Page 36 of Managing the Major

Chapter Fifteen

The Outcome of a Bet

Dinner that night was a comfortable affair, but the wine and food were both excellent. Octavia had changed into a silk gown and slippers. Her luggage held outfits suitable for riding, but vanity dictated including a few favorite gowns and some jewelry.

Genevieve entertained them with stories of Lord Hope’s attempt to train his latest hunting spaniel, who wished to be a lapdog, and her aging father-in-law, who thought he was living in Buckingham Palace instead of Hope Manor. The estate was not too far from Seldon, and she often took part in the local foxhunts with her husband and Octavia, which was fodder for more amusing stories.

“It never fails that Lord Hope and I are neck-to-neck at the front, vying to outride the Master and his pack,” Octavia confided to Alastair, “while meanwhile, Genevieve is resting under a tree with a stirrup cup of French brandy.”

Alastair raised his glass. “A wise alternative. On the hunts here, there are several very fashionable but inept riders who regularly part ways with their horses.”

“Octavia and I couldn’t be more different,” Genevieve declared. “I barely have a sporting bone in my body. Amazingly, we’ve been friends since short skirts and pantalettes…oh, my! I suppose I should not have mentioned those.”

Octavia stifled a giggle. She felt a bit lightheaded, which she credited to Alastair’s proximity, and to her unobstructed view of his handsome profile during dinner. Or was it the three glasses of Madeira she had consumed? Either way, she was giddy with happiness.

“Lord Hope is cut from the same cloth as Octavia,” Genevieve added, “and often teases me by saying I only married him because they are so similar.”

Freya had joined them, waiting vigilantly for any scraps that might fall. Before dinner, Octavia had amused Alastair by showing off the terrier’s bag of tricks, including the latest, where she lay down and placed her paws over her eyes if Octavia said smashing, or lobcock, words she repeated often, to her mother’s chagrin.

When they finished eating, Alastair suggested moving to the drawing room for some card play, where a lively game of vingt-et-un ensued. Genevieve promptly won the first hand, but Alastair soon prevailed as the leader. Octavia, a reckless player by nature, always took one card too many, and her pile of markers dwindled rapidly. After the clock struck eleven, Genevieve yawned, pushing her markers towards Octavia.

“Take mine. I’m done in and shall see you in the morning.”

Octavia hesitated, wondering if she should stay, but Genevieve waved aside her concerns. “We are all well over twenty-one, and who is here to care? I trust Major Alastair as a gentleman, but I’ll stay if you wish.”

Perhaps it was the wine speaking, but she put aside any concerns of propriety. “No, thank you, I’m well able to take care of myself.”

“I fear more for your money than your reputation,” Genevieve said, pointing to Alastair’s ace and king on the table.

Once they were alone, he gave her a decidedly wicked look. “Shall we raise the stakes?”

“Of course,” she replied promptly. Within an hour, even after betting outrageously and winning two enormous hands, her pile had dwindled to three markers.

“Oh, smashing,” she muttered. Freya promptly covered her eyes and rolled over. “My luck was just about to turn.”

His eyes gleamed with amusement. “Shall we play one more hand, all or nothing?”

“With what?” she scoffed.

He reached across the card table and tucked a loose curl that lay against her cheek back into her coiffure. “You have a marker, Octavia, that is worth all of mine, and more.”

Her pulse skittered. “What marker?” she whispered.

“A kiss,” he replied in a deep voice.

Involuntarily, she touched her fingers to her mouth. “I thought you were a gentleman.”

“Those are Genevieve’s words, not mine.”

Her heart thumped so loudly she thought he surely must hear. How wicked would it be to agree? She might not lose after all, and no harm done. Octavia bit her lip indecisively.

Alastair’s swift intake of breath was audible in the still room. “I have very wicked thoughts when you do that.” He leaned over and traced the curve of her lower lip with his thumb. Her own breathing came fast and shallow.

“Alastair…” she whispered.

His eyes smoldered with banked fire. “Draw your first card, and if it wins, I’ll confess them to you.” Heat blossomed low in her stomach and spread downward to the juncture of her thighs. She nodded wordlessly.

Cutting the deck, he set it between them. Octavia held her breath and turned over the top card. It was the knave of hearts. Alastair picked the next one and slowly turned it up…the nine of diamonds.