Regency Surrender: Ruthless Rakes. Bronwyn Scott

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      Her eyes might have helped the cause, too. He could not tell the colour from this distance, but it hardly mattered. Her eyes were shrewd and sharp as they held his; challenging, thinking. Nolan had the uncomfortable sensation he was being assessed. Did she feel the same with the eyes of the table riveted on her? Did she know her father had put her up for auction to the winning hand? If she didn’t know, her fate would come as shock. If she did, however...

      Cynicism flashed. Had father and daughter done this before? Was this some sort of scam they ran whenever the count was down on his luck? The whole offer smelled of trouble. Nolan’s eyes dropped back to the cards in his hand. The tiny voice of caution that usually kept quiet in his head was barking loudly now, joined by a strong sense of self-preservation. He should throw the hand and win the money elsewhere.

      This money came with strings—more precisely, it came with a virgin. That was the very last thing he needed. What would he ever do with a virgin? He certainly wasn’t going to bed a woman against her will. Nolan’s eyes went to the pile in the centre of the table. But the money was a temptation nonpareil. Only noblemen wagered sums like these. This would take several nights to acquire at lesser venues. It would be a shame to waste this rather golden opportunity. Tonight would put him at his goal. His hopes were within reach. One virgin wasn’t going to stand in his way. Across the table, the count raised his hand and beckoned for the girl.

      * * *

      Gianna saw the summons, aware that the count and his table had been watching her. Worry pooled in her anxious pit of a stomach. What hell had he concocted for her now? Hadn’t the hell he’d presented her with this afternoon been enough to satisfy his jaded palate? Dante’s Inferno had nothing on Count Minotti when it came to exacting revenge or getting what he wanted.

      She smoothed her hands over her elaborate skirts in a calming repetition of strokes and repeated her silent mantra: the count would not stand in her way. She would not allow him to. Whatever he did, she would be equal to the task. She would outthink him, outmanoeuvre him as she always had. She’d done it for five years. She could do it for four more weeks. He cannot hurt you. He would not dare. The money will protect you. But the usual comfort the words gave her was absent tonight. Her freedom was within reach, just a month away after years living under his so-called protection.

      At the table, the count took her arm and she pulled away, not tolerating his touch. ‘Still upset by this afternoon, my pet?’ The count’s tone was wry as if this afternoon had been a minor concern, a mere game. But it hadn’t been, not to her and not to him. But she would not suffer him to touch her again.

      ‘What have you done?’ She kept her tones low, her eyes fixed on the count. The men at the table were eyeing her with something nearing avarice. Gianna’s anxiety was rising steadily, although she dare not show it. The count would like to see her fear, like to know he had power over her.

      The count gave a shrug of his shoulders as if to indicate it was nothing of significance. ‘I am having a bit of bad luck tonight, I’m afraid. But that’s about to change. I have a good hand. I am sure to win.’

      Gianna knew where the conversation was going. It was a distasteful one, but one she could handle. She reached up to pull off the pearl earrings that had once belonged to her mother. The count had ordered her to wear them tonight. He’d probably planned on forcing her to surrender them. He knew how she treasured them. She had resisted giving them to him once. It had been a mistake. It had shown the count they had emotional value to her. She’d quickly learned not to make that mistake twice.

      The count gave a slight shake of his dark head. Gianna’s jaw tightened and her hands went to the clasp of her pearl choker. They were just things, she told herself. Placate him, give him what he wants. These are nothing in the scope of the greater picture. After their quarrel this afternoon, his demand could have been worse. She would be thankful for this small mercy. She only wanted to be done with him. She would do whatever it took to make it through the next four weeks. She would be twenty-two, old enough to claim her inheritance without him. Whatever her mother had seen in the man during her lifetime, Gianna could only guess.

      The count shook his head again and Gianna froze. ‘You are very generous, but I’m afraid your pearls won’t be enough.’ His mouth turned up in a cruel smile. ‘Not those pearls anyway. There is one pearl these gentlemen seem to value, however.’ He paused. ‘I have wagered you, Gianna. More specifically, the pearl between your legs.’

      Panic swamped her. He repeated himself, no doubt enjoying the perverse pleasure of saying the crude words out loud. On the surface, it was an appalling wager. Beneath that surface it was truly horrific in a way only the count would recognise. ‘Does my mother mean so little to you that you would make her daughter a whore?’

      ‘Your mother is dead. She holds no sway here,’ he countered, his words bloodless. ‘I offered you better this afternoon and you refused. You did this to yourself.’

      Stay calm. Under no circumstances show him any emotion. She understood the men’s stares now. They were undressing her, imagining what they would do with her, to her, all except one whose gaze was on the count. Her stomach turned. The grip on her ‘calm’ was slipping. It was a Herculean task to maintain her reserve. She wanted to grab up the carefully blown glass goblets on the table and smash them against the silk-clad walls, to rage out loud against the count’s latest barbarism. She would show these men nothing, certainly not the count who thought he could pass her about, wager her as if she was nothing more than a bauble of mediocre value; as if he could wreck her plans with the turn of a card, as if she had no say in the matter. That last was a sticking point. Legally, she had no say, not until she turned twenty-two.

      ‘This is revenge,’ she accused, anger coursing through her, volcanic and explosive. If she was a man, she’d kill him. But if she were a man this would not have happened. She would have left the count years ago. ‘You are blackmailing me.’

      ‘This, my dear, is what happens when you leave me no choice,’ the count hissed.

      ‘Your offer was to marry the morally corrupt Romano Lippi, or to marry you,’ Gianna spat. ‘It was hardly a choice since either option turns a substantial portion of my inheritance over to you.’ She knew a moment’s triumph at the dark look stealing over his face. ‘I’m not stupid. I know exactly what you and Lippi had arranged. The two of you decided to split the inheritance.’

      ‘I must have something, Gianna. I’ll have my five thousand pounds with or without you. I’m broke and you are all I have left. Don’t worry. I will win and you can rethink your position on today’s negotiations. This is nothing. You’re only being wagered in theory.’

      The count took his seat with a wide smile and a relaxed bonhomie at odds with their terse conversation. She was trapped. She would run if she could, but aside from the fact she had nowhere to run, she simply couldn’t. The dratted dress was far too heavy for anything but a sedate walk. So Gianna stood, she waited, she watched and tried not to panic.

      The count leaned forward, his face flushed with the fever of the wager and the surety that he couldn’t possibly lose. ‘All right, gentlemen, let’s see your cards.’ Gianna stilled. This was it, the moment of truth.

       Chapter Three

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