Page 60 of How to Tempt a Duke

“It’s part of my charm,” he replied dryly.

Charles shook his head and chuckled at his old friend. More was the pity the chap couldn’t find himself a lady he might be happy with. Many men weren’t the marrying sort, but Rawley certainly was. Honest, dependable—a good man any way one looked at him.

“Another question.” Rawley held a hand up in silent inquiry. “If I may?”

“By all means.”

“Would you remain in London?”

Damn. Charles turned his focus to the cut-crystal glass in front of him.

Rawley continued before Charles was forced to answer. “I do not profess to know the hearts or minds of ladies. However, if you did intend to marry Lady Eleanor for love, I would venture to say she would not do well left alone while you seek adventure.”

There always had been a gentle, considerate side to Rawley. Charles had forgotten that too. Perhaps it was because he’d been raised primarily by his mother, after his father had died within days of his birth.

Regardless, Rawley had brought up a point Charles already knew well enough. It was why he knew he could never have Eleanor in the first place. Charles’s true love was travel—the same as his father. The idea of him even considering marriage was ridiculous.

And yet the idea of Eleanor wed to that pig Devonington coiled in Charles’s gut like something cold and ugly.

Rawley tapped the flat of his hand on the table, severing Charles’s ruminating, then got to his feet and nodded politely. “It appears Kentworth might have been waylaid by another faro game, and I have much to do in the morning. If you’ll excuse me?”

Charles rose and nodded to his good friend as Rawley made his departure, leaving his brandy glass with several sips remaining at the bottom.

Kentworth was indeed at the faro table, where the conversation about Eleanor did not resurface. Once more he soon declared the faro table to be absent of luck, his tone boisterous with drink, and they found themselves in the West End, at a gambling hell of questionable reputation.

A smoky haze filled the room and the lights cast a low glow. Voices cried out in victory and defeat alike as dice rattled, cards snapped on tables and coin clinked from one hand to another.

Kentworth immediately made his way to the hazard table, sitting beside a woman who tossed him a coy glance as he called his bet. Charles stood several paces behind, not inclined at all to participate. He’d never been one to throw his wealth away.

“What’s your pleasure, Your Grace?” a woman’s voice asked.

Charles turned and found a red-haired woman in a crimson silk gown that had seen better days gazing saucily at him. She had green eyes, only not as green as Eleanor’s...more of a moss-green, where Eleanor’s were the color of vibrant emeralds or sunlit grass. Eyes that could penetrate the soul.

“I’ll fetch you a drink if you like.” The woman bit her lip in the obvious way women did when they wanted a man to stare at their mouths. “Or do you have other vices you’d like to see sated?” Her gaze wandered over him with interest.

A proposition. With a woman who looked like Eleanor. Would that quell the desire raging through him or only whet his appetite? Charles’s mind was a sloshing jumble. He needed no more spirits.

“What would you do if you knew a lady was to marry a disgusting pig of a man?” Charles asked her abruptly.

The redhead’s mouth pursed. “Depends on how you feel about her, I’d imagine.” She gave a knowing smile. “Considering you’re asking a woman who’s all too willing to give you a night you won’t forget a question about another woman, I’d wager you rather like her. And if I were in your position I imagine I’d try my damnedest to stop her.”

Charles rubbed at a tense muscle along the back of his neck and nodded, considering her words.

She eased closer to him and the edge of one pert breast brushed his arm. There was a dry, powdery scent about her. “I can make you forget about any woman...”

Except he didn’t want to forget Eleanor. Even if he should.

The redhead’s words echoed through him. I imagine I’d try my damnedest to stop her.

Charles cleared his throat. “I think perhaps I should go.”

The woman lifted a single shoulder, indicating that his refusal was of little consequence to her. “You know where to find me.” She turned away with a suggestive wink.

He made his way from the gaming hell, knowing Kentworth would not notice his absence. Charles’s mind was made up. He would speak to the very devil herself the following day and demand that Eleanor not marry Devonington. And while he was at it he would request the journals he knew to be in the Scottish castle. The journals Eleanor had given him that fateful day had yielded nothing of import.

Yes, in the morning, he would call on the Countess of Westix.

Eleanor stared down at the fresh bouquet of red roses on her dressing table. That made a bouquet every day from Devonington since they’d danced at the masquerade ball.