The Duke's Gamble. Miranda Jarrett

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      “I noticed,” he said wryly. “Everyone did. You kept as far away as possible from the other shrieking maidens vying for the prize on the staircase, your hands locked behind your back as if in iron manacles.”

      “And what is so very wrong with that, your grace?” she demanded, her voice warming with a tedious missionary fervor. “Nearly all the profits my sisters and I earn from Penny House are given directly to charity. That was my late father’s wish, and I mean to follow it always. Each time that you gentlemen amuse yourselves at our tables, you are helping feed and clothe and shelter the poor in ways you’d never do directly.”

      “No,” Guilford said dryly, not in the least interested in the poor or how they dined. “I wouldn’t.”

      “Well, then, there you are, your grace,” she said, as if this were explanation enough, which it wasn’t. True, she was a clergyman’s daughter, but, in Guilford’s opinion, her soul was as mercenary as they came. “Why should I wish to marry for the sake of one single man when I can do so much more good for so many others by being here?”

      “Because you are a woman, my dear,” Guilford answered, offering his own perfect explanation. “No matter how much you wish it, you can’t do everything by yourself, and most especially you can’t save the entire world. You can’t even save the lower scraps of London. Of course, charity work is an admirable pastime for a lady, but a home, a husband and children must surely come first. It’s in your blood, your very bones. Not even you can deny nature, Miss Penny.”

      “Is this part of the wagering at White’s, too, your grace?” she asked suspiciously. “That I am somehow…unnatural?”

      “Not exactly unnatural, no.” With his eyes accustomed to the half-light, he’d no trouble seeing her, but he still couldn’t tell if she were angry or amused—not that it would make any particular difference to him. “I do believe ‘virago’ was the term that was used.”

      She gasped, and to his satisfaction, he realized he’d finally struck home.

      “They dared call me a virago?” she repeated with disbelief. “A virago?”

      She charged into the room and straight to him, the heels of her slippers clicking across the polished floor. He could feel her anger like a force in the darkness, her blue eyes wide and her gaze intense, her mouth set in a line of furious determination. He’d known her for nearly a year now, ever since she’d appeared in London from nowhere to open Penny House, yet this was the first time he’d seen the ever-proper, ever-capable Miss Penny lose both her composure and her temper.

      It was even better than he’d dreamed.

      “A virago, your grace!” she said again, as if she couldn’t say the hateful word enough times. “What—what ninny dared call me that?”

      “How the devil should I tell?” Even though he’d given her leave to sit, she showed no intention of doing so, which made him suppose he must stand, too. With a sigh he rose, stretching his arms a bit as he now gazed down on her. “I don’t know everything.”

      “Oh, yes, you do,” she said quickly. “At least you’d know that.”

      “You’re granting me an inordinate amount of knowledge, Miss Penny.” Of course, he knew the name of the ninny who’d dubbed her a virago in the betting book at White’s; he knew, because the ninny’s name happened to be his own. “I’ll admit to being vastly wise and clever, but I’m hardly omniscient.”

      She folded her arms over her chest and tipped her chin upward, so that she could still give the impression of glaring down her nose at him despite how he loomed over her. But he liked how she hadn’t the rabbity look of most women with copper hair, her brows and lashes dark enough to frame her blue eyes. “No one has ever called you a virago, your grace.”

      “No one shall, either,” he said. “Considering how a virago must be female by definition.”

      “A spinster, and a virago,” she said with disgust. “I should take myself directly to the middle of Westminster Bridge, toss myself into the river and spare the world the burden of my dreadful shame.”

      He laughed softly, deep and low. “You’re not old enough for such a grim remedy.”

      “No?” Her blue eyes glowed with fresh challenge as she took a step toward him—something that, under ordinary circumstances, he’d doubt she’d ever do. “I’m twenty-six, your grace.”

      “Congratulations.” He’d already known she was past being a miss, and had grown into a much more interesting age for a woman. Dithering innocence had long ago lost its appeal to him, which was one of the reasons she fascinated him. “But I’ll win that battle, Miss Penny. I’m twenty-nine.”

      “And what of it?” she scoffed, sweeping her hand through the air. “No one is telling you you’ve failed because you have chosen a life that includes neither a husband nor children.”

      “Actually I’m told that rather often,” he said, remembering how shrill certain members of his family could become on his lack of an heir to his title. “Married life and children by the dozen are supposed to be good things for a peer, too.”

      “But for different reasons.” She kept her head turned to one side, watching him warily from beneath her lashes. “I cannot fathom why you’re confiding any of this to me, your grace.”

      “To show we have more in common than you might first think, my dear.” Had she any notion of how wickedly seductive that notion was right now? Perhaps he’d misjudged her; perhaps she was more willing than anyone had realized. “We do, you know.”

      “Hardly, your grace.” Her mouth curved in a small smile of undeserved triumph. “You were born heir to a title and a grand fortune, while I came into this world as the daughter of a country minister. This leaves precious little common ground between us.”

      “More than enough.” He shrugged extravagantly, taking advantage of the moment and the cozy half-light to ease himself a shade closer to her. “Vastly more.”

      But instead of laughing as he’d expected, she folded her arms resolutely over her chest, a barrier between them. “I suspect you’re not being entirely honest with me, your grace.”

      She was right, of course. He wasn’t being entirely honest. That wager in the betting book at White’s about wedding the formidably untouchable Miss Penny had been only the beginning. He’d made another, more private, wager with one of his friends, with odds—steep odds—for a much greater challenge: that no mortal man could successfully seduce her.

      And Guilford—Guilford intended to win not only the wager, but to earn a welcome in the virago’s bed for himself.

      “I wouldn’t say you’ve been entirely honest with me, either, Miss Penny,” he said, lowering his voice to the rough whisper that reduced most ladies to quivering jelly. “Which is only one more way that we’re alike, isn’t it?”

      She frowned. “Your grace, I do not see how—”

      “Hush,” he whispered. With well-practiced ease he reached for her hand where it clasped her other arm, slipping his fingers between her own to draw her hand free. “Consider the similarities, sweet, and not the differences.”

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