A Wagers of Sin novel
by
Caroline Linden
Releasing September 24,
2019 and
available for pre-order now
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In the game of love…
Georgiana
Lucas despises the arrogant and cruel Marquess of Westmorland even before
learning that he’s won the deed to her friend Kitty’s home in a card game.
Still, Georgiana assures Kitty the marquess wouldn’t possibly come all the way
to Derbyshire to throw them out—until he shows up, bloody and unconscious.
Fearing that Kitty would rather see him die, Georgiana blurts out that he’s her
fiancé. She’ll nurse the hateful man back to health and make him vow to leave
and never return. The man who wakes up, though, is nothing like the heartless
rogue Georgiana thought she knew…
You have to risk it all
He wakes
up with no memory of being assaulted—or of who he is. The bewitching beauty
tending him so devotedly calls him Rob and claims she’s his fiancée even as she
avoids his touch. Though he can’t remember how he won her hand, he’s now
determined to win her heart. But as his memory returns and the truth is
revealed, Rob must decide if the game is up—or if he’ll take a chance on a love
that defies all odds.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Excerpt:
Chapter One
1819
It was to be a bacchanal
for the ages.
As Heathercote remarked,
a man only turned twenty-nine once. Marlow pointed out that a man also only
turned twenty-eight, or thirty, once as well, but they were well used to
ignoring Marlow’s odd points of reason, and this one was promptly forgotten.
Heathercote planned the
entire affair, inviting the most dashing, daring rogues and scoundrels in
London. He declared it to be the invitation of the month, and that he’d turned
away several fellows for lacking wit, style, or both. “You mean they aren’t up
to your standard of mayhem,” said Westmorland, whose birthday it was, to which
Heathercote mimed tipping his hat in acknowledgment.
After a raucous dinner
at White’s, they decamped for the theater. The production was well under way
when they invaded the pit in search of amusement. By the time the show ended,
they had drunk a great deal of brandy, thrown oranges at the stage, and lost
Clifton to the company of a prostitute.
Everyone’s memories ran
a bit ragged after that, with vague recollections of singing in the streets and
Marlow casting up his accounts somewhere in Westminster, but eventually they
settled at the Vega Club. It was so late, the manager tried to dissuade them
from play. Mr. Forbes knew every one of them could wager for hours, and the
Vega Club closed its doors at dawn.
But Heathercote
persuaded him to let them in and to give them the whist salon all to
themselves. “We’ll leave by noon,” he promised, patting Forbes on the chest as
he slid a handful of notes into the man’s hand. His words were remarkably
steady for a man who’d been drinking for eight hours. Grim-faced, Forbes let
them in, where they commandeered the main table and called for yet more wine.
A few intrepid souls
followed them from the club proper. Forbes tried to stop them at the door, but
Forester recognized one and waved them in. “We don’t mind winning their money,”
he said with a hiccup.
They played whist, then
switched to loo. One loser was dared to drink off the contents of his full
flask in one go, which he did. The room filled with cigar smoke and ribald
language, and the wagers grew extravagant. Marlow won a prize colt off
Forester. Heathercote wagered his new phaeton and ended up with someone’s
barouche. Sackville won the largest pot of the night, and everyone pelted him
with markers.
And then one of the
hangers-on spoiled it. He had the look of a country fellow new to London, with
an arrogant bluster that was initially amusing but eventually turned annoying.
He’d played well enough, winning a bit and losing with colorful curses that
made the rest of them roar with laughter. But it became abruptly clear that Sir
Charles Winston was in over his head when he wagered his house.
Marlow laughed.
Heathercote picked up the scribbled note Winston had put forth and read it with
one brow arched. “Can’t wager property, Winslow.”
The man was already
ruddy from drink, and now he turned scarlet. “Can so! Your fellow wagered a
horse.”
“Horses are portable,”
said Forester, his Liverpool accent bleeding through. “Houses are not.”
“Houses are worth more!”
“Aye, too much more.”
Heathercote flicked the note back across the table. “Markers.”
“I haven’t got any more
markers,” muttered the younger man. For a moment everyone focused in surprised
silence on the empty space in front of him. None of them had run out.
“Then fold your hand,”
Forester told him. “You’re out!”
Winston’s chin set
stubbornly. His mate tried to slide some markers toward him, but he angrily
shoved them back. “Give me a chance to win it back.”
“All the more reason to
walk away, if you’ve lost ‘em all.” Marlow waved one hand, nearly toppling out
of his seat. Mr. Forbes, watching grimly from the corner, came forward.
“Forbes, Windermere is done.”
“Sir Charles,” murmured
the manager. “Perhaps it’s time to go.”
“Not yet!” Winston
scowled at them all, shaking off his friend’s quiet attempts to get him to
fold. “Not now, Farley! They got a chance to turn their luck. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Luck is like the wind,”
said a new voice. Nicholas Dashwood, the owner of the Vega Club, stepped out of
the shadows. “It rarely turns propitiously.”
Winston stubbornly sank
lower in his seat. “I deserve ‘nother chance.”
Heathercote slung his
arms over the back of his chair. “Well, West? What say you? Shall we let him
stay and wager away everything he’s got?”
Lounging in his seat,
the Marquess of Westmorland looked up in irritation. “Really ought to go,
Winsmore.”
“Wins-less, more like,”
snickered Marlow.
Winston sat up
straighter in his seat. “Please, my lord.”
“Oh, let him ruin
himself,” muttered Forester, shuffling his cards restlessly.
The marquess lifted one
shoulder. “Damned if I care.”
“Sir Charles,” said
Dashwood evenly, “do not wager what you cannot afford to lose.”
Winston scooped up the
scribbled paper and added a line, signing his name with a flourish. “I won’t,
sir.”
But he did. Within four
hands, he’d won a bit and then lost it all—including the deed. Suddenly he did
not look so belligerent or so stubborn. He looked young and quite literally
green, staring at the winning hand, lying on the table.
“Should have listened,”
said the unsympathetic Heathercote. “Should have left.”
Winston puffed up
furiously. “Should have known better than to play with the likes of you!”
“Di’n’t y’know that
before you sa’ down?” Marlow’s words slurred together. “Stupid bloody fool!”
“That’s my home!”
“And you risked it at
loo!” Heath made a derisive noise. “Idiot.”
Winston was the color of
beets. “Don’t call me that.”
Sackville raised one
brow. “No? ’S not your home anymore.” He reached out and plucked the
scrawled paper from the pile of markers and examined it, although his eyes
never quite managed to focus on it. “It ‘pears to be West’s.”
His friends howled with
laughter. “He doesn’t need it,” cried Winston. He made a convulsive grab for
the paper before his lone remaining friend caught his arm. “He’s got a dozen
houses!”
“Set it up as a brothel,
West,” suggested Forester. “And give all your mates discounted fees.”
“Free!” yelped Marlow
with a wheezing laugh.
Winston drew a furious
breath, but instead of continuing the fight he turned and rushed from the room,
rather unsteadily; he wrestled with the door, and then almost tripped on his
way out, causing more howls of laughter from the table. His friend helped him
back onto his feet before the door closed on them both.
“Who invited him?” asked
Heathercote in disdain.
“Marlow.”
“Ballocks,” mumbled
Marlow, putting his head down on the table. “Never did. Was Forester.”
Forester made a rude
gesture. “I vouched for the other man, Farley.”
“Your friends are all
bad ton,” said Sackville.
Forester’s face
tightened. He rose and swung his wineglass into the air in a toast, spilling
some. “Thank you all for a most exciting evening, gentlemen.” Pointedly he
bowed only to Viscount Heathercote and Lord Westmorland. Sackville repaid him
with a rude gesture at Forester’s back.
Heathercote protested,
but Forester waved him off and left. With Marlow asleep on the table and
Sackville still giggling drunkenly to himself, Westmorland placed his hands on
the table, hesitated as if gathering strength, then heaved himself to his feet.
“The carriages, Dashwood.”
Stone-faced, the owner
left. Westmorland surveyed the table. “Did I win the last?”
“Aye,” said Heathercote
with a wide yawn.
“Credit it all, Forbes,”
said the marquess. “God above, I’m tired.”
As expressionless as his
employer, the manager stepped forward. With an air of distaste, he picked up
the deed promise and held it out. “I cannot credit this, my lord.”
West stared at it.
“Damn. Right.” He stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket and staggered out
into the morning sunlight with Heathercote, never guessing the trouble that
wagered deed was about to cause him.
About the
Author:
Caroline Linden was born a reader, not a writer. She earned
a math degree from Harvard University and wrote computer code before
discovering that writing fiction was far more fun. Since then, the Boston Red
Sox have won the World Series
WHEN THE MARQUESS WAS MINE, a Wagers of Sin novel by
Caroline Linden, Avon Romance, available September 24, 2019 in ebook, print,
and audio.
