning away from the men and leaning on the sideboard. “What will happen now?” she asked.

  “Now we leave for your marriage,” her father said, almost benignly.

  She spun to face him. “Now? In the middle of the night?”

  He nodded.

  She covered her cheeks with her suddenly cold hands. “But my things, Kate—”

  “It will all be handled.”

  “Word will spread,” she continued. “People will know and it will—”

  “We will leave now.”

  The harshness of her father’s tone silenced her and she ground her teeth together before she exited the room, entering the foyer with as much dignity as she could muster.

  Her fate was sealed. And there was nothing she could do but pray that she would wake up from this nightmare. Even though she knew she never would.

  Chapter Four

  Crispin lifted his throbbing head from his hands and stared at Gemma. She was sitting on the edge of one of the chairs beside his fire, her back straight and her face devoid of emotion. It was only the slight trembling of her lip as she told him what had happened the night before that gave away any of her fears.

  “My God,” he muttered, self-loathing rising in him.

  Of course, hating himself was the normal place he lived—he was accustomed to it. This, though…this was magnified by the look of disdain on this woman’s face. By the fact that he had no idea what he had done to her.

  “And then what happened?” He watched her face for a flinch, for pain.

  Instead, she glared at him. “We all drove in your carriage to the home of some fat, smelly vicar who married us in what must be the shortest and worst marriage ceremony in history. I cried and you…”

  She trailed off and Crispin rose to his feet. “What did I do?”

  “I cannot believe you truly don’t remember what happened,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. Neither did he, honestly. Of course, huge stretches of blank time were becoming more usual for him. Now he was staring at the ultimate consequence of his bad behavior.

  “You said nothing except what was expected of you. You said nothing at all. You could have protested, you could have stopped this…but you said nothing.”

  Her voice lifted on the last word and she sucked in a breath as she attempted to calm herself. He could hear her hatred and her rage with each ragged exhalation of her breath. And he deserved it all.

  Crispin allowed her the effort a moment before he softly asked, “And after?”

  “We came here and my fat
her hustled us to this room.” She stared at him, expression unreadable.

  Crispin’s stomach turned. “And?”

  “And what?” she asked.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “You are a widow, yes? You must know what I’m asking. Did I touch you? Did I…did I force you to do something you didn’t want to do?”

  Surprise lit up in her dove gray eyes. “I—are you asking if we consummated the marriage?”

  “I’m asking if I did something I cannot take back,” he said. “I’m asking if I hurt you.”

  Her full lips parted a fraction, but then her face hardened back to the mask of disgust and anger. “You did hurt me,” she said, “But to answer your question, you never touched me.”

  He sagged in relief back onto the settee. “Thank God.”

  Her nostrils flared. “Do you often take advantage of women while in your cups?”

  He jerked his face toward her. Now her anger was joined by a deeper fear that stabbed him in the heart.

  “Never,” he reassured her. “I have never forced any woman to do anything, I promise you.”

  “Then why so much fear about me?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I have also never married a woman in the middle of the night. And with such contempt and loathing on your face, such fear when you rolled over and saw I was awake, I just…I wasn’t certain that I hadn’t gone too far at last.”

  She folded her arms. “You don’t think that taking part in this scheme with my father to force our union is going too far?”

  He cleared his throat. “You have a point there, Gemma.”

  “Lady Laurelcross,” she corrected coldly.

  He arched a brow. So her late husband had been titled. He hadn’t known that. Of course, he didn’t know anything about this woman before him. His wife, apparently.

  “Not Lady Laurelcross anymore, I fear,” he said gently.

  Her face crumpled and tears welled up in her eyes. She struggled against them admirably, but her misery still clung to every frown, every tear that sparkled on her lashes but did not fall. Misery he had caused this lovely stranger by his wild, immature actions.

  “However, since you do not feel I have earned the right to call you by your given name, a fact I do not refute,” he said, “I am happy to address you more formally. My lady, I am sorry.”